A Scandal By Any Other Name-Chapter 41 - Forty One

After what seemed like a lifetime, Delaney started scrambling.

She was not graceful. There was no elegance in the way she pushed herself off the Duke of Ford’s chest. Her hands, which had been gripping his lapels as if they were the only solid thing in a spinning world, now shoved against the fine wool of his coat with desperate force.

She tumbled backward, her teal silk skirts rustling aggressively, filling the small space with the sound of friction. She hit the opposite seat with a thud that jarred her spine, but she didn’t care about the pain. She only cared about the distance.

She pressed herself into the corner of the carriage, as far away from him as the wooden walls would allow. Her chest was heaving. Her breath came in short, sharp gasps that strained against the tight lacing of her corset. Her face burned with a humiliation so deep it felt like a sunburn beneath her skin.

She had fallen on him. She, the employee. She, the paid companion. She had straddled the Duke of Ford in the dark.

Rowan did not move immediately.

He remained frozen in the position she had left him. His back was pressed against the squabs of the seat. His hands, which had been holding her waist to steady her, were still raised slightly in the air, fingers curled around empty space. His lapels were crushed and wrinkled where her fists had clenched them.

For a long, terrifying moment, his mind was completely blank. The shock of the impact, the weight of her body against his, and the scent of jasmine that now clung to his clothes had short-circuited his usual composure.

Then, the reality of the situation crashed down on him.

He lowered his hands slowly. He clenched them into tight fists on his knees, hiding the slight tremor in his fingers.

Delaney stared at the floor of the carriage. She couldn’t look at him. If she looked at him, she would see the judgment. She would see the realization that she was not the professional, invisible gray mouse she claimed to be, but a chaotic, emotional woman who was losing control of the transaction.

"I..." Delaney stammered. Her voice was barely a whisper. She cleared her throat, trying to find the authoritative tone of Madame Coeur, but it was gone. "I apologize. I am so sorry, Your Grace. The carriage... it lurched. The driver must have stopped for something."

Rowan blinked. He took a deep breath, inhaling the cool night air that was leaking in through the window frame.

"It’s fine," Rowan replied.

His voice was rough. He cleared his throat and tried again, forcing the tone to be flat and dismissive.

"It is fine," he repeated. "It was an accident. The roads are unpredictable at night. Do not distress yourself over things beyond our control."

Delaney nodded quickly, too quickly. "Yes. Things beyond our control. Exactly."

She turned her head sharply toward the window, presenting her back to him. She stared out at the passing brick walls of London, though she saw nothing. Her reflection in the glass stared back at her—a woman in a teal dress who looked terrified.

The carriage began to move again. The driver snapped the reins, and the horses pulled forward.

The journey back to Hamilton House continued.

It was quiet. But it was not a peaceful quiet. It was a heavy, oppressive silence that weighed down on them like a heavy blanket.

Delaney pressed her gloved hand against the cool glass. Her mind was racing. 𝙛𝒓𝓮𝒆𝔀𝒆𝙗𝓷𝒐𝙫𝒆𝙡.𝒄𝓸𝓶

What have I done? she thought frantically. I told him I was trapped. I told him I needed the money. I exposed everything.

She had broken the cardinal rule of her profession: never let the client see the desperation. She had let him see that she wasn’t just working for a fee; she was working for her life. And then, to make matters worse, she had practically thrown herself into his arms.

She risked a glance across the carriage.

Rowan was not looking out the window. He was sitting perfectly still, staring at a point on the floor near her hem.

He looked like a man pondering a complex mathematical equation that refused to resolve. His brow was furrowed, creating a deep line between his eyes. His jaw was tight. He wasn’t relaxed. He was thinking.

He was replaying her words. Trapped. I need the money. Let me go.

Rowan felt a strange, cold knot in his stomach. He wasn’t thinking about the physical collision anymore. He was thinking about the confession.

"Trapped," he thought.

The word resonated with him in a way he didn’t like. He knew what it felt like to be trapped. He was trapped by his title. He was trapped by the expectations of society. He was trapped by the endless schedule of being a Duke.

He had assumed Delaney Kingsley was free. He had assumed she was a spinster by choice, a woman who enjoyed her independence and her sharp tongue. But tonight, she had cracked. She had shown him that she was just as bound by duty and debt as he was.

It didn’t make him feel affection. It made him feel a grim sort of solidarity. And it made him realize that they were both playing a high-stakes game where losing wasn’t an option.

The carriage began to slow down. The rhythmic clop-clop of the hooves changed tempo as they turned off the main road. The familiar crunch of gravel under the wheels announced their arrival at Hamilton House.

The carriage stopped.

Rowan moved immediately. He didn’t wait for the footman. He needed air. He needed space.

He reached out and shoved the door open. The cool night air rushed into the cabin, dispelling the stifling atmosphere of the argument.

He stepped down. His boots hit the cobblestones with a solid, authoritative thud.

He turned back. He extended his hand to help her down. It was a reflex, a deeply ingrained habit of a gentleman, but his face was stone cold.

Delaney looked at his hand. She hesitated for a fraction of a second. She didn’t want to touch him again. The memory of the contact in the carriage was too fresh. But she had no choice. She took a breath, steeled herself, and placed her gloved hand in his.

She stepped down from the carriage.

"Thank you," she murmured, pulling her hand away the instant her feet touched the ground.

She took a step back, creating a safe distance between them.

The courtyard was dark. The moon hung high overhead, casting long, sharp shadows across the stone. The groom was already leading the tired horses away toward the stables. The great house loomed above them, silent and judgmental.

Rowan didn’t move toward the front door. He stood on the gravel, adjusting his cuffs. He looked up at the moon, his expression unreadable.

Delaney shifted her weight. Her feet ached in the silk slippers. Her corset felt like iron. But mostly, she felt the crushing weight of her own unprofessionalism.

She had spoken out of turn. She had yelled at a Duke. She had called him a coward. She had jeopardized the entire contract.

She needed to salvage this. She needed to apologize properly and retreat to her room before she made it worse.

She turned to him, clutching her fan like a weapon.

"Your Grace," she began, her voice steady but low. "About my behavior in the carriage—"

"Miss Kingsley," Rowan said.

He interrupted her. He didn’t shout. He didn’t look at her. He simply spoke over her with the absolute authority of his station.

Delaney closed her mouth. She waited.

"Yes?" she asked.

Rowan slowly lowered his gaze from the moon. He turned to face her. In the dim light of the carriage lanterns, his face was hard. The "Golden Duke" charm was gone. There was no banter. There was no amusement.

"I have made a decision," Rowan said. "Regarding the morning."

Delaney held her breath. Her heart hammered against her ribs. Was he going to fire her? Was he going to tell her the deal was off? Was he going to send her back to his aunt in disgrace?

"I will call on Lady Celine tomorrow," Rowan said.