A Scandal By Any Other Name-Chapter 50 - Fifty

Celine was perfect.

Delaney was right. She was absolutely, undeniably perfect. She was beautiful, she was titled, she spoke French, and she was intelligent enough to discuss agricultural reform during a promenade. She was a partner who could stand beside a Duke and actually help him run his world.

This is it, Rowan thought. This is the perfect woman.

He should be ecstatic. He should be falling to his knees and thanking providence. But as they walked under the canopy of the elm trees, Rowan felt a strange disconnection. He was admiring her, yes. He respected her. But he didn’t feel the pull. He didn’t feel the dangerous, magnetic gravity that he felt when he was arguing with Delaney.

Celine was a calm river. Delaney was a storm.

And God help him, he missed the rain.

"Your Grace?" Celine asked, noticing his silence.

Rowan snapped back to the present. He needed to focus. He needed to secure the match.

"Forgive me," Rowan said. "I was just thinking... you really must see Hamilton House."

Celine tilted her head. "I have heard it is magnificent."

"It is," Rowan said. "And it is too quiet. It needs... life."

He took a deep breath. He stopped walking. Lady Farrington stopped behind them, her ears pricking up.

"Lady Celine," Rowan said formally. "My family hosts an annual ball. It is usually held later in the season, but my aunt has decided to move it forward. It will be held in three weeks’ time. The Hamilton Ball."

Celine’s eyes widened. An invitation to the Hamilton Ball was rare. An invitation delivered personally by the Duke was a declaration.

"I would be honored if you and your family would attend," Rowan continued. "As my guests of honor."

"Guests of honor?" Celine repeated breathlessly.

"Yes," Rowan said. "I should like to save the first waltz for you. And perhaps... the supper dance as well."

It was as good as a proposal. In the language of the ton, giving a woman two dances at your own ball was tantamount to announcing the banns.

Celine beamed. She squeezed his arm.

"We would be delighted, Your Grace," she said. "I shall mark the date immediately."

"Splendid," Rowan said.

He had done it. He had locked the trap. He had secured the future.

He looked away, toward the busy path of the park, trying to ignore the sinking feeling in his gut.

And then he saw her.

The park was crowded with brightly colored silks—pinks, yellows, lavenders. But cutting through the crowd, on a parallel path near the exit gates, was a figure in gray.

Rowan froze.

It was Delaney.

She was walking briskly, her head down, clutching a stack of books to her chest. She wore the same gray bonnet she always wore. She walked with that distinctive, purposeful stride that said she had somewhere to be and no time for nonsense.

Rowan’s heart slammed against his ribs.

She came, he thought, a surge of irrational hope flooding his chest. She couldn’t stay away. She came to watch me.

He took a step away from Celine.

"Miss Kingsley?" he whispered.

"Your Grace?" Celine asked, following his gaze. "Is something wrong?"

Rowan ignored her. He stared at the figure.

Delaney wasn’t looking at him. She wasn’t hiding behind a tree. She wasn’t spying. She was simply walking. She looked like she was heading toward the lending library on Mount Street. She looked completely absorbed in her own world, a world that didn’t include him.

She stopped to adjust her books. She turned her profile toward him.

Rowan blinked.

The woman turned fully.

It wasn’t Delaney.

It was a stranger. An older woman, perhaps forty, with a sharp nose and a similar gray coat. She didn’t look anything like Delaney.

Rowan felt the blood drain from his face.

He blinked again, hard, as if trying to reset his vision.

I am hallucinating, he realized with a jolt of horror. I am seeing her where she isn’t.

He looked around the park. Suddenly, every gray dress looked like her. Every dark bonnet looked like her. Every woman walking with a purpose looked like the matchmaker he had left in his library.

He was haunted.

He was standing next to the perfect woman, the woman who discussed crop rotation and justice, and his brain was frantically searching for the woman who was assigned to find him a wife.

The realization hit him like a physical blow. He didn’t just want Delaney’s help. He didn’t just want her efficiency.

He wanted her.

He missed her presence so acutely that his mind was conjuring her out of thin air just to fill the void.

"Your Grace?" Celine touched his arm. She looked concerned. "You look pale. Are you unwell?"

Rowan looked down at her. He saw her beautiful blue eyes, filled with genuine kindness. He felt like a fraud. He felt like a villain.

He forced a smile. It felt heavy and false.

"I am fine," Rowan lied. "Just... a trick of the light. The sun is quite bright today."

"Perhaps we should return to the carriage," Celine suggested gently. "You have been very generous with your time."

"Yes," Rowan said. His voice was hollow. "The carriage."

He offered her his arm again.

As they walked back toward the phaeton, Rowan kept scanning the crowd. He knew she wasn’t there. He knew she was at home, making lists, planning his wedding to the woman on his arm.

But he couldn’t stop looking.

He felt a terrible, aching loneliness settle over him, right there in the middle of the crowded park. He had found his perfect woman. But he had lost his heart to the gray mouse who wasn’t even there to see it and that gray mouse is making his feelings irrelevant.

"Two weeks," Rowan murmured to himself as he helped Celine into her carriage. "Two weeks until the ball."

Two weeks to seal his fate. Two weeks to find a way to fall in love with Celine. Or Two weeks to forget whatever he is feeling for Delaney.

He climbed into his high perch, took the reins, and whipped the horses into a run.