Page 77 of The Duke's Jilted Bride

“I do,” Rowan said, his tone cooling a degree. “Penderwick.”

“Your Grace,” the viscount replied with a too-bright smile, shifting uncomfortably in his seat. “A pleasure.”

Selina ignored the tension. “And finally, the Earl and Countess of Bingham—David and Isabella. They recently had a baby girl, Lily.”

Rowan’s gaze shifted to the couple, pausing slightly as he took in Isabella’s studying expression. “Congratulations to you both.”

“Thank you, Your Grace.”

“They have also honored me by asking me to be Lily’s godmother,” Selina added.

Rowan glanced at her briefly, “Ah. That is indeed an honor. Thank you, both.”

“No need for gratitude. Selina was the natural choice,” Isabella offered.

Rowan’s brows furrowed for a moment, but he quickly gave Isabella a tight, polite smile. Then, he pulled out the empty chair beside Selina and sat, folding smoothly into the circle of company, his presence quiet but undeniable.

He surveyed the table with a cool, composed nod. “Forgive the interruption. I hope you’ve all found the meal to your satisfaction.”

David recovered first. “Your cook is a marvel, Your Grace. We were just lamenting the absence of your company—thoughViscount Penderwick here did his best to keep the table entertained.”

Penderwick, to his credit, gave a half-smile and raised his glass. “Hard to compete with celestial metaphors and shipping manifests, but I do try.”

A beat of silence passed. Rowan’s mouth curved faintly. Not quite a smile—but something close. “I heard mention of Miss Thornton earlier. I assume the viscount has continued his campaign of poetic confusion?”

That earned a ripple of laughter.

“I’ve, erm, been advised to abandon metaphors entirely,” Penderwick said. “The gentlemen have urged me to stick to simple truths and a straight posture.”

“A sound strategy,” Rowan murmured, lifting his glass in a faint toast. “Though I’d suggest sincerity over posture.”

Selina blinked. Not just participation—but a contribution. Thoughtful, even. Unexpected.

Georgiana leaned forward, delighted. “And what was your strategy, Your Grace? In courting Her Grace, I mean.”

Rowan’s hand paused on the stem of his glass. The room hushed almost imperceptibly. Selina went still.

He looked at her, something unreadable flickering in his gaze.

“There wasn’t much courting involved,” he said finally. “We were matched by correspondence. I assume you already knew that.”

Georgiana nodded, “Indeed, but I would like to know your experience of it.”

“It was a practical arrangement between practical people,” Rowan responded simply, and a part within Selina withered.

Georgiana arched a brow. “Still, something must have prompted you to agree.”

A long pause.

Rowan’s voice was low. “She made an impression. Even on the page, she was direct. Clear-eyed. Sharp enough to cut through the usual nonsense.”

Selina’s breath caught. It wasn’t praise exactly. But it wasn’t nothing.

“Yet you did not show up to the wedding,” Isabella said, the anger evident in her eyes.

“Isabella—” Selina began, for the dinner table wasn’t the time or the place to discuss that, but Rowan put his hand up.

“No, it’s all right,” he told Selina gently, then turned to Isabella, “What I did was terrible, yes, and I deserve to be accountable for it.”

---