Page 25 of The Duke's Jilted Bride

The Duke raised an eyebrow but said nothing. The villagers nodded in approval, and the old man pronounced the name an excellent choice.

“Now, Your Graces must stay for the feast,” he insisted. “Poor fortune to name a foal and not break bread with its people.”

The Duke opened his mouth, likely to refuse, but the old man continued.

“The late Duke never attended our celebrations, more’s the pity. Always too busy with London affairs.”

The Duke’s expression darkened momentarily. Then, to Selina’s surprise, he inclined his head.

“It would be our honor to celebrate with you,” he said formally.

As twilight deepened, lanterns were lit around the barn, casting a golden glow over the gathering. The fiddler struck up a livelier tune, and several couples danced in the cleared space at the center of the barn.

Selina watched them with a smile, tapping her foot to the cheerful melody.

The day had been unexpected in every way—from the crisis at the dam to this simple celebration.

Most surprising of all had been glimpsing another side of her husband, one that commanded respect—not through title, but through action.

CHAPTER 9

“Why Boudica?” Rowan asked, breaking the comfortable silence that had settled between them in the carriage.

Selina turned from the window, her profile illuminated by the passing moonlight. “Boudica fought for what was hers. She stood strong. I think it’s fitting.”

Rowan nodded, studying her with interest.

The day had revealed unexpected depths in his wife: her willingness to work alongside the villagers, her practical suggestions that had saved the dam, and her easy manner with people from all walks of life.

Evidently, the name his wife had suggested did not suit the horse only.

“A good choice,” he said finally.

Selina smiled faintly before returning her gaze to the window. The carriage continued its journey through the darkened countryside, and Rowan watched her more than the passing landscape. For the first time since their hasty marriage, he wondered if perhaps he had underestimated the woman who now shared his name.

The revelation was disquieting. It would be easier to maintain his distance if she remained the cold, practical arrangement he had intended. But his Duchess was proving to be far more complex than he had anticipated.

One week later, Rowan sat in the London office of Mr. Notley, his family’s solicitor. The small room was cluttered with leather-bound ledgers and stacks of papers, the air heavy with the scent of dust and ink.

“I need all information regarding my father’s debts,” Rowan said, removing his gloves. “Particularly any that might have gone unsettled after his death.”

Notley, a thin man with spectacles perched on his nose, frowned. “I thought we had resolved those matters, Your Grace. The estate was nearly ruined, but you managed to restore its finances admirably these past three years.”

“I am not concerned with the legitimate debts,” Rowan clarified. “I want to know about the others—the gambling debts, the private loans, anything that might have made him enemies.”

The solicitor’s expression grew wary. “May I ask why Your Grace is inquiring after such unpleasantness? The late Duke’s affairs were… complicated.”

“I am not here to debate this matter, Mr. Notley. Now, let’s get on with it.”

Notley hesitated, then reached for a small key hanging from his watch chain. He unlocked a drawer in his desk and withdrew a slim leather folio.

“These are the records I kept separate from the official estate documents,” he said, his voice lowered though they were alone. “Your father insisted on this discretion.”

Rowan opened the folio, scanning the contents. Pages of figures, names, dates. It was a hidden ledger of his father’s secret financial life. Far worse than he had expected.

“This is extensive,” he murmured, turning a page. “Gaming halls, moneylenders, private individuals…”

“Indeed.” Notley removed his spectacles, polishing them with a handkerchief. “But there is more to the story than mere gambling debts.”

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