Page 93 of The Duke's Jilted Bride

“Some didn’t.” He told her of the men who had died in battle, of storms that swept sailors from the decks, of disease that ravaged the crew in tropical waters. “The sea teaches you the value of life. How precarious our existence truly is.”

Night had fallen by the time his words tapered off. The fire burned low in the grate. Selina had listened without interruption, her hand in his a constant anchor to the present.

“I want to see,” she said simply.

He understood what she meant with no need to ask. Rising, he unbuttoned his waistcoat, then his shirt, exposing the scars that crossed his back. They told the story of lashings, battlefield wounds, and a year spent in a kind of hell he rarely spoke about.

She drew in a sharp breath, and for a moment, he tensed. But when her fingers touched his skin, they were steady and soft. She didn’t flinch. She didn’t pity him. Her touch held something closer to reverence.

“You survived,” she said again, pressing her lips to a pale ridge that curved over his shoulder. “You came through it. You came back.”

The quiet strength in her voice, the grace in her touch, broke something open in him. He turned and pulled her into his arms, pressing his face into her hair. There were no words. None were needed.

Later, in the privacy of their bed, she traced every scar with her fingers, then her mouth, turning memories of pain into moments of tenderness. For the first time, Rowan didn’t look at his body with shame or anger. He saw it for what it was—evidence that he had endured. And in her eyes, that was something worth cherishing.

“The Countess of Mayfield looks positively green with envy,” Felix murmured, appearing at Rowan’s elbow during a lull in the music. “Your duchess has been the talk of the evening.”

Rowan’s gaze found Selina across the ballroom, resplendent in a gown of deep gold that complemented her fair coloring. She laughed at something Lady Emberford said, the sound carrying even across the crowded room.

“She outshines everyone here,” he agreed.

“Including her husband, though you clean up well enough.” Felix sipped his champagne, studying Rowan with undisguised curiosity. “You seem different. Almost… happy.”

“Is that so unlikely?”

“Considering you spent the past months obsessed with revenge, prowling around London like some vengeful specter? Yes, rather.”

Rowan couldn’t dispute the assessment. He had been consumed by his hunt for Edward Bentern, pushing away anything—anyone—that might distract him from his purpose.

“Priorities change,” he said simply.

“Clearly.” Felix nodded toward Selina. “Though I notice your newfound domestic bliss hasn’t included a trip to Plymouth.”

The reminder of George Latham, waiting to be questioned, sent a brief ripple of guilt through Rowan. “That will keep.”

“Will it?” Felix lowered his voice. “Whoever arranged your abduction is still out there, Rowan. Still potentially dangerous.”

“I know.” The thought had occurred to him in quiet moments, raising questions about whether his happiness with Selina might be putting her at risk. “But a few weeks’ delay won’t change the outcome.”

The orchestra struck up a waltz, ending their conversation as Rowan moved to claim his wife for the dance. Selina came into his arms with an easy grace, her body instinctively in sync with his after so many nights spent together.

“What were you and Felix talking about so intently?” she asked as they stepped into the rhythm of the dance.

“Old matters,” Rowan said, guiding her through a turn. “Nothing that can’t wait.”

She lifted an eyebrow, unconvinced but willing to let it go. That, too, was a kind of gift. Her quiet patience. She never pushed for answers he wasn’t ready to give, never demanded more than he could offer.

As they moved across the floor, Rowan became aware of the glances they drew. Heads turned. Conversations paused. The shift in their relationship had not gone unnoticed.

Their altered relationship hadn’t gone unnoticed by society. The Duke and Duchess of Aldermere, once the subject of speculation over their hasty marriage, were now viewed as an unexpected love match.

The irony wasn’t lost on him. They had indeed begun as a business arrangement, a marriage of convenience for mutual benefit.

When had that changed? The night of the Harrington ball? Their day at Somerset House? Or had the seeds been planted even earlier, when he had first seen her at Penderwick’s engagement party, proud and defiant despite her circumstances?

“You’re thinking too hard,” Selina chided gently. “People will wonder what troubles the duke tonight.”

“Nothing troubles me,” he assured her, pulling her fractionally closer than propriety allowed. “Not when I’m holding you.”

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