A Scandal By Any Other Name-Chapter 27 - Twenty Seven

Rowan continued with his complaints. "I cannot sit there and have conversations. It hurts my brain. It physically hurts."

"You will have to do it," Delaney ordered. She pointed her quill at him like a weapon. "You will sit there. You will smile. And you will try."

Rowan rubbed his temples. "Miss Kingsley..."

"Because if you do not pick one of them," Delaney continued, "your Aunt Margery will come back. And next time, it won’t be the history book. She might use the encyclopedia. And I believe the ’B’ volume is particularly heavy."

Rowan let out a reluctant chuckle. He looked at her.

She looked tired. The afternoon light was fading, and in the shadows, he could see the dark circles under her eyes. The gray dress looked heavy on her small frame. She was fighting so hard for him. She was fighting for his future, even when he was fighting against it.

He felt a sudden wave of guilt. He was being difficult.

"Fine," Rowan grumbled. He pushed himself off the window frame. "Bring on the next batch."

"Thank you," Delaney said.

"But," Rowan added, raising a finger, "if anyone talks about things I don’t like, I am leaving. I will walk out."

"Deal," Delaney said.

She closed her notebook with a snap. She turned to leave, anxious to escape the heavy atmosphere of the room.

"Miss Kingsley?"

Delaney stopped. She froze near the door. Her hand hovered over the brass knob.

"Yes?" she asked, not turning around.

Rowan looked at her. He studied her.

He looked at the way she stood—spine straight as a soldier, chin held high, ready to fight the world. She wasn’t soft. She wasn’t sweet. She was gray and sharp and difficult.

But she was also the only person in the room who understood him.

"You speak French," he said.

It wasn’t a question. It was a statement. He had heard the curse. Zut alors. It had been perfect, native French.

Delaney turned. "A little," she said. "From my mother."

Rowan nodded slowly. He took a step closer to her.

"And you are quiet in the mornings," he noted.

"I am working," she corrected instantly.

"And you are certainly challenging me," he added. A small, crooked smile touched his lips. "You yell at me. You order me to eat apples. You tell me I am sabotaging myself."

Delaney’s eyes narrowed. Her patience snapped. "What is your point, Your Grace?" 𝘧𝑟𝑒𝑒𝘸𝘦𝘣𝑛𝑜𝘷𝑒𝓁.𝘤𝘰𝓂

Rowan looked at her.

He saw the gray wool dress. He saw the severe bun. He saw the professionalism that she wore like armor.

He shook his head.

"Nothing," Rowan said softly. "Just... try to find someone who is a little less... Miss Pringle."

He paused.

"And a little more... you."

Delaney stared at him.

The air in the room seemed to vanish. Her mouth opened slightly, then closed with a click. Her breath hitched in her throat.

A little more... you.

What is he up to again? She thought to herself. He didn’t know who she was but was saying that she—Delaney Kingsley, the gray mouse—was the standard.

She clutched her notebook to her chest. "I will try, Your Grace," she whispered. Her voice was barely audible.

She turned and hurried out of the room. She didn’t look back. She had a lot to do.

The door clicked shut.

Rowan stood alone among the empty teacups and the half-eaten sandwiches.

He looked at the door. He felt a strange confusion. He clearly had something in his heart. So why did he enjoy arguing with the matchmaker so much?

He picked up the cucumber sandwich he had abandoned earlier. He looked at it.

"A little more like her," he muttered to himself.

He took a bite.

~ ••••• ~

The sun began to dip below the horizon, painting the sky in shades of bruised purple and burnt orange. The long, exhausting day at Hamilton House was finally coming to an end.

The stream of debutantes had ceased. The teacups had been washed and put away. The cucumber sandwiches had been cleared. The drawing room had been cleaned.

But the tension in the house remained.

Upstairs in the Blue Guest Suite, Delaney Kingsley stood by the glass doors of her balcony. She had taken off her shoes. Her feet hurt. Her head hurt. Her heart hurt.

She pressed her forehead against the cool glass pane. She watched the shadows lengthen across the vast, manicured lawns.

Below, movement caught her eye.

It was Rowan.

He had escaped the house. He was down in the courtyard, mounted on a massive black stallion. He was not wearing his riding coat. He was in his white shirtsleeves, his waistcoat unbuttoned, his cravat gone. He looked wild. He looked nothing like the "Golden Duke" who had sat stiffly on the sofa all afternoon discussing with ladies.

He kicked the horse into a gallop.

The horse surged forward. They flew across the green turf. Rowan didn’t ride like a gentleman taking a leisurely trot in the park. He rode hard. He rode as if he were trying to outrun something. He leaned low over the horse’s neck, his body moving in perfect rhythm with the animal.

Delaney watched him.

The sight of the man and the horse, moving as one powerful creature against the dying light, triggered something deep inside her.

The walls of Hamilton House seemed to dissolve. The gray wool of her dress seemed to fade.

Suddenly, she was back to when she was Six. Her family went on a vacation.

~ • FLASHBACK • ~

The air smelled of summer and fresh hay. It was the Kingsley estate in the countryside.

"Arthur! Arthur, stop!"

The voice was high and musical. It was her mother, Lady Genevieve. She was standing on the porch, wiping her hands on her apron. She was beautiful, with dark curls that Delaney had inherited and a smile that could light up a room.

Delaney, a small girl with scraped knees, sat on the grass, clutching a doll. She watched her father.

Arthur Kingsley was laughing. He was riding his favorite bay mare, creating circles in the front paddock. He was riding too fast, just like Rowan was doing now. He was showing off.