Rowan sat behind the great oak desk of his study. The only sound in the room was the heavy, rhythmic ticking of the grandfather clock in the corner. Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock. He rubbed his eyes with the thumb and forefinger of his right hand. He was exhausted. The games on the lawn, the tension with Delaney in the woods, the stifling presence of Lady Farrington at lunch—it all weighed heavily on his broad shoulders.
A sharp knock came on the heavy wooden door of his study.
Rowan dropped his hand from his face. He sat up straight, instantly adjusting his posture into that of the perfect, unbothered Duke.
"Come in," Rowan replied. His voice was steady and deep.
The brass door handle turned. Mr. Simmons came in. The butler moved with his usual quiet efficiency, holding a silver tray in his white-gloved hands. Resting on the tray was a thick, brown paper parcel and a sealed white letter.
