Page 22 of The Duke's Jilted Bride

What had created the cold, guarded man Rowan had become?

“What are you doing?”

Selina started, nearly dropping the book. Rowan stood in the doorway, his expression thunderous.

“I was simply browsing the library,” she said, recovering her composure. “It’s quite impressive.”

Rowan entered, his movements stiff. “I need to consult some estate records. I’ll leave you to your reading.”

He moved toward the desk, pointedly not looking at her. Selina returned to the fairy tale book, flipping through more pages. Several stories contained similar loving notes from mother to son.

Rowan glanced up as he passed behind her, his gaze falling on the open book in her hands. His face paled.

“Put that away,” he commanded, his voice sharp.

Selina looked up in surprise. “I beg your pardon?”

“That book. Return it to the shelf immediately.”

She closed it slowly, studying his rigid posture and tight jawline. “I am sorry. I didn’t know the books would contain personal notes. Though, I confess they are quite lovely. Your mother clearly treasured you greatly.”

“That’s none of your concern.” Rowan’s knuckles whitened where he gripped the back of a chair. “Those books are private.”

“I meant no intrusion,” Selina said softly. “Again, I am sorry. I simply found them interesting. Your mother seems to have been a remarkable woman.” She hesitated, then opened the Byron book to the page with the inscription. “This note… your parents seem to have shared something quite special.”

Rowan’s eyes fell on the handwritten words. His face paled, jaw tightening as he read the exchange between his parents.

“I resent having to repeat myself, Duchess,” Rowan said shortly. “But as I said before, these remnants of my mother are not for casual perusal.”

Hurt bloomed in Selina’s chest at his coldness, but she forced herself to nod. “I understand. I apologize for overstepping.”

She returned the book to its place on the shelf, her movements deliberate. “There. Undisturbed once more.”

Rowan said nothing, but the tension in his shoulders eased fractionally.

“I’ll leave you to your work,” Selina said, moving toward the door.

Rowan did not reply as she left, quietly closing the door behind her.

The following morning found Selina in the morning room, writing a letter to Isabella. She had promised to correspond regularly, though she struggled to describe her new life at Aldermere.

How could she explain that her husband alternately ignored and rebuffed her?

A commotion in the entrance hall interrupted her thoughts. She set aside her pen and moved to investigate.

A middle-aged man in rough clothes stood arguing with Simmons. His weathered face was creased with worry, his cap twisted between calloused hands.

“The Duke must be informed immediately,” the man insisted. “The situation grows worse by the hour!”

“His Grace is not receiving visitors this morning,” Simmons replied firmly. “I shall pass along your concerns when he returns from his ride.”

“But the flood waters are rising! The mill dam won’t hold much longer, and half the village could be underwater by nightfall!”

Selina stepped forward. “What’s happened?”

Both men turned. The visitor bowed awkwardly. “Begging your pardon, Your Grace. I’m Thomas Johnson, the village miller. The heavy rains have swelled the river beyond bearing. Our dam is cracking, and if it breaks, the lower village will flood.”

“That sounds serious indeed,” Selina said. “Simmons, has a message been sent to His Grace?”

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