Page 19 of The Duke's Jilted Bride

On Friday afternoon, Rowan returned from the village earlier than usual. Rain had cut short his inspection of the western fields, leaving him restless and irritable.

As he crossed the entrance hall, the sound of voices from the nearby gallery caught his attention.

“…and this is the third Duchess of Aldermere,” Mrs. Wilson was saying. “She introduced the Italian gardens that Your Grace admired yesterday.”

“Her taste was impeccable,” came Selina’s voice. “And this portrait?”

Rowan moved closer, peering into the long gallery where generations of Blackmores gazed from gilt frames. At the far end, Selina and Mrs. Wilson stood before the largest painting—the family portrait commissioned for his tenth birthday.

His stomach clenched. He had forgotten about that damned painting.

“That would be the late Duke, His Grace’s father,” Mrs. Wilson replied, her voice noticeably cooler. “And beside him, the young Duke at age ten, and His Grace’s mother. Unfortunately, she had passed several years before the portrait was painted, but the late Duke demanded her to be included. The artist copied her likeness from previous portraits.”

Selina stepped closer to the canvas. “The artist captured a strong resemblance between father and son.”

The housekeeper made a noncommittal noise. “If you say so, Your Grace.”

“Was the late Duke much involved in estate matters?” Selina asked. “His Grace seems very dedicated to the tenants.”

Mrs. Wilson hesitated, clearly uncomfortable. “The late Duke had many… interests that kept him away from Aldermere.”

“I see.” Selina studied the portrait again. “The Duke looks so serious for a child. Almost sad.”

“Indeed. He went—” Mrs. Wilson began, but Rowan had heard enough.

He strode into the gallery, his footsteps echoing on the marble floor.

“Mrs. Wilson,” he said sharply. “Have that portrait moved to the attic at once.”

Both women turned, startled by his sudden appearance. Mrs. Wilson curtseyed. “Yes, Your Grace. Right away.”

“Why would you put it away?” Selina asked, her brow furrowing. “It’s a family heirloom.”

“It’s an eyesore,” Rowan replied.

Mrs. Wilson, sensing conflict, quickly excused herself. “I’ll send for James and Thomas to move the portrait, Your Grace.”

When she had gone, Selina turned to Rowan, her expression troubled. “I don’t understand. Why hide away a memory of your father?”

“Not all memories deserve preservation.” Rowan moved to stand beside her, gazing up at the portrait with undisguised distaste.

“He was still your father,” Selina said. “Surely, there must be some good memories?—”

“I have no desire to discuss him, Duchess. Particularly with you,” Rowan interrupted.

Hurt flashed across her face. “With me specifically? Do you wish to attack me after merely wanting to know about you?”

“The past is the past,” Rowan said firmly. “It has no bearing on the present.”

Selina let out a disbelieving breath. “How convenient that philosophy must be for you. The past has no bearing, but you use it to claim a bride you abandoned. Yet, at the same time, you refuse to explain your disappearance. Which is it, Your Grace? Does the past matter only when it serves your purposes?”

Her words struck too close to home. Rowan’s temper flared. “Do not presume to judge me based on a single portrait and village gossip.”

“I make these judgements because you’re determined to avoid me,” Selina shot back. “You keep me at arm’s length, then bristle when I ask the simplest questions. What do you expect me to make of this?”

“That there’s nothing to know about me,” Rowan said coldly. “We married only to serve our shared interests.”

“From what I can see, Your Grace, we share nothing but mutual resentment.”

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