Page 88 of The Duke's Jilted Bride

“They’re servants. Discretion is their profession.” Rowan lifted the tray’s cover, revealing an array of dishes far more elaborate than their usual breakfast fare. “Mrs. Wilson seems to approve, judging by this feast.”

Selina sat up, keeping the sheet modestly tucked around her. “I’ve never taken breakfast in bed before.”

“Never?” Rowan positioned the tray between them, pouring tea into delicate cups. “Not even during illness?”

“My first husband considered it slovenly.” She accepted the cup he offered. “And my father believed comfort bred weakness of character.”

Rowan’s expression darkened. “Your father sounds delightful.”

“He was… difficult.” Selina selected a slice of toast, and spread it with preserves. “But that’s a conversation for another time. What shall we do today?”

He studied her face, noting how quickly she had redirected from the mention of her father. There was a story there, one he intended to learn. But she was right—there would be time for such conversations later.

“I thought we might visit the Somerset House art gallery,” he said instead. “You mentioned wanting to see it in your letters.”

Surprise flickered across her features. “You remembered that?”

“I remember everything you wrote. Everything you say,” Rowan said before he could stop himself. “Even if I haven’t always shown it.”

Her smile lit up her entire face. “Then I’d like that very much.”

They lingered over breakfast, speaking more easily than ever before. Bits of themselves surfaced through the conversation.

A shared love of Byron’s poetry. A mutual dislike of oysters. Childhood dreams of running off on grand adventures, far from society’s expectations.

When the last cup was empty, Selina stood, clearly reluctant. “I should go. Agnes will have imagined all sorts of disasters.”

“Let her,” Rowan said, watching as she gathered her things. “The exhibition will still be there if we show up at noon instead of eleven.”

At the doorway to her room, she paused and glanced over her shoulder, mischief dancing in her eyes. “If you keep looking at me like that, we may not arrive at all.”

The door closed behind her, leaving behind only the soft scent of lavender and a quiet that felt less like emptiness and more like wonder. For the first time in months, Rowan wasn’t thinking about Edward Bentern. He wasn’t thinking about the investigation or what waited for him beyond this house.

He was thinking abouther.

Somerset House teemed with fashionable Londoners, all gathered to view the Royal Academy’s summer exhibition.

Selina walked beside Rowan, her hand tucked in the crook of his arm, acutely aware of the curious glances that followed them. Their marriage had been the subject of whispered speculation since his return. Now, the ease between them would only add fuel to the gossip.

“Lady Pearsall has expanded her collection,” she said as they paused in front of a sweeping landscape. “Three new Turners since last season.”

“You have a discerning eye,” Rowan said, his hand gently covering hers where it rested on his sleeve. “Do you paint?”

“Badly,” Selina admitted with a soft laugh. “My art master gave up after three months. But I’ve always loved to look, even if I can’t create.”

“I would disagree.” His voice dropped to a near whisper. “You created something quite beautiful last night.”

Color warmed her cheeks. She glanced around, but the nearby patrons were too absorbed in their own conversations to notice.

“You’re scandalous,” she murmured, smiling despite herself.

“Only with you.” The warmth in his gaze made her chest flutter.

This was a side of Rowan she had only glimpsed before. The attentive escort. The teasing husband. A man capable of tenderness rather than guarded detachment. What had once been a formal politeness between them had transformed into something genuine.

As they wandered through the galleries, Selina found herself drawn to him. Her hand remained on his arm. Their shoulders brushed as they examined paintings. Their fingers met briefly when he passed her the exhibition catalog. Every touch sent a small thrill through her, a quiet reminder of the intimacy they had shared.

“Would you like some refreshment?” Rowan asked as they reached the end of the main gallery. “There’s a tearoom downstairs.”

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