The front door of Hamilton House closed with a definitive thud, shutting out the noise of London, the rattle of carriage wheels, and the blinding brightness of the afternoon sun.
Rowan Hamilton stood in the foyer. The silence of the house washed over him instantly. It was usually a welco sensation, a cool bath after the heat of social performance. Today, however, the silence felt heavy. It felt accusing.
He peeled off his brown driving gloves, finger by finger. The leather made a soft shhh sound as it slid against his skin. He felt a strange sense of relief to be rid of them. They were part of the costu that Delaney had selected for him.
Mr. Simmons appeared from the shadows of the hallway, a silver tray already in hand. He moved with the silent efficiency of a ghost.
"Welco ho, Your Grace," Simmons said. "I trust the pronade was... agreeable?"
Rowan dropped the gloves onto the tray. He took off his beaver hat, running a hand through his hair which was damp with perspiration.
"It was successful, Simmons," Rowan corrected. His voice was flat. "There is a difference."
"Indeed, Your Grace."
Rowan unbuttoned the top button of his brown coat. He felt like he was suffocating in the wool.
"Write a letter to my sister," Rowan ordered, staring at the black-and-white marble tiles of the floor. "Duchess Ines. Send it by special ssenger to her estate in Carleton."
Simmons nodded slightly. "And the contents, Your Grace?"
"Tell her the Hamilton Ball is in two weeks," Rowan said. "Tell her I have moved the date forward. And tell her I will need her help. I need her to act as hostess. I need her to manage the guest list, the nu, the flowers... everything."
He paused, a grimace touching his lips.
"Tell her I am finally doing what she has nagged to do for two years. I am securing the succession."
"Very good, Your Grace," Simmons said. "I shall dispatch the ssenger within the hour."
Rowan nodded. He turned toward the grand staircase. He took two steps, his boots echoing loudly in the cavernous space.
Then, he stopped.
His hand gripped the polished
banister. He didn’t look back at the butler. He looked up into the shadows of the upper landing.
"Where is Miss Kingsley?" he asked.
The question felt heavy in his throat. He tried to make it sound casual, like an employer asking about a wayward secretary. But there was an edge to it—a hunger—that he couldn’t quite suppress.
Simmons paused. "She is in her room, Your Grace."
Rowan frowned. "Did she leave the house today?"
He waited for the answer. His heart beat a little faster. He needed to know. He needed to know if the woman in the gray dress had been real, or if his mind had finally snapped from the pressure and the hallucinations were true.
"Not that I know of, Your Grace," Simmons replied smoothly. "The footman ntioned she requested tea in her room at one o’clock. She has been there all afternoon."
Rowan closed his eyes for a brief second.
She hadn’t been there. She hadn’t co to the park. She hadn’t been watching him.
The figure in gray had been a stranger. The flash of connection he had felt across the crowded path had been a phantom limb, an ache for sothing that wasn’t there.
He felt foolish. And beneath the foolishness, he felt a sharp, stinging disappointnt.
Rowan nodded, he said, opening his eyes. "It’s fine. You may go."
"Thank you, Your Grace."
Simmons bowed and retreated toward the servant’s quarters.
Rowan was alone.
He began to climb the stairs.
Every step felt heavier than the last. He reached the first landing. He adjusted his cravat, loosening the knot that felt like a noose around his neck.
He reached the top of the stairs.
Here, the hallway split. To the right was the East Wing—the Master Suite, his sanctuary, his bed, his brandy. It was his path.
To the left was the West Wing—the Guest Suites. It was the path of Delaney.
Rowan stopped at the crossroads.
He stood there for a long minute. The house was silent around him, settling in the late afternoon light.
He should go right. He should go to his room, call for Henderson, take a hot bath, and wash the dust of Hyde Park from his skin. He should sit down and draft the proposal speech for Lady Celine.
But his feet didn’t want to go right.
His body felt a pull, physical and undeniable, toward the left. It wasn’t love. He told himself firmly it wasn’t love. Love was soft. Love was poetry and flowers.
This was gravity. It was a magnetic force. It was the irritation of an unanswered question. He wanted to see her. He wanted to see if she was really writing lists. He wanted to see if she looked as tired as he felt. He wanted to argue with soone who didn’t agree with everything he said.
Rowan sighed. It was a ragged sound.
He turned left.
He walked down the corridor of the West Wing. The carpet here was thicker, muffling his footsteps. The air was cooler.
He passed the room where his Aunt Margery usually stayed. He passed the linen closet.
He reached the door at the end of the hall.
The Blue Suite.
He stopped.
He raised his hand to knock. His gloved fist hovered inches from the wood.
Knock, his brain commanded. Just knock. Inform her about the ball even if she already knows. Ask her if she needs more ink. Make up an excuse.
But his hand froze.
What would he say?
"I saw a woman who looked like you and I almost ran across the park to catch her?"
"I was with the most perfect woman in England and I missed your scowling face?"
He couldn’t say that. It was unprofessional. It wasn’t the right thing to do. It crossed the line they had drawn—the line of the contract.
He lowered his hand.
He stood there, staring at the wood grain of the door.
Then, he heard it.
It was faint at first, barely a whisper through the heavy oak. But as he leaned closer, the sound beca clearer.
Singing.
Delaney was singing.
It wasn’t a loud, operatic singing. It wasn’t a performance. It was a low, humming lody, the kind a person sings only to themselves when they think the world has stopped listening.
Rowan held his breath. He leaned his shoulder against the doorfra, closing his eyes to listen.
The words were soft, muffled by the wood, but the lody was distinct.
"Fais dodo, Colas mon p’tit frère... Fais dodo, t’auras du lolo..."
It was French. A lullaby.
Rowan frowned in the darkness of the hallway.
He knew that tune.
A mory flickered in the back of his mind. It was hazy, like a dream viewed through frosted glass.
A balcony. A dark night. A girl in a mask, humming as she took off her shoes to jump off a balcony...
" Is she the one?"
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