A Scandal By Any Other Name-Chapter 81 - Eighty One

The edge of the woods was cool, shadowed by the oaks of the Hamilton estate. But as Rowan and Delaney stepped out from the tree line and onto the manicured lawn, the bright midday sun hit them like a physical blow.

Ines and Celine were waiting on the terrace.

Ines was shielding her eyes with her hand. She watched her brother approach.

He was walking fast. Too fast. His stride was long and jerky, lacking his usual effortless grace. His rifle swung loosely in one hand, looking forgotten. His cravat, usually tied with careful precision, was askew. His hair looked as though he had run his hands through it a dozen times.

And his face was red. Not just a healthy, outdoor glow, but a deep, burning flush that extended from his collar to his hairline.

Delaney walked a few paces behind him. She looked equally disheveled. Her beige dress had a smudge of green moss on the hem. Her hair was loose, tendrils escaping the pins to curl wildly around her face.

They looked like two people fleeing a crime scene. Or a fire.

Rowan reached the terrace steps. He stopped, breathing hard.

Ines looked at his hands.

"You didn’t catch anything?" Ines asked. Her voice was mild, but her eyes were sharp as flint.

Rowan looked at her. He didn’t look at Celine. He looked past them, toward the safety of the house.

"No," Rowan replied.

Ines could feel the strain in his voice. It was tight, rough, like gravel grinding together.

"It got away," Rowan added.

He shifted his weight from one foot to the other. He adjusted his coat, pulling the front tails together briskly. He hunched slightly, angling his body away from the ladies.

Ines’s gaze dropped.

She saw the way he was holding the rifle across his hips, creating a barrier. She saw the tension in his trousers. She saw the bulge he was desperately trying to hide behind the fold of his coat.

Ines’s eyes widened.

She looked at his flushed face. She looked at the sweat beading on his forehead.

"Brother, is there something wrong?" Ines asked. She took a step closer, her voice dripping with mock concern. "You look right down flushed. Are you ill? Do you have a fever?"

Rowan stepped back. He looked panicked.

"It’s the heat of the sun," Rowan snapped. "It is unseasonably warm today. The woods were... stifling."

"Stifling," Ines repeated. "Indeed. The shade usually cools one down, but it seems to have had the opposite effect on you."

Rowan glared at her. He knew she knew. He knew that Ines, who had grown up wrestling him and reading scandal sheets, knew exactly what a man looked like when he was in a state of heightened arousal.

"I need to refresh," Rowan said abruptly. "And change. This coat is... uncomfortable."

He didn’t wait for permission. He didn’t bow to Celine. He turned and marched toward the French doors. He walked with a stiff, awkward gait, disappearing into the shadows of the drawing room as if the hounds of hell were snapping at his heels.

Ines watched him go. A small, knowing smile tugged at the corner of her mouth.

Then, she turned her attention to the accomplice.

Delaney was standing at the bottom of the steps. She looked like she wanted the earth to open up and swallow her whole. She was twisting her hands together.

Ines looked her over.

The beige dress. The moss stain. The wild hair.

And something was missing.

"Miss Kingsley," Ines said softly. "Your shawl?"

Delaney froze. Her hand flew to her shoulders. She touched the bare wool of her dress.

"My shawl?" Delaney repeated.

"You left with a shawl," Ines noted. "A beige one. To match the dress."

Delaney’s face turned the same shade of crimson as Rowan’s.

"I..." Delaney stammered. She looked back toward the woods. "It must have fallen off somewhere. In the woods. While we were... tracking the rabbit."

"Tracking the rabbit," Ines said. "Of course. Rabbits are notorious for stealing knitwear."

Ines could tell something happened. She wasn’t born yesterday. Shawls didn’t just fall off unless someone helped them, or unless the wearer was too distracted to notice.

She looked at Delaney’s lips. They were swollen. Red. Not from a kiss—Ines suspected they hadn’t kissed, given the frustration radiating off Rowan—but from biting them. From holding back.

Ines nodded slowly.

"Let’s go and have lunch," Ines said. "I am sure you are both... famished."

Delaney nodded quickly. "Yes, Your Grace."

She hurried up the steps and into the house, following the path Rowan had taken, though keeping a safe distance.

Celine stood quietly by the table. She had watched the entire exchange. She had seen the flush. She had seen the missing shawl. She had seen the way Rowan couldn’t look her in the eye.

She felt a cold knot form in her stomach.

"Come, Celine," Ines said gently, offering her arm. "The soup will be cold."

Celine took her arm. She forced a smile.

"Yes," Celine whispered. "We mustn’t let the soup get cold."

~ ••••• ~

The dining room was grand. The table was long, polished to a mirror shine, and set with the finest Hamilton silver.

But the mood was anything but grand.

Rowan had changed. He was wearing a fresh coat and a fresh cravat. His hair was combed wet. The flush had subsided from his face, leaving him pale and serious. He sat at the head of the table, cutting his roast beef.

Delaney sat on his left. She had also tidied up, pinning her hair back severely. She kept her eyes on her plate, eating her peas one by one.

Ines and Aunt Margery sat on the right. Lady Farrington sat next to Rowan on the other side. Celine sat at the far end, watching.

During lunch, Celine could see the connection between Delaney and Rowan that no one else—save perhaps Ines—could see.

It wasn’t that they were touching. They weren’t. Their hands were miles apart.

It was the air between them.

When Rowan reached for the salt, Delaney passed it to him before he even asked. Their fingers didn’t brush, but they moved in perfect sync.

When Delaney took a sip of water, Rowan paused in his chewing, his eyes darting to her throat for a split second before returning to his plate.

When Aunt Margery made a joke about Fifi chasing a butterfly, Rowan didn’t look at his guests to share the laugh. He looked at Delaney. He sought her eyes. And for a moment, they shared a private, silent look that vanished as quickly as it happened.

Celine watched it all.

She saw the way Rowan’s body leaned toward Delaney, like a plant seeking the sun. She saw the way Delaney stiffened every time Rowan spoke, hyper-aware of his presence.

It was electricity. It was magnetism. It was a language Celine didn’t speak, but she understood the translation perfectly.

But aren’t they family? Isn’t she married, Celine thought. Or was it all a lie?