Page 65 of The Duke's Jilted Bride

They spent the next half hour coaching Matthew on various scenarios, from proper compliments to graceful exits if conversation lagged. Selina found herself enjoying the role of advisor, even as she couldn’t help but compare this sweet, earnest courtship planning to her own sterile arrangement with Rowan.

“I should return before Mother sends a search party,” Matthew finally said, checking his pocket watch. “This has been… invaluable. Truly.”

“Remember,” Georgiana said as they prepared to leave, “confidence is your greatest asset. Believe in your own worth.”

“And perhaps,” Selina added gently, “consider telling your mother you’ll be taking morning rides alone. For the exercise.”

Matthew’s eyes lit with understanding. “For the exercise. Of course.”

As they parted ways outside the tea shop, Matthew clasping both ladies’ hands with genuine gratitude, Selina caught Georgiana watching her with concern.

“You grew rather quiet during tea,” her friend observed once Matthew had gone.

“Did I?” Selina attempted lightness. “I suppose I was focused on poor Matthew’s situation.”

“Hmm.” Georgiana’s expression suggested she wasn’t fooled. “It must be difficult, advising on courtship when your own began so unconventionally.”

Selina’s laugh held little humor. “Began and ended, it seems. We’ve moved directly to cold politeness without any of the pleasant middle ground.”

“Perhaps that will change,” Georgiana said softly. “Sometimes love grows in unexpected ways.”

CHAPTER 22

“My back will never forgive you for making me sleep in that wretched cottage,” Felix complained, shifting uncomfortably against the carriage seat. “What was that mattress stuffed with? Rocks and spite?”

“It was the closest lodging available,” Rowan replied, watching the countryside roll past. “Stop being dramatic.”

“Three days of travel, Rowan. Three days of your brooding silence and inferior accommodations.” Felix stretched, wincing. “That cottage barely qualified as fit for human habitation.”

“My father found it adequate for his purposes.”

Felix made a disgusted sound in his throat. “Yes, I’m certain the old duke and his mistress were terribly concerned with the quality of the furnishings during their romantic interludes.”

Rowan’s jaw tightened. The cottage had indeed been his father’s private retreat, a place for assignations away from London’s watchful eyes. That it was now their temporary base for hunting Captain Veer felt like another of fate’s bitter jokes.

“We need to stop at the next inn,” Felix announced. “I require a proper meal and a bed that won’t cripple me.”

“We’re only two hours from Veer’s property. We should press on.”

“Two hours might as well be two days if my spine snaps from this torture.” Felix peered out the window. “Look, there’s an inn just ahead. The Silver Crown. It looks perfectly respectable.”

“We don’t have time?—”

“We have nothing but time, since you insist on this methodical approach rather than simply confronting the man.” Felix’s voice took on a wheedling tone. “Come now, even you must be tired of travel rations and that cottage’s dubious hospitality.”

Rowan considered. They had been traveling hard for three days, and the horses could use proper rest. His own back protested the constant jostling, though he’d never admit it to Felix.

“Besides,” Felix continued, “arriving at Veer’s doorstep travel-worn and irritable hardly projects the image of ducal authority you’re aiming for.”

The man had a point, though Rowan was loath to admit it. “Fine.” He rapped on the carriage roof. “Driver, stop at the Silver Crown.”

The inn was modest but clean, its timber frame weathered by time yet clearly cared for. A painted sign showing a tarnished crown creaked as it swung in the evening breeze. Through the mullioned windows, the common room glowed with the warm light of oil lamps.

“Thank God,” Felix muttered as the carriage rolled to a stop. “For a moment there, I thought you’d fully turn into a Gothic villain, traveling only by night and sleeping in crypts.”

Rowan ignored him and stepped down with as much dignity as the cramped journey would allow. His muscles protested after hours in the carriage.

Peters, their driver, climbed down from his seat with a grimace and a soft grunt.

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