Page 39 of The Duke's Jilted Bride

Felix stared at him for a long moment. “Remember that summer at Eton? When Preston and his gang cornered me behind the stables?”

Rowan frowned at the sudden change of subject. “What does that have to do with this?”

“You didn’t hesitate then,” Felix continued. “Four of them, one of you, and you waded right in. Bloody nose, black eye, and a week of detention for your trouble.”

“We were children.”

“And you said something I never forgot.” Felix met his gaze steadily. “You said, ‘That’s what friends do. They fight for each other, even when the odds are poor.’”

The memory surfaced unexpectedly—Felix, skinny and bookish at thirteen, backed against the stable wall by older boys; the blind rage Rowan had felt seeing his friend threatened; the satisfaction of Preston’s shocked face when Rowan’s fist connected with his jaw.

“Different circumstances,” Rowan muttered.

“Same principle.” Felix refilled their glasses. “You never let me face troubles alone. Why should I do any less for you?”

Rowan had no answer for that. The silence stretched between them, not uncomfortable but weighted with shared history.

“Do you remember the hunting trip to Scotland?” Felix asked suddenly, a smile tugging at his lips. “Your father’s idea of making a man of you.”

“God, that was miserable.” Rowan almost smiled at the memory. “Three weeks in constant rain, tracking nonexistent deer.”

“While your father drank himself insensible every night in that drafty lodge,” Felix added. “And you still brought down that stag on the last day.”

“Pure luck.”

“Skill,” Felix countered. “And determination. The same qualities that kept you alive this past year.” He raised his glass. “To survival.”

Rowan hesitated, then lifted his own glass. “To survival.”

“Remember that night at Cambridge?” Felix asked, settling deeper into his chair. “When we liberated the Dean’s prized rosebushes?”

A reluctant laugh escaped Rowan. “And replanted them in the chapel courtyard.”

“The poor man never did figure out how we managed it.” Felix’s eyes twinkled with mischief. “Though I maintain it was an improvement. The chapel garden was dreadfully dull.”

“We were fortunate not to be expelled.”

“Fortunate?” Felix scoffed. “It was your silver tongue that saved us. ‘A horticultural relocation in service of aesthetic enhancement,’ I believe you called it.”

The memories flowed between them, youthful escapades, shared triumphs, occasional disasters. With each reminiscence, Rowan felt something tight within him loosen slightly.

For a brief time, he was not the haunted duke or the vengeful victim, but simply Rowan, Felix’s oldest friend.

When they finally parted, the afternoon sun was lowering toward the western rooftops. Rowan declined Felix’s offer of his carriage, preferring to walk and clear his head before returning home.

Home. The word carried new weight now. Not just a house that belonged to him, but a place where Selina waited. A woman who had become more than just a convenient solution to his need for an heir.

The memory of her face on the opera balcony haunted him—her shock at his kiss, followed by an unmistakable response. She had wanted him, at least in that moment.

And God help him, he wanted her with an intensity that frightened him.

But wanting was not enough. Not when nightmares still jerked him awake in cold sweats. Not when the sound of a slamming door could send him back to the gun deck of the Intrepid. Not when he had enemies who might use her to hurt him.

Better to keep his distance until this was finished. Until he found those responsible and ensured they could never harm him, or Selina, again.

The decision made, Rowan quickened his pace toward the townhouse, pushing thoughts of Selina’s kiss firmly from his mind. There would be time for such considerations later, once justice had been served.

If only his treacherous heart would agree.

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