A Scandal By Any Other Name-Chapter 100 - One Hundred

During dinner, Smith was the perfect husband. In fact, he was so perfect that it was entirely sickening to watch.

The long polished table in the dining room was lit by dozens of flickering candles, casting a warm, golden glow over the crystal and silver. But there was nothing warm about the atmosphere.

Smith sat to Delaney’s right. He pulled out her chair for her. He offered her the best slices of roasted duck. When she reached for her water glass, his fingers brushed against hers, and he offered a soft, adoring smile that belonged on a stage in Covent Garden. He even leaned in to whisper a polite joke about the weather into her ear, making it look to the rest of the table as though they were sharing a deep, intimate secret.

Rowan sat at the head of the table. He just looked at them.

He gripped his silver knife and fork so tightly that his knuckles were stark white. He was staring directly at Smith’s hand, which was currently resting casually on the back of Delaney’s chair. Rowan barely blinked, and he was certainly barely eating anything. His plate of food remained entirely untouched, the meat growing cold in the heavy silence.

Aunt Margery, who was sitting near Rowan, noticed the dark storm brewing in her nephew’s eyes. She also noticed that Rowan didn’t eat much of his food. She knew he was a man of large appetite, especially after a day outdoors.

"My dear," Aunt Margery said, breaking the quiet clatter of silverware. She pointed her fork at his plate. "Is the food not to your liking? I can have the cook prepare something else. Perhaps a light soup?"

Rowan did not look at her. His eyes were still locked fiercely on Delaney and the actor.

Slowly, Rowan set his knife and fork down. The metal clinked sharply against the fine china. He reached for his linen napkin, cleaned his mouth with slow, deliberate precision, and stood up from his chair.

His sudden movement made the table fall silent. Celine looked up, her blue eyes wide with surprise. Lady Farrington stopped chewing.

"I lost my appetite," Rowan replied. His voice was cold, flat, and completely devoid of its usual polite warmth. "I will be in my study. I have a lot of work to do."

He did not wait to be excused. He did not bow to the ladies. He simply turned on his heel and walked out of the dining room. His heavy boots echoed sharply against the floorboards, carrying the sound of a very angry man walking away.

Aunt Margery watched as he left. She let out a soft sigh, turning her attention back to the table. She chuckled nervously, a forced, airy sound that fooled no one.

She quickly gave an excuse for damage control. "Oh, the poor Duke. He carries such a heavy burden. The estate accounts, the railway consortium, the tenant disputes. A man’s mind is never truly at rest when he owns so much land. Please, Lady Farrington, do try the potatoes."

Lady Farrington hummed, looking toward the empty doorway with narrowed eyes. "Indeed."

They all ate the rest of the meal in silence.

After dinner, the party quickly dispersed. The tension was too thick for evening tea or card games. Everyone went to their respective rooms for the night.

Inside the Blue Suite, the heavy wooden door clicked shut. Delaney let out a long, exhausted breath. She turned to face Smith. 𝚏𝐫𝚎𝗲𝕨𝐞𝐛𝕟𝚘𝐯𝚎𝗹.𝕔𝐨𝗺

The actor was already unbuttoning his fine navy coat, looking entirely pleased with his evening performance.

Delaney walked over to the large wooden chest at the foot of the bed. She pulled out a thick woolen blanket and a spare feather pillow. She turned and threw the blanket directly at Smith. It hit him squarely in the chest.

"You can sleep anywhere you want," Delaney said, her voice dropping all pretense of wifely affection. She pointed a firm finger at the large, four-poster bed. "But the bed is strictly off limits. Do you understand me, Mr. Jones?"

Smith caught the blanket easily. He smiled, an easy, charming grin that showed he took no offense.

"Of course, miss," Smith replied smoothly, bowing his head. He gathered the pillow she tossed next. "I am a gentleman. I wouldn’t want to make you uncomfortable in the slightest. The floor by the fireplace will suit me just fine."

Delaney ignored him. She did not want to make conversation. She went straight to the dressing screen, quickly changed into her cotton nightgown, and climbed into the large bed, pulling the heavy quilt up to her chin.

An hour later, the room was completely dark, save for the dying embers in the fireplace.

Delaney couldn’t sleep.

She tossed and turned, tangling the sheets around her legs. She closed her eyes, but sleep was completely absent. Every time she closed her eyes, she saw Rowan’s furious face at the dinner table. She saw the tight clench of his jaw. She felt the heavy, unspoken weight of his reaction pressing down on her chest.

Finally, she gave up. She sat up on the bed, pushing her dark, loose hair out of her face.

She looked to her side. She saw Smith sleeping comfortably on the floor, wrapped in the wool blanket. He was breathing in a slow, even rhythm. He looked completely at peace.

Delaney sighed quietly. She slid her legs off the edge of the mattress and got off the bed. Her throat felt incredibly dry. The anxiety of the day had left her parched.

She walked over to the small washstand table in the corner of the room. She held the porcelain water pitcher and tilted it, but no water came out. She realized it was completely empty. The maid had forgotten to refill it during the turn-down service.

Delaney looked at the door. She was thirsty, and she needed a reason to walk, to clear her racing mind.

She reached for her dressing robe, a soft, dark silk garment, and slipped it on over her nightgown. She pulled her robes tight, tying the silk belt securely around her waist. She slipped her bare feet into her soft indoor slippers and quietly walked out of her room to refill the pitcher from the kitchen downstairs.

The hallways of Hamilton House were dark and silent. She walked down the long hall, her slippers making no sound on the thick runner rugs.

As she approached the main staircase, she saw it.

A thin, golden slice of light was coming out from under the heavy oak door of Rowan’s study.

Delaney stopped in her tracks. She clutched the empty porcelain pitcher to her chest. She knew he was working late. Or, at least, he was hiding in there, pretending to work.

She should keep walking. She should go down to the kitchen, get her water, and go back to her room. It was highly improper for a woman in her nightclothes to knock on a gentleman’s door at midnight.

But her feet refused to move past his door. The pull was too strong.

She took a step toward the study. Then another. Before she could talk herself out of it, she raised her free hand. She knocked lightly on the thick wood.

For a moment, there was silence. Then, a deep, tired voice sounded from within.

"Enter," Rowan replied.