Knock… knock… knock.
The sound echoed through the heavy oak door of the study. It was a polite sound, but to Rowan, it sounded like the tolling of a funeral bell.
Rowan was sitting behind his massive desk. He was trying to read a report about the crop yields on his country estate, but his mind was elsewhere. He was staring at a small spot of dried mud on the knee of his breeches. It was a souvenir from the woman in the gray dress.
The woman who had looked at him with hazel eyes full of fire and told him he was "shiny."
He rubbed his temple. He should have changed his clothes. But he had come straight to his study, seeking peace and quiet.
"Come in," Rowan called out.
The door opened with a soft click. Mr. Simmons, the family steward, stepped into the room. Simmons was a man who had worked for the Hamilton family for thirty years. He had a face that never showed emotion, though Rowan sometimes suspected the man was secretly laughing at him.
"Your Grace," Simmons said. He bowed low.
Rowan leaned back in his leather chair. "What is it, Simmons? Is the house on fire? If it is not on fire, I do not want to know."
Simmons did not smile. "No fire, Your Grace. However, your aunt is here. Her carriage just pulled over at the courtyard."
Rowan groaned. He let his head fall back against the chair. He stared up at the painted ceiling.
"Aunt Margery," Rowan muttered. "Of course."
He sat up straight. He looked at Simmons with desperate eyes. "Did she come alone?"
Simmons hesitated. That hesitation told Rowan everything he needed to know.
"She is accompanied by a young lady, Your Grace," Simmons said. "A Lady Belle Roulet."
Rowan let out a long, suffering sigh. He stood up and walked to the window. He looked down at the courtyard. Sure enough, his aunt's carriage was there. It was a large, imposing vehicle, much like his aunt herself.
"If it's to talk about marriage again, I swear I'll throw myself out the window," Rowan said. He pressed his forehead against the cool glass. "It is the second floor. It might not kill me, but perhaps I would break a leg and be allowed to stay in bed for a month."
"I would advise against it, Your Grace," Simmons said calmly. "The gardener just pruned the rose bushes below. It would be a very scratchy landing."
Rowan turned around. He fixed his cravat in the mirror above the fireplace. He forced his face to relax. He smoothed away the annoyance and the tiredness. He put on the mask of the Golden Duke.
"I'll be down in a minute," Rowan said.
"Very well, Your Grace." Simmons bowed and left the room.
Rowan stood alone in the silence of his study for a moment. He took a deep breath.
"One minute," he whispered to himself. "Just survive one tea time."
He walked to the door. He checked his reflection one last time. He looked perfect. He looked charming. He looked like a man who was delighted to be ambushed in his own home.
Rowan walked down the grand staircase. His boots clicked rhythmically on the marble steps. He crossed the foyer and approached the drawing room. The doors were open. He could hear the low murmur of female voices.
Of course, he thought to himself. Why would she prove me wrong? Why would she ever just come for tea and biscuits?
He stepped into the room.
The drawing room was bathed in golden afternoon light. His Aunt Margery was sitting on the velvet sofa. She was smiling.
Beside her sat a girl.
She was beautiful. Rowan had to admit that. She had blonde curls that were perfectly pinned. She wore a dress of pale pink silk that cost more than most people earned in a year. Her hands were folded demurely in her lap. She looked like a porcelain doll that had been taken off a shelf and placed on his sofa.
Rowan let out his perfect smile. It was automatic. It was blinding.
"Aunt Margery," he said, his voice warm and welcoming. "You didn't tell me we will be having company."
He walked over to his aunt and kissed her cheek.
Aunt Margery beamed at him. She patted his arm. "Rowan, my dear boy! I wanted it to be a surprise. And you are always so busy; I knew if I sent a note, you would find an excuse to be at your club."
She was right, of course. Rowan did not deny it.
Aunt Margery turned to the girl beside her. "Rowan, allow me to introduce you. This is Lady Belle Roulet. Daughter of Lord Roulet."
Rowan turned his attention to the girl. Lady Belle stood up immediately. She smoothed her pink skirts. She kept her eyes lowered for a moment before looking up at him through her lashes. It was a practiced move. Rowan had seen it a thousand times.
"Her family came from France to reside in London," Aunt Margery continued, her voice full of meaningful emphasis. "Her mother is a good friend of mine. We have known each other since we were girls."
Lady Belle sank into a graceful curtsy. It was flawless. Her balance was perfect.
"It's a pleasure to meet you, Your Grace," she said. Her voice was soft, like a gentle breeze. It was very different from the sharp, crisp voice of the woman in the gray dress.
Rowan bowed. "The pleasure is all mine, Lady Belle."
"Please, sit," Aunt Margery commanded. She waved her hand at the tea tray. "Rowan, sit in the armchair. Lady Belle, pour the Duke a cup of tea. She has such an elegant pour, Rowan. You should see it."
Rowan sat in the armchair opposite them. He watched as Lady Belle reached for the silver teapot.
"Do you take milk, Your Grace?" she asked.
"Just a drop, thank you," Rowan said.