That Very Same Day…
The morning light filtering into the dressing room of Hamilton House was, as always, aggressively cheerful. It bounced off the polished wooden wardrobes, the silver grooming set on the vanity, and the gold frames of the mirrors, creating a dazzling display of opulence that Rowan usually ignored.
Today, however, he was studying it. Or rather, he was studying himself in the midst of it.
"Your carriage is ready, Your Grace," came the voice of Mr. Simmons, the steward.
The door opened exactly half an inch. It was a precise measurement. Mr. Simmons knew that Rowan valued privacy while dressing, but he also valued punctuality. The half-inch gap was the compromise they had reached five years ago.
Rowan stood before the tall, trifold mirror. His valet, a man named Henderson who treated lint with the same gravity a priest treated sin, had just stepped back. Henderson held a lint brush in one hand and looked at Rowan with an expression of deep, spiritual satisfaction.
"Perfect, Your Grace," Henderson whispered. "Simply perfect."
Rowan turned slightly to the left, then to the right. He had to admit, the reflection was impeccable. His coat was a midnight blue superfine wool, tailored so sharply it could probably cut glass. His waistcoat was a cream silk, embroidered with a pattern so subtle you had to be within kissing distance to see it. His cravat was tied in the Mathiessen knot—a knot so complex it required nimble fingers and a prayer to the Almighty to execute correctly.
He looked every inch the Duke of Hamilton. He looked powerful. He looked wealthy. He looked like a man who had never known a moment of chaos or confusion in his entire life.
Rowan sighed internally. It was exhausting being a statue.
"Thank you, Simmons," Rowan called out to the sliver of open door. He picked up his signet ring from the velvet tray and slid it onto his pinky finger. It fit perfectly, of course.
"I'll be down in a minute."
"Very good, Your Grace," Simmons replied. The door clicked shut with a soft, expensive sound.
Rowan lingered for a moment. He reached into the small pocket of his waistcoat and withdrew his gold pocket watch. He pressed the release catch. The lid sprang open.
Eleven o'clock. On the dot.
"Punctual as usual," he beamed to his reflection. "Well done, Rowan. Another day of impeccable timing."
He liked punctuality. Time was something he could control. Unlike, say, women who jumped out of balconies, or women who wore gray dresses and insulted his spatial awareness.
He snapped the watch shut and slipped it back into his pocket. He squared his shoulders, fixed his "Duke Smile" onto his face, and marched out of the room.
His boots made a satisfying, rhythmic sound on the marble staircase. The servants he passed bowed and curtsied, melting into the walls as he walked by. He nodded to them—polite, distant, perfect.
He stepped out into the courtyard. The air was crisp, carrying the scent of coal smoke and horses. His carriage was waiting, the black lacquer shining in the sun. The Hamilton crest on the door was polished to a mirror shine.
The footman opened the door. Rowan climbed in and settled onto the plush velvet seat.
"To White's, Your Grace?" the footman asked.
"To White's," Rowan confirmed.
The door closed, sealing him inside the velvet box. As the carriage lurched forward and rolled out of the gates, Rowan sat back and crossed his legs.
Usually, this was the time of day when he reviewed his schedule. But today, a strange feeling was prickling at the back of his neck. It was a feeling of absence.
Aunt Margery didn't come today.
Rowan frowned, tapping his gloved fingers on his knee. It was… unsettling.
Since Ines got married, Aunt Margery had been a permanent fixture at his breakfast table. She usually arrived with a list of demands or eligible debutantes, three invitations to balls or "intimate" musical recitals, a lecture on the importance of heirs, and a new debutante she had "accidentally" found wandering in the garden.
But this morning? Silence. No carriage in the driveway. No lecture. No ambushing him with a girl named Belle or Flora or Jane.
What is she plotting? Rowan wondered.
He knew his aunt. Silence from Lady Margery was not peace. It was like a calm before the storm. The deep breath a tiger took before pouncing.
Was she ill? Unlikely; she had the constitution of an ox. Was she angry? Possibly. He had been rather dismissive of Lady Belle yesterday. Or perhaps she had finally given up.
Rowan looked out the window as the carriage navigated the busy streets of Mayfair. He watched a flower seller haggling with a gentleman. He watched a group of children chasing a hoop.
Given up, he thought. No. Aunt Margery never gives up. She is merely reloading.
He was so deep in his thoughts, imagining his aunt constructing a trap made of lace and marriage licenses, that he barely noticed the journey. The carriage slowed to a halt.
"White's Club, Your Grace," the footman announced, opening the door.
Rowan blinked, shaking himself out of his reverie. "Ah. Yes. Thank you."
He stepped out onto St. James's Street.
This was his sanctuary. The Club. A place where the carpet was thick, the brandy was old, and the conversation was strictly masculine. No mothers. No pressure. A place where men can be men.
He walked up the famous steps. He nodded to the porter, who took his hat and cane with a reverent bow.
Rowan walked into the main room. It smelled of cigar smoke, leather, and old money. He walked past the famous Betting Book, where men wagered on everything from the weather to which Lord would die of gout first.
He made his way to the private room in the back, the one reserved for his inner circle.
Laughter drifted through the door before he even opened it.
Rowan pushed the door open.
Viscount Weston was standing by the fireplace, one arm resting on the mantlepiece. He was holding a glass of sherry and looking like a man who had been hit over the head with a happiness mallet.
"She has the most remarkable laugh," Weston was saying to the room at large. His eyes were unfocused and dreamy. "It isn't a giggle. I hate giggles. It's a… a melody. Like little silver bells ringing in a meadow."
Lord Carlisle, who was sprawled in a deep leather armchair with his legs stretched out, groaned loudly. He threw a salted peanut at Weston.
"Engaging the poet, are we, Weston?" Carlisle drawled. "Give it a rest, man. You're making the rest of us look bad. And you're ruining my sherry."
Weston caught the peanut with surprising dexterity and popped it into his mouth. He grinned. It was a goofy, lovesick grin that looked ridiculous on his usually serious face.
"You are just jealous, Carlisle," Weston said. "Because my Ophelia is an angel, and your mistress throws vases at your head."
"She has excellent aim, though," Carlisle argued, pointing a finger. "I respect a woman with aim. Keeps me on my toes."
Rowan chuckled as he stepped fully into the room. "And I respect a man who knows when to duck."
The heads turned.
"Hamilton!" Weston shouted. "The Golden Boy has arrived! Come in, come in. Save me from these cynics."
Rowan smiled. It was easy here. He didn't have to be the Duke. He could just be Rowan. These men had known him since Eton. They knew his fears. They knew he sang off-key when he was drunk. They knew the real him.
"Weston," Rowan said, walking over and clapping his friend on the shoulder. "You look disgusting. Happiness is oozing out of your pores. It's untidy. You're going to stain the carpet."
"I can't help it," Weston admitted. He took a sip of his sherry. "I am a goner, Rowan. A complete goner. I never thought I would say this—I used to mock Carcel for being too romantic—but I cannot wait to be married. I want to see her face on the pillow next to mine every morning."
The room went quiet for a second. Even Carlisle stopped looking bored. There was a sincerity in Weston's voice that silenced the usual banter.
Pym, a younger man who followed the group around like a puppy, raised his glass. "To the future Viscountess. May she have the patience of a saint, because she is marrying this fool."
"Here, here!" the men cheered.
They clinked their glasses. The crystal rang out, a cheerful chime in the warm room.