Page 45 of The Duke's Jilted Bride

Felix grinned. “A promenade through Hyde Park, of course. It’s four o’clock, the fashionable hour. Everyone who matters will be there.”

“Absolutely not,” Rowan said without looking up.

“Come now, what could be more innocent than a husband and wife taking the air with a friend?” Felix rose, plucking Rowan’s book from his hands. “Fresh air, sunshine, strategic public appearances. All vitally important.”

“Felix,” Rowan growled, “return my book.”

“After our walk.” Felix turned to Selina. “Your Grace, perhaps you could fetch your bonnet?”

Selina hesitated, torn between amusement at Felix’s audacity and understanding of Rowan’s reluctance. The idea of another public performance held little appeal after the strain of the Marlows’ garden party.

Yet the gossip column bothered her more than she cared to admit. Not for her own sake—she had weathered social disdain before—but for the implication that she had somehow trapped Rowan into marriage. As if she had wanted this arrangement.

“I think Lord Halston is right,” she said finally. “A casual appearance might help quiet the rumors.”

Rowan’s eyes met hers, surprise clear in their gray depths. After a moment, he sighed in resignation.

“Very well. But you’ll pay for this, Felix.”

“Threats, threats.” Felix waved a dismissive hand. “Hurry along, both of you. The fashionable hour waits for no man, not even a duke.”

Twenty minutes later, their carriage rolled toward Hyde Park. Selina sat beside Rowan, acutely aware of the scant inches separating them. Felix sat opposite, chattering about the latest on-dits with cheerful disregard for Rowan’s thunderous expression.

“Did I ever tell you about Rowan’s first hunting expedition?” Felix asked Selina, his eyes twinkling. “He was twelve, determined to prove himself a man. Insisted on riding the most spirited mount in the stables.”

“Felix,” Rowan warned.

“The horse took one look at a pheasant, reared, and deposited our future duke directly into a mud puddle,” Felix continued, undeterred. “But that wasn’t the best part. When he crawled out, covered head to toe in muck, he discovered he’d landed in a patch of nettles.”

Despite herself, Selina laughed at the image of a young, dignified Rowan flailing in mud and nettles.

“He couldn’t sit comfortably for a week,” Felix finished with relish. “Ate his meals standing up.”

“I was eleven, not twelve,” Rowan corrected, but Selina noticed the corner of his mouth twitching upward.

“The precise age hardly matters,” Felix replied. “The point is the future Duke of Aldermere, pride of Cambridge, terror of the fencing school, once danced around the stables like a demented marionette, trying to remove nettles from places nettles should never be.”

Selina’s laughter bubbled over. She pressed her gloved fingers to her lips, trying to contain it.

Rowan glanced at her, and something in his expression softened. “If we’re sharing embarrassing stories, perhaps I should tell Her Grace about your debut at Almack’s.”

“You wouldn’t dare,” Felix gasped in mock horror.

Their banter continued until the carriage reached Hyde Park. As they stepped down, Felix nudged Rowan meaningfully.

“Must I tell you every time?” he said under his breath, motioning at Rowan’s arm.

Rowan extended his arm without comment. Selina placed her hand upon it, feeling the solid strength beneath his coat sleeve.

The park bustled with fashionable Londoners taking their afternoon exercise. Open carriages paraded along Rotten Row while pedestrians strolled the graveled paths. Everywhere, heads turned as they passed, whispers following in their wake.

“Smile,” Felix murmured. “You look like you’re marching to execution.”

Selina adjusted her expression, though the scrutiny made her skin prickle. Beside her, Rowan remained rigid, acknowledging greetings with curt nods.

“Tell Her Grace about your shipping ventures,” Felix prompted when the silence stretched uncomfortably.

“I doubt the Duchess has any interest in cargo manifests,” Rowan replied.

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