A Scandal By Any Other Name-Chapter 59 - Fifty Nine

The heavy oak door of the carriage slammed shut, sealing them inside a box of velvet and tension.

The horses lurched forward, their hooves clattering against the cobblestones of the London street. Inside, Delaney Kingsley let out a breath she felt she had been holding for an hour.

She looked down at her feet.

One foot was clad in a sensible, soft black leather boot. The other was still clad in the burgundy satin slipper that felt like a torture device.

Rowan sat opposite her. He picks up the second black boot sitting beside her. He didn’t look like a Duke who had just negotiated a railway empire. He looked like a man on a crusade.

"Give me your other foot," Rowan commanded as he knelt down.

His voice was low, leaving no room for argument.

Delaney pressed her back against the squabs. Her heart was hammering a frantic rhythm against her ribs that had nothing to do with the business deal and everything to do with the man kneeling on the floor of the moving carriage.

"Your Grace," she whispered, her voice trembling. "I was doing it fine on my own. We are in a carriage. It is... scandalous. Please stop."

"We are cousins," Rowan said, though the word sounded like awkward even to his own ears. "Cousins help each other with footwear."

"Cousins do not hold ankles like that," Delaney countered, her face burning.

Rowan ignored her. He reached out and took her left ankle. His grip was firm, warm, and possessive. He lifted her foot onto his knee.

Delaney gasped. The sensation of his hand through her silk stocking sent a jolt of electricity straight up her leg. She grabbed the window strap to steady herself.

He unbuckled the satin shoe. He slid it off gently. He tossed it onto the floor as if it were rubbish.

Then, he picked up the black boot.

He didn’t rush. He took his time sliding it onto her foot. He adjusted the tongue. He began to lace it up.

His fingers brushed against her instep.

Delaney bit her lip to keep from making a sound.

"You told him I was married," She said, trying to distract herself from the heat of his touch. "To a sailor."

Rowan didn’t look up from the laces. "Captain Smith Kingsley."

"Captain Smith," Delaney repeated, incredulous. "That is the most uninspired name in the history of fiction, Your Grace. You negotiate million-pound contracts, and the best lie you can come up with is ’Captain Smith’?"

Rowan finished the knot. He looked up. His eyes were dark.

"It was the first name that came to mind," he admitted. "I was distracted."

"Distracted by what?"

"By the way Sterling was looking at you,"

Rowan said. His voice dropped an octave. "He looked at you like you were a piece of land he wanted to buy. Like you were an acquisition."

"And you just sold me to a fictional sailor instead?"

"I protected you," Rowan corrected. He let go of her foot, but his hand lingered on her calf for a split second before he pulled away. "You are my matchmaker. You are under my protection. I will not have lecherous old men courting you while you are in my employ."

Delaney sat up straight. She wiggled her toes in the new boots. The pain was gone. The relief was immense.

But the confusion remained.

"You are acting strange, Your Grace," she whispered. "Kneeling in the carriage. Buying boots. Inventing husbands. This isn’t... professional."

Rowan leaned back in his seat. He looked out the window at the passing city.

"Maybe I am tired of being professional," he muttered.

The rest of the ride was silent. But it was a loud silence. Every time the carriage hit a bump and their knees brushed, the air between them crackled. Delaney stared at his profile—the strong jaw, the tired eyes—and wondered just how much trouble they were both in.

While the carriage rolled through the streets of London, Hamilton House was waking up to a new arrival.

A large traveling coach, dusty from the road but unmistakably aristocratic, had pulled into the courtyard. The crest on the door—a roaring lion—announced the arrival of the Andersons.

Mr. Simmons, the butler, was already on the steps. He had seen the carriage coming from the window and had summoned the footmen with a snap of his fingers.

The carriage door opened.

Carcel, the Duke of Carleton, stepped out first. He was tall, with broad shoulders and messy hair that looked like it had been tousled by the wind. He stretched his arms, hearing his spine crack.

"London," Carcel groaned playfully. "It smells of coal and ambition."

He turned back and offered his hand.

Ines stepped down. She wore a navy traveling habit that was wrinkled but elegant. She had curls that escaped her bonnet and dark eyes that sparkled with mischief.

And in her arms, she held a bundle of energy wrapped in a white coat.

"Simmons!" Ines cried out.

"Lady Ines," Simmons said, bowing low. A rare, genuine smile cracked his professional mask. "And His Grace, the Duke of Carleton. Welcome to London."

"It is good to be back, Simmons," Ines said. She walked up the steps, shifting the baby on her hip. "Though I do not miss the smog."

They entered the foyer. The grand hall of Hamilton House was usually silent and imposing. Suddenly, it was filled with noise.

"Ba! Ba!" Harry shouted. The echo of his voice bounced off the marble walls. He pointed at the crystal chandelier with a chubby finger.

"Yes, Harry," Ines said, kissing the top of his head. "That is a light. Very shiny."

She handed her bonnet to a maid and turned to the butler. Her expression shifted from motherly warmth to sisterly interrogation.

"So," Ines started, getting straight to the point. "Rowan sent a special messenger. He moved the ball forward. He is acting erratic."

She adjusted her grip on Harry, who was trying to pull her pearl earring.

"Who is the unlucky lady that has captured my brother’s heart, Simmons?" Ines asked. "It must be a very lovely woman. Rowan does not panic about balls unless there is a woman involved. Is she a debutante? A widow? An opera singer?"

Simmons kept his face perfectly neutral. He folded his hands behind his back.

"I have no idea, Your Grace," Simmons spoke professionally. "His Grace has not confided a name to me."