Page 92 of The Duke's Jilted Bride

When Selina finally rose to dress for the day, Rowan watched her slip through the connecting door, a quiet sense of contentment settling over him. The nightmares that had haunted him since his return had faded, replaced by deep, dreamless sleep in her arms. Even the constant edge of alertness he had carried since his time on the Intrepid had softened, leaving space for something he hadn’t felt in a long time—peace.

He dressed with care, then made his way to his study, where the evidence of his hunt for Edward Bentern lay scattered across the desk.

Receipt from Veer. Notes from Felix’s inquiries. List of possible naval connections. He stared at them, trying to summon the burning need for vengeance that had driven him since his return.

It was still there, but muted, as if viewed through clouded glass. The mystery remained unsolved, but his life had expanded beyond it, creating space for something he hadn’t thought possible—happiness.

Tucking the documents into a drawer, Rowan focused on a different purpose for his outing. Not his solicitor, as he’d told Selina, but a commission he had arranged days ago.

A gift worthy of the woman who had transformed his existence with nothing more than her presence and patience.

“Close your eyes,” Rowan instructed that evening as Selina entered the drawing room.

She raised an eyebrow but complied, her lips curving in anticipation. “Should I be concerned?”

“Not unless you fear pleasant surprises.” He guided her to a chair, positioning her carefully before retrieving a wrapped package from the sideboard. “You may look now.”

Selina opened her eyes, blinking at the silk-wrapped object in his hands. “What is this?”

“Open it and see.”

Her fingers worked carefully at the wrapping, loosening the ribbon and folding back the silk. Inside was a book bound in soft blue leather, its cover embossed with a delicate pattern of lilies.

“Oh,” she breathed, opening the volume with gentle hands. “Rowan, this is?—”

“The complete works of Keats. First edition,” he said. “You told me once he was your favorite.”

She looked up at him, eyes wide with surprise. “That was weeks ago. I can’t believe you remembered.”

The warmth in her expression stirred something in his chest. “The binding was falling apart. I had it rebound when I came across the original.”

Selina ran her fingertip along the embossed flowers. “It’s beautiful. Truly. The most thoughtful gift I’ve ever received.”

Watching her, Rowan felt something shift inside him. He was already thinking of other things she might love, other ways to bring that same look to her face. It was an unfamiliar impulse, especially for a man who had spent the last year thinking only of survival and revenge.

“Read to me?” he asked, settling beside her on the sofa.

She opened the book without hesitation and began readingBright Star, her voice soft but sure. The familiar words seemedto carry new weight, her tone turning them into something personal. Rowan closed his eyes, letting the poetry and her voice sink into him.

When she finished, they sat quietly for a moment, her head resting against his shoulder, the book open in her lap.

Selina’s hand found his, fingers intertwining. “Tell me,” she said softly. “Tell me what happened during that year you were gone.”

He was quiet, then slowly, the words began to come.

“I was press-ganged,” he said, his voice scarcely audible. “On our wedding day. Some men took me from my own garden and forced me aboard a naval vessel called the Intrepid.”

Selina’s breath caught, but she didn’t interrupt.

“I woke with a throbbing head and a new identity. They called me John Smith. The officers refused to believe I was a duke. Said I was just another drunkard trying to escape service. When I refused to answer to the name Smith, they gave me my first taste of the lash.”

His free hand unconsciously moved toward his back where the scars lay hidden.

“I used to dream of this,” he continued, his voice growing distant. “When the air stank of blood and unwashed bodies, andmen were dying all around me, I’d imagine something like this. A quiet room. Clean air. A woman reading poetry.”

“They broke me eventually,” he admitted, staring into the fire rather than meeting her eyes. “Not my spirit, but my resistance. I learned to respond to Smith, to take orders, to work until my hands bled and my muscles screamed. It was adapt or die.”

“Yet you survived,” Selina said, her voice free of judgment.

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