Page 72 of An Unfamiliar Duke

His heart swelled. Never in all his study of exponential growth would he have believed that he would experience it most fully by falling in love. But after today, he could no longer deny what he had only guessed at before. With every passing day, he loved his wife more deeply.

He carried her into the entrance hall, leaving a trail of wet footprints behind him.

“Good heavens, Your Grace!” Mrs. Frost hurried to greet them. “What can be done to help you?”

“Two hot baths as quickly as you can have them ready,” Sebastian said without pausing. “And make sure the fire in Her Grace’s bedchamber is blazing well enough to remove all chill from the room.”

“Right away, Your Grace,” Mrs. Frost said, moving toward the kitchen even as he spoke. “I shall have Polly meet you up there.”

Mrs. Frost was as good as her word. Polly must have run every step of the way up the servants’ staircase to reach Rosalind’s rooms before Sebastian got there. And she had already stoked the fire in the bedchamber. Small flames were licking the fresh logs when he finally set Rosalind on a wooden chair immediately in front of the fireplace.

Polly offered her a dry woolen blanket. “Might I put this around you until the bath arrives, Your Grace? I can get rid of the wet one.”

“Th-thank you, Polly,” Rosalind said, peeling the sodden blanket off her shoulders.

Polly stepped away with the wad of dripping fabric, and from down the hall, the clang of metal pails reached them.

Reluctantly, Sebastian stepped away. “I shall leave you in the care of your maid,” he said.

Rosalind tightened her hold on the dry blanket and nodded. “Th-thank you, Sebastian.”

“May I come and see you later?”

She nodded again, and this time, she smiled. “I should l-like that very much.”

* * *

Rosalind was warm. Blissfully warm. And so very tired. Curled up in an armchair before the fire, with a shawl over her shoulders, she eyed her bed with longing. Polly had turned down the covers when she’d left for the evening, but by the clock on the mantel, it was still too early to retire—no matter that Rosalind’s body thought otherwise.

A warm bath had done wonders to help her feel human again. And when Polly had suggested wearing a comfortable shift and dressing gown afterward, she had happily agreed. Mrs. Shoup had sent up a bowl of hot soup and a pot of tea. It had been the perfect recuperative meal, and Rosalind sincerely hoped Sebastian and Mrs. Tucker were feeling similarly restored.

She glanced at the clock again. Only two minutes had passed since the last time she had looked. If she did not find something active to do, she would fall asleep in the chair before Sebastian came.

Coming to her feet, she moved stiffly to the writing table. Her arms hurt from where the broken plank had dug into them, and the graze on her back from the rope burn stung. Mrs. Frost had applied some healing salve to both areas, and Rosalind did not anticipate that they would trouble her long, but for now, the discomfort was an acute and sobering reminder of how easily things could have gone terribly wrong today.

The wooden chair beside the desk looked particularly uninviting to her aching body, so she picked up her diary, her inkwell and quill, and carried them over to the bed. Setting the items on her bedside table, she propped the pillows up against the headboard until they formed a cozy backrest, and then she climbed in between the covers. She sat in bed, supported by pillows, and opened her diary to the back page.

Over the weeks, her list of Good Things about the Duke of Kelbrook had grown to sixteen. She pondered all that had happened today, from the arrival of their unexpected guests earlier in the day to the rescue of Mrs. Tucker this evening. It did not take long for gratitude to surface. She dipped her quill in the inkwell and began to write. 17. He entertained guests with me even though he was busy. 18. He allowed me to help save Mrs. Tucker. 19. He is strong. 20. He rescued me.

She leaned back against her pillows. The number twenty was a good stopping place. She turned her attention to the Bad Things list. It had been a long time since she’d added anything to this one, and she had already scratched off two of the five items listed. She read the remaining three again. 1. He refused me entry to his tree house. 2. I do not love him. 3. He abandoned me.

With one sure stroke, she crossed off He abandoned me. From arriving in the drawing room at the nick of time to setting himself as a buffer between her and Mr. Sellers to following her onto the broken bridge, Sebastian had repeatedly done the very opposite of abandoning her. It was his hand she longed to hold, his quiet strength that fortified her. Indeed, no matter what lay ahead, it was Sebastian she wanted at her side.

Rosalind hesitated for only a moment, then she drew an unsteady line through I do not love him and returned her quill to the inkwell. She leaned her head back against the pillows, her mind consumed with thoughts of Sebastian. Her heart fluttered, and a smile teased her lips. Her list did not lie. Despite all odds and every childhood fear she’d harbored regarding her arranged marriage, she had fallen in love with her husband.

* * *

Half an hour later, Sebastian knocked on the door to Rosalind’s chambers. He had wanted to give her time to recover before seeing her again, but since James had taken away his dinner tray some time ago and he’d heard no murmur of female voices through the wall they shared for far longer than that, he’d decided to venture forth. Now, with no response to his knock, he was beginning to wonder if he’d been mistaken.

He tried one more time, tilting his head to listen for the sound of footsteps or voices. Nothing. He frowned. Rosalind had seemed genuinely eager to have him return. Why would she not answer the door? He tried the doorknob. It turned. Pushing the door open, he stepped inside. “Rosalind?” He called her name softly and was met by silence.

The sitting room was dark, but light shone from the bedchamber beyond. He crossed the room and peered inside. The fire burned low in the fireplace. Three candles burned: one on the mantel, one on the writing table, and one on the bedside table. By their light, he spotted her. She was sitting up in bed, a colorful shawl around her shoulders and her dark hair spread across a mountain of white pillows. Her eyes were closed, her breathing deep, and in the flickering candlelight, her beauty took his breath away.

Moving forward on quiet feet, he approached the bed. He wanted to touch her, talk to her, confess how much she was coming to mean to him, but he recognized her exhaustion, and he could not bring himself to wake her.

She stirred then, muttering something under her breath before turning to face the other way. An open book slipped out from under her hand. He caught it as it slid off the bedspread, one of the pages bending against his thumb. Concerned that he had done noticeable damage, he smoothed out the crease, realizing for the first time that this was not a printed book but rather a notebook. The pages were covered in Rosalind’s handwriting and comprised a list of some sort. Knowing that it was not his place to pry, he went to close the book. And then he saw his name written across the top.

The Duke of Kelbrook