The quiet old post inn on the east road was just as Delia remembered it from the day before, only now she walked into it with a sense of dread rather than confusion. She saw him immediately, sitting at a secluded table in the corner, a glass of wine untouched before him. Duke Philip was the mirror image of his brother—the same dark hair, the same strong jawline—but his eyes were colder, and a shadow of bitterness seemed to cling to him.
She approached the table, and he stood as she neared, a polite but cool gesture.
"So you didn't want to meet with me?" Philip said, his voice smooth but with an undercurrent of accusation.
Delia met his gaze directly, refusing to be intimidated. "No," she replied straightforwardly.
A flicker of surprise crossed his face. "I had to leave yesterday because something urgent came up," he explained, offering a belated excuse. "But if you are upset about being stood up…"
