Page 61 of When He Was a Duke
“You should be.” He straightened, tone now cold and smooth. “The only thing that matters is power. I have it. And you, Rose, will do as you’re told. You’ll marry Baron White.”
“I won’t.”
“You will. Unless you’d prefer to be sent for an extended rest, like your mother should have been. Or perhaps a longer sleep—one that reunites you with her entirely.”
The room spun, but she forced herself to remain still.
“I’ll run,” she said. “I’ll disappear before I let you do this to me.”
“There’s nowhere you can run that I won’t find you.” He smiled, small, cruel. “The wedding will take place the day after the masquerade ball.”
The floor felt unsteady beneath her feet. She glanced down instinctively, and something caught her eye.
Just beside his polished boots, a floorboard warped slightly along the edge. Loose. Moveable. A hiding place? How had she not noticed it before? The rug was not where it usually was. Someone had moved it back a few inches. Not enough to notice.
Why? And who?
When her eyes lifted again, Wentworth was watching her. He had seen her see it.
Her heart thundered in her chest. She had to get out—before his rage boiled over. Before he did what she now believed he was capable of.
She lifted her chin. “I will not be your pawn. I’d rather die than marry him.”
“Is that right?”
“It is. So do what you must, Father. And I will do the same.”
She turned and fled. His voice followed her out, soft and venomous:
“I certainly shall, dear daughter. You can count on it.”
She ran all the way to her room, locking the door behind her withshaking hands. No footsteps followed. Only silence.
She collapsed to the floor, drawing her knees to her chest, and let the tears come.
She wept for her mother. For the life they never got to share. She wept for herself, for the part of her that had still hoped to be wrong.
But she wasn’t.
Her father was a smuggler. A liar.
And he might very well be a killer.
If she defied him, he wouldn’t hesitate to make her disappear too. But she must do it anyway.
Chapter Fifteen
Hale had askedSebastian to meet him in his private quarters to dress for the ball. Sebastian’s stomach churned as he approached the small stone cottage near the edge of the orchard. The modest dwelling sat tucked away from Wentworth Manor’s grandeur, close enough for the steward to be summoned yet hidden from prying eyes. Ivy curled up the weathered stone walls, and the thatched roof had darkened with age.
He knocked once and waited. Soon, Hale opened the door, glancing left and right before ushering him inside.
“All is well?” Hale asked, closing the door firmly behind them.
“As well as can be expected. The carriages are arriving. I should not tarry long.”
The cottage was practical and orderly, much like Hale himself. A large wooden desk dominated one wall, covered in neat stacks of ledgers and estate maps. A single bookshelf held volumes on land management alongside a few worn novels. The windows stood open, letting in the warm summer evening air.
Hale gestured toward the bed, where fine clothing lay waiting. Sebastian approached slowly, his breath catching as he touched the dark green velvet coat. The fabric was softer than anything he’d worn in years.
