Rosamund went perfectly still. Standing before her was the Duke of Somerset. Her breath caught, her heart hammering a frantic rhythm against her ribs. Her gaze, unbidden, flickered from the sober intensity of his hazel eyes to the firm line of his lips. A flush of shame and awareness burned through her. She took a small, unsteady step back, her hands trembling as she tried to gather the torn edges of her composure.
A brutal, wet laugh erupted from William on the ground.
"No one will have her now but me," William spat, blood trickling between his fingers. "She's ruined her own name. Spoiled goods."
"I will."
The words were quiet, yet they seemed to silence the very night. Rosamund turned her head slowly, disbelieving, to face him. His gaze was unwavering, cold and clear as a winter stream, and it held hers without flinching.
"She is precisely the kind of woman I would want," the Duke continued, his voice devoid of warmth but full of a stark, undeniable conviction. "A woman of spirit. A woman of defiance."
He then turned his attention fully to William, who still crouched on the gravel. The shift in his posture was subtle but absolute, the protective stance beside Rosamund transforming into one of judicial authority.
"I will make my proposals to her father," the Duke stated, each word a decree. "And then we will do what is necessary."
The statement hung in the air, not a promise of romance, but a declaration of intent—cold, formidable, and irrevocable.
Harold walked a few paces ahead and bent to retrieve a fallen lace from the gravel. He straightened, the delicate fabric stark against his palm.
"Turn around," he said, his voice low but leaving no room for refusal.
"I—" Her eyes widened in confusion, a protest forming on her lips.
"I said, turn around."
She obeyed, turning her back to him. She felt the warmth of his hand settle between her shoulder blades—not a caress, but a grounding pressure. In that simple touch, she felt truly seen for the first time, not as a prize or a problem, but in her raw, undeniable weakness.
Then his hand found hers, his grip firm and protective. He did not look at her, but forward, as he led her back toward the distant lights and music of the estate, leaving William cursing softly on the ground.
***
She paused at the edge of the terrace doors, pressed her palms flat against the cold stone, and breathed. When she stepped inside, her face was marble.
She walked slowly.
"You… you shouldn't have hit him," Rosamund's voice was quiet, hesitant. She kept her eyes forward as they walked. "It will only fuel more gossip."
His steps halted. She had no choice but to stop beside him.
"Gossip?" he asked, the single word cold and flat.
She was silent for a moment, then turned to look directly into his eyes, a flicker of her old defiance returning. "Thank you," she said, her gaze unwavering.
"He was just so close to—" she began, then faltered, the words too vulgar, too real.
"To inserting and thrusting his penis into your untouched vagina," he stated, his tone clinical, devoid of either lechery or shame. "Over and over again."
She flinched, the crude reality of it hitting her like a physical blow. She cleared her throat, a fragile sound in the quiet night.
"Did you mean what you said earlier?" she asked, her voice steadier now.
"Which part? The marriage proposal?....Of course. But you should understand something." He met her gaze squarely. "I am not capable of loving a woman. I require an heir. That is the function of this arrangement."
The word heir landed with a particular weight, echoing the one failure that had defined her own mother's life. Was he mocking her household's inadequacy?
"I am not capable of loving a man too" she replied, her tone mirroring his detached practicality. "So it seems we will make a good match. Don't you think?"
"Of course," he said, and a faint, almost imperceptible smile touched his lips. It wasn't warm. It was a smile of recognition.
"We have a great deal in common."
***
The music faltered before stopping completely as Harold's voice cut through the hum of the ballroom.
"I intend to marry your daughter."
The declaration landed like a stone in still water, rippling through the assembled guests. Rosamund stood beside him, her posture rigid, her hands clasped tightly before her. Her gaze remained fixed straight ahead, though her shoulders betrayed a slight tremor. The candlelight flickered across her face, catching the faint shimmer of tears she refused to let fall.
Her father, the Earl of Warwick, stood nearby, his cheeks flushed from wine and indignation. He froze mid-sentence, his glass hovering in the air as if he'd forgotten it was there. "She is already promised," he snapped, his voice sharp but wavering. "To Sir William!"
Harold's laugh was low and humorless. "William?" He stepped forward, his movements deliberate, and the crowd instinctively parted to give him space. "The man who had your daughter pinned against the terrace wall moments ago? Who was seconds away from violating her before I intervened?"
A murmur of shock rippled through the room. Harold turned slightly, gently guiding Rosamund's chin upward with a gloved hand. The candlelight illuminated the dark bruises circling her throat, unmistakable proof of violence. A collective gasp followed, and a few guests exchanged horrified glances.
The Earl paled visibly, his mouth opening and closing as if unsure how to respond.
Harold closed the distance between them with measured steps, his voice dropping to a tone only the Earl could hear. "This is your chance," he said coldly. "William's family will pay dearly to keep this quiet. Or you can let it become the scandal that ruins your household's reputation. The choice is yours."
The unspoken threat hung in the air, heavy and inescapable. The Earl stared at Harold, then at Rosamund, his expression a mix of anger, calculation, and something that might have been guilt. He seemed to shrink slightly under the weight of the moment, his bluster fading into silence.
Around them, the ballrooms buzz resumed—whispers and murmurs, speculation and gossip weaving through the room like threads. Harold stood tall, his gaze unwavering, waiting for the Earl's response. The tension was palpable, the air thick enough to choke on. Rosamund remained motionless, her eyes lowered, her silence deafening.
The Earl's voice, when it finally came, was quiet but cutting. "We shall discuss this further in private."
"Agreed." Harold dipped his chin once, and the faint, diplomatic smile that had touched his mouth vanished, leaving only the man who had laid down an unassailable fact. His eyes lingered on her face for a moment longer than was proper before he turned on his heel and walked away.
The gap he left was instantly filled with her mother's presence, sharp with anxiety masked as perfume. A gloved hand seized her arm.
"What happened?" The Countess's question was an insistent whisper.
"Nothing." Rosamund's own whisper was a reflex, the first line of defence she'd been taught as a girl.
Her mother's gaze swept over her with an efficiency that was almost clinical, missing nothing—the way her shoulders were braced, the unnatural stillness. "You will tell me everything in the carriage. For now, you are tired. We are leaving."
The Countess lifted her chin, and Edith was there, a cloak held ready. Rosamund let herself be steered away, feeling the eyes on her like cold fingers on her neck.
***
The morning light was relentless. Rosamund had rolled away from it, pressing her face into the pillow's softness. It was no use; the sun had declared the night over. She opened her eyes and stared at the canopy's embroidered underside.
She sat up, the movement slow and heavy, and pushed back the covers. As her feet touched the rug, she stopped.
No one had come. The door remained closed. It was a small, profound thing.
She went to the balcony doors and pushed them open. The air outside was cool and smelled of rain and damp earth. She leaned on the iron rail, the metal cold through her nightgown's thin sleeves.
The tight knot of fear and shame that had sat in her stomach all night had loosened.
Her mind went back to the garden, not to the crushing panic, but to the moment after. The absolute authority in his voice—Turn around—that had cut through her terror. He hadn't rescued a damsel; he'd solved a tactical problem, and in doing so, he'd broken the lock on a cage she hadn't even fully known she was in.
She thought of William. The feeling that had come over her on the terrace was not just fear, but a deep, weary recognition. She had known what he was. And now, he was gone forever. It didn't feel like a victory; it felt like waking up from a long, bad dream.
----------------------------
To be continued...