Page 18 of The Duke's Jilted Bride

“I couldn’t inform you of my situation,” Rowan said, his voice tight with restraint. “There were circumstances that prevented any communication.”

“Circumstances!” Selina scoffed. “How very vague. And I suppose that is what kept you silent for an entire year whilemyreputation crumbled?”

Rowan’s face hardened. “Yes. And that’s where this discussion ends.”

Selina rose as well, throwing her napkin onto the table. “Then this conversation is over. Good night, Your Grace.”

She moved toward the door, her back straight, her head high. Before she could reach it, Rowan strode across the room and blocked her path.

“You’re my wife,” he said, his voice low and rough. “We have responsibilities to each other, whether we like it or not.”

“Responsibilities?” Selina looked up at him, her olive-toned eyes stormy. “You mean your responsibility to explain yourself? Or mine to accept your silent presence in my life without question?”

They stood too close. Rowan could smell the lavender in her hair, see the pulse beating rapidly at the base of her throat. Her lips parted slightly as she drew a breath, and something hot and urgent coiled in his stomach.

“You know nothing,” he said, his voice low, rough.

“Then enlighten me, Your Grace.”

For a moment, he considered pulling her to him, silencing her questions with his mouth on hers. His hand actually lifted toward her face before he caught himself. He curled his fingers into a fist, breathing hard.

No.

His every muscle went taut with the effort of restraint. He couldn’t tell her the truth—not that night, maybe not ever.

That he’d been dragged from the docks like a common criminal, forced into a ship’s crew with shackles on his wrists and salt in his wounds. That he’d spent a year fighting to survive, not just storms and whips but the bitter taste of helplessness.

She would see it as weakness. Not to mention that he did. And worse, he could put her, an innocent, in danger, if she knew the truth.

He’d seen what those men were capable of. Ruthless, silent, and well-connected. They’d operated in the shadows, plucking menfrom the streets and docks with no consequences, no names, no faces.

Rowan had watched one sailor die simply for recognizing a voice. Another was beaten so badly he couldn’t walk again—just for asking questions. Rowan had kept his head down and learned the rules: speak nothing, trust no one, survive.

Now he was back. And those men still walked free.

He meant to change that.

He would find them. Hunt them. One by one, if he had to. But not until he knew Selina was safe. Not until he had locked this darkness away from her entirely. She didn’t belong anywhere near it—not with her kind eyes and proud spine.

If she knew the truth, she might ask questions. She might try to help.

And they would come for her.

Better she thinks him cold. Better she never knows.

Rowan stepped aside. “You can go.”

Confusion flickered across Selina’s face before her expression hardened again.

Without another word, she swept past him and out of the dining room, the rustle of her silk gown fading as she ascended the staircase.

Alone, Rowan returned to the table and poured another measure of the Emberford brandy.

That would be the only gift he would enjoy from his wedding.

The following week passed in an uncomfortable dance of avoidance. Rowan left the house early each morning, using estate matters as an excuse to escape the strained atmosphere. When circumstances forced them together at dinner, their conversation remained stilted and formal.

Servants noticed, of course. He caught their concerned glances, the way conversation ceased when he entered a room. Even Simmons, normally the model of discretion, had given him reproachful looks when serving breakfast.

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