A Scandal By Any Other Name-Chapter 23 - Twenty Three

Rowan sat at the head of this perfectly set table, feeling entirely out of sorts.

He was waiting.

He had always hated waiting. Waiting implied a lack of control. Waiting implied that someone else’s time was more valuable than his own.

He was a Duke; people waited for him but he never allowed that to happen.

He reached into his waistcoat pocket and withdrew his watch. The metal was cool against his thumb. He flipped the lid open with a sharp click.

The second hand ticked relentlessly.

Tick. Tick. Tick.

Ten thirty-five.

"Unbelievable," Rowan muttered to the empty room.

He snapped the watch shut and slid it back into his pocket. He picked up his fork, then put it down again. He refused to start eating without her. It wasn’t politeness; it was a strategy. If he started eating, it would look like he accepted her lateness. If he waited, staring at the cold door, it would serve as a reprimand.

The door handle turned.

Rowan straightened his spine. He composed his face into a mask of cool disapproval.

Delaney walked in.

She looked exactly as she had the day before: gray dress, severe bun, leather bag clutched in her hand. She did not look rushed. She did not look apologetic. She looked annoying calm.

She paused when she saw him sitting there. A flicker of surprise crossed her face, but she smoothed it over instantly.

"Good morning, Your Grace," she said, walking toward the table.

"You are late," Rowan said. His voice was flat. "Again."

Delaney pulled out the chair to his right. She set her bag down on the floor. "Good morning to you too."

"I am serious, Miss Kingsley," Rowan said. He pulled the watch out again, dangling it by its chain like a pendulum. "Yesterday, you were one minute late. Today, it is five minutes. Ten thirty-five, to be precise."

Delaney looked at the watch, then at him. She sat down and began arranging her notebook and quill.

"Are you always this time-obsessed, Your Grace?" she asked. She didn’t sound intimidated. She sounded curious, like she was asking if he preferred tea or coffee.

Rowan frowned. "It is not an obsession. It is a standard. Punctuality is the courtesy of kings."

"That’s a more fascinating way to describe obsession," Delaney murmured.

Rowan’s jaw tightened. "You sound like my sister, Ines. She would be the first to get ready for a ball but will still be the last to finish. She used to make me wait by the foyer and she would still come down late, blaming a feather, her gloves, her dress, or her curls."

Delaney dipped her quill into her ink pot. She looked up, a small, dry smile touching her lips.

"Well," she said, "I will take that as a compliment. Your sister sounds like a woman who enjoys the pleasures life has to offer."

"She is a woman who drives everyone mad," Rowan corrected. "But yes, she can be very free spirited sometimes."

He gestured to the footman standing by the sideboard. "Coffee. For Miss Kingsley. Perhaps the caffeine will help her walk faster tomorrow."

Delaney ignored the jab. She looked down at the table.

She blinked.

Yesterday, she had scolded him. She had told him he was sluggish. She had told him his breakfast was a "heart attack on a plate." She had ordered him to eat an apple.

Today, the platter in front of him did not hold the usual mountain of greasy sausages and fried bread.

Instead, there were two poached eggs, perfectly white and trembling slightly. There was a slice of dry toast. And in a small crystal bowl, there was a serving of fresh berries and no newspaper.

Delaney looked at the food. Then she looked at him.

Rowan was pointedly looking at the window, pretending to be fascinated by a cloud.

He actually listened, Delaney thought.

She felt a grudging ripple of respect. Most men of his station would have doubled the amount of sausage just to spite her. They would have fired the cook for daring to serve fruit. But he had actually taken the correction.

He is trainable, she noted internally. That makes my job easier.

"I see the kitchen has... adjusted the menu," Delaney said, keeping her voice neutral.

Rowan turned back to the table. He picked up his fork and poked at a poached egg suspiciously.

"The cook insisted," Rowan lied smoothly. " apparently, there is a shortage of lard in London. I am forced to endure this... rabbit food."

Delaney suppressed a smile. "A terrible tragedy, I am sure. But your tailor will thank you."

"My tailor thanks me every time I pay his exorbitant bills," Rowan grumbled. He sliced the egg. "Eat, Miss Kingsley. Unless you plan to critique the silverware next."

Delaney reached for a piece of toast. "The silverware is adequate. For now."

They began to eat.

It was quiet. The only sounds were the clinking of cutlery and the pouring of coffee.

Rowan watched her out of the corner of his eye. She ate efficiently, just as she did everything else. She didn’t fidget. She didn’t try to make small talk about the weather or the season’s fashions.

It was... peaceful.

Rowan was used to breakfasts with his aunt after Ines left, which involved a lot of rapid-fire questions, or breakfasts with his friends at the club, which involved loud retelling of last night’s gambling losses. This silence was different. It was kind of nice.

He found he didn’t mind it.

He finished his eggs. He felt lighter than usual. No heavy grease sitting in his stomach. His headache from the previous day’s drinking was gone.

The footmen cleared the plates away silently.

Delaney wiped her mouth with her napkin, folded it into a neat square, and placed it on the table. She opened her notebook.

The sound of her quill scratching the surface broke the silence.

Rowan leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms over his chest. He watched her write the date at the top of the page.

"Main Questions," Delaney announced, not looking up.

Rowan raised an eyebrow. "I thought yesterday was Lesson One? ’How to be healthy and all’?"

"Yesterday was basic observation," Delaney said. "Today, we work."

She looked up. Her hazel eyes were serious. There was no trace of the woman he had seen looking tired and defeated on the stairs yesterday evening. She was back in her armor.

"We have established the physical parameters," Delaney said, tapping her book. "We know you need a wife who is quiet in the mornings. A ’Quiet Sausage Eater,’ as we discussed. But that is hardly enough to build a marriage on."

"It is a good foundation," Rowan argued. "Silence is golden."

"Silence is boring," Delaney countered. "And boredom leads to wandering eyes. We do not want a scandal, Your Grace."

Rowan scoffed. "I do not have wandering eyes."

"Every man has wandering eyes if he is bored enough," she said matter-of-factly. "So, let us prevent that."

She leaned forward, resting her elbows on the table. It was a breach of etiquette, but she did it with such authority that it seemed correct.

"Tell me, Your Grace," she said.

Rowan braced himself. "Tell you what? My favorite color? It is blue. Next question."

"No," Delaney said. She looked right at him, stripping away the titles and the pretense. "I want to know what you are actually looking for."

She dipped her quill again, hovering over the paper.

"What attracts you to a woman?" she asked.

The question hung in the sunlit air.