We stood in silence, listening to his frantic footsteps echo down the hall, followed by the heavy slam of the front door. Nathaniel looked down at me, the intimidating aura vanishing instantly, replaced by a soft, weary amusement. Buy you back? He offered to take me away from the decaying monster. I mocked lightly, leaning my weight against him.
Nathaniel's arm wrapped securely around my waist, pulling me flush against his side. He rested his chin on the top of my head. "And why didn't you go?" "You could have returned to the ballrooms of Mayfair." I reached up, tracing the rough line of his jaw, where the scar tissue met smooth skin.
"Because ballrooms are terribly boring, Nathaniel, and I have an estate to run." Summer baked the Yorkshire moors into a hard, cracked tapestry of dried heather and pale grass. Inside Harwood Hall, the relentless heat felt like a victory. The damp rot that had plagued the stones was banished. The west wing roof was fully repaired, smelling of fresh pine and tar.
We were sitting in the estate office, going over the profitable wool yields, when the sound of an unfamiliar carriage shattered the afternoon quiet. I set my pen down, pressing a hand to my swollen abdomen. At 6 months, the child was an undeniable physical fact, turning my previously brisk walk into a deliberate waddle. Nathaniel instantly stood, his chair scraping loudly against the floorboards, his gaze snapped toward the window. "Finch was not due for another month," he said, his voice tightening.
"Then it is not Finch." I pushed myself up from the desk. We walked to the grand entrance together. When Mrs. Gable opened the heavy oak doors, the blinding summer light spilled in, illuminating two men in the courtyard. One was an elderly gentleman clutching a leather satchel, clearly the solicitor, Mr. Finch.
The other was a man roughly Nathaniel's age, dressed in a sharp, ostentatious riding habit that belonged in Hyde Park, not on a working northern estate. He had Nathaniel's height, but none of his breadth. He possessed the classical unmarred aristocratic features that my husband had lost to the fire. Cousin, the man called out, stepping lightly over a muddy rut in the cobblestones. His voice dripped with an aggressive, mocking cheer.
They told me the roads were impossible. I see they merely meant unpleasant. Nathaniel went utterly still. The relaxed, confident man, who had been laughing with me over miscounted sheep not 10 minutes prior, vanished. The rotting duke slammed back into his posture.
His shoulders rounded, his chin dropped to shadow his left side, and his hands balled into massive fists at his sides. "Reginald," Nathaniel said. The name scraped out of his throat like a rusted blade. This was the heir presumptive, the man who had spent the last 5 years waiting for Nathaniel to simply die or default on the inheritance. Reginald stepped into the cool shade of the entrance hall, his eyes immediately darting around.
He was cataloging the changes, the polished floors, the fresh flowers in the vases, the lack of dust. His smile faltered for a fraction of a second before his gaze landed on me. Specifically, on my stomach, "Ah," Reginald murmured, a nasty, calculating gleam in his eye. The traded bride. Henry Pendleton was crying into his gin at White's, claiming you were locked in a dungeon.
Yet here you are looking incredibly domestic. Mr. Finch, I said, entirely ignoring Reginald. I extended my hand to the elderly solicitor. Welcome to Harwood Hall. We have tea prepared in the drawing room.