A Scandal By Any Other Name-Chapter 20 - Twenty

Rowan closed his eyes. He didn’t want to relax. He wanted to stay angry. Anger was safe. But her hands were working magic on muscles that had been tight since his father died years ago.

"I am relaxed," he lied, his voice sounding strained. " You are the one annoying me."

"You are as stiff as a board," she whispered near his ear. "Drop your shoulders. Lower."

He exhaled. His shoulders dropped two inches.

"Better," she said.

She removed her hands. The loss of contact made his skin prickle with cold. She walked back to her seat, sat down, and picked up her quill.

She went back to writing. Her quill making those scratching sounds.

Rowan watched her. He felt unsettled. Unraveled.

"What are you writing now?" he demanded. "’Subject has weak shoulders’? ’Subject enjoys neck rubs’?"

Delaney didn’t look up. A tiny, wicked smile played on her lips. "’Subject responds well to firm handling’." 𝒇𝒓𝒆𝒆𝙬𝒆𝒃𝓷𝒐𝓿𝙚𝙡.𝒄𝓸𝒎

Rowan’s mouth fell open. He snapped it shut.

"You are impertinent," he accused.

"I am efficient," she corrected. "And you are blushing."

"I am not blushing!" Rowan roared. "It is the blood returning to my head after you cut off the supply!"

He needed something to hide whatever she was doing to him. He reached for the folded copy of The Times that Simmons had gotten from the paper boys and placed on the table.

He snapped it open with a violent rustle, creating a wall of newsprint between him and the gray menace.

"I am going to read," Rowan announced from behind the paper. "Silence, please. I am checking the... grain prices."

He waited. He hid.

"Ah," Delaney’s voice floated over the top of the paper. "The Wall of Newsprint. A classic maneuver. Usually performed by husbands who have forgotten their anniversary, or fathers trying to avoid holding their own children."

Rowan lowered the paper one inch. He glared over the top. "It is important. The grain prices affect the tenants."

"You are holding it upside down," Delaney pointed out.

Rowan froze. He glanced at the text. It was indeed upside down.

He flipped the paper right side up with as much dignity as he could muster. "I was testing my cognitive abilities. Reading inverted text stimulates the mind."

"You are hiding," Delaney said. "Put the paper down, Your Grace."

"No."

"Rowan."

The use of his first name hit him like a physical blow. It was forbidden. It was shocking.

He slowly lowered the paper. He looked at her.

"You are not allowed to call me that," he said quietly.

"And you are not allowed to hide from the woman you paid sixty thousand pounds to help you," she shot back. "Imagine, Your Grace. You are at breakfast with your new wife. A Lady Belle, perhaps. Or A Lady Jane . She wants to tell you about her dream. Or the weather. And you put up a wall."

"Women dreams are boring," Rowan argued. "She probably dreams about embroidery. Or lukewarm tea."

"And if you hide," Delaney continued, ignoring him, "she will feel lonely. She will stop talking. And then you will have a silent marriage. Is that what you want? To eat your sausages in a mausoleum of silence for the next forty years?"

Rowan looked at her. He looked at the empty chair at the other end of the table. He imagined forty years of silence. It made his stomach turn.

"No," he admitted grudgingly.

"Then talk," Delaney said. She leaned her chin on her hand. "Practice on me. I am boring. I am gray. I am a spinster. If you can talk to me, you can talk to anyone."

Rowan scoffed. "You are many things, Miss Kingsley, but you are not boring."

"Flattery will not get your bacon back," she warned.

Rowan sighed. He pushed the paper away.

"I don’t hate conversation," he confessed, surprising himself. "I hate the... performance. Every morning, I wake up, and I have to be ’The Duke.’ I have to be perfect. I have to smile. I have to know the answers."

He picked up the apple and turned it over in his hand.

"Sometimes," he said, looking at the green skin of the fruit, "I just want to sit in my own house, in my own chair, and be grumpy. I want to not smile. I want to not care if my cravat is straight."

Delaney watched him. Her quill stopped moving. Her expression softened, losing its sharp edge.

"That," she said softly, "is the most sensible thing you have said all morning."

Rowan looked up. Their eyes met. For a moment, the banter died. There was just understanding.

"So," Delaney said, briskly breaking the spell. She tapped her notebook. "We need a wife who appreciates silence. A ’companionable silence’ candidate. Someone who doesn’t need to be entertained before noon."

"Yes," Rowan said. "Exactly. A Quiet Breakfast Eater."

"I will add it to the list," she said. She scribbled something down.

"Criteria 4: Subject B must not speak until Subject A has consumed coffee."

"And must not hit me with history books," Rowan added. "My aunt has set a dangerous precedent."

"I make no promises about books," Delaney said. "But I generally prefer to use my words as weapons."

"I have noticed," Rowan muttered.

Delaney stood up. She gathered her ink, her quill, and her notebook. She moved with quick, efficient motions.

"Lesson one is complete," she announced.

Rowan blinked. "That was a lesson? I thought it was a hostage negotiation."

"It was both," she said. She walked toward the door. "I have enough data. I am going to the library to draft a list of candidates who are fit all that is listed here."

She reached the door. Her hand rested on the brass knob.

Rowan leaned back in his chair. His headache was fading. He felt... awake. More awake than he had felt in months.

"Miss Kingsley?"

She turned back. "Yes, Your Grace?"

Rowan smirked. "You haven’t eaten. Have an apple."

Delaney looked at the half-eaten apple in his hand.

"Keep it," she said. "You need the vitamins. You look shiny, but underneath, you are rusting."

Rowan laughed. A real, startled laugh.

"Oh, and your grace?" she added.

He looked up, her voice sending another jolt through him.

"Yes?"

She pointed a gloved finger at her own chin. "You have a crumb. Right there."

Rowan’s hand flew to his chin. He rubbed it frantically. She nods and left the room.

Rowan sat alone in the large, sunny room. He stared at the closed door. He heard her footsteps fading down the hall—brisk, purposeful, annoying.

He looked at the empty spot where his bacon used to be. He looked at the apple in his hand.

He took another bite.

CRUNCH.

"She is a menace," Rowan whispered to the empty room. "An absolute menace."

He chewed, a slow smile spreading across his face.

"Annoying," he admitted to the silver coffee pot, "but she is certainly not boring."

He picked up his cup of coffee and took a sip.

"Guess I won’t be firing her anytime soon." He smiled, wanting to see what she would do next.