A Scandal By Any Other Name-Chapter 103 - Hundred And Three

As Rowan’s mouth moved against hers, the world outside the heavy oak doors of the study completely vanished. There was only the heat of Rowan’s hands gripping her waist, pulling her flush against his hard chest, and the intoxicating, dizzying taste of him.

Delaney’s fingers tangled in the blonde, messy hair at the nape of his neck. She pulled him closer, her breath catching in her throat as the kiss deepened. He tasted of rich wine and unspoken promises. Every logical thought in her mind melted away, replaced by a wild, pulsing need. Rowan groaned softly, a low, rumbling sound that vibrated against her lips, and moved one hand up to cup the back of her head, anchoring her to him.

Knock. Knock. Knock.

The sound was sharp, loud, and entirely unforgiving.

It struck the heavy wooden door of the study like a physical blow. The noise echoed in the quiet room, shattering the perfect, heated bubble they had just created.

Delaney froze. Her eyes flew open, wide with sheer, unadulterated panic.

Rowan stopped. He pulled his head back, his chest heaving as he fought to draw air into his lungs. His brown eyes were dark, slightly glazed with desire, but the reality of the knock was quickly bringing him back to earth.

"Your Grace?" a voice called from the hallway.

It was Mr. Simmons.

Delaney’s heart stopped beating. If the butler walked in right now, if he saw the matchmaker standing in the Duke’s private study, in the middle of the night, wearing nothing but a thin nightgown and a loose silk robe... she would be utterly ruined. The scandal would destroy her, and it would destroy the fragile lie they had built for the Farringtons.

Rowan realized the danger in the exact same second.

He let go of her waist. He pointed a long finger toward the large, floor-to-ceiling windows at the far end of the study.

"Hide," Rowan mouthed silently.

Delaney did not need to be told twice. She grabbed the edges of her open silk robe, pulling them tightly across her chest, and darted across the room. Her bare feet made no sound on the thick Persian rug. She slipped behind the heavy, dark velvet curtains that framed the window, pressing her back flat against the cold glass. She held her breath, making herself as small and invisible as humanly possible.

Rowan took a deep, shaky breath. He ran his hands quickly through his hair, trying to smooth the wild mess Delaney’s fingers had made. He quickly adjusted the collar of his open shirt, though he had no time to button his waistcoat.

He cleared his throat. It sounded a bit rough. He cleared it again, forcing his voice to find its usual, commanding depth.

"Come in," Rowan called out.

The brass door handle turned slowly. Mr. Simmons stepped into the room. The elderly butler looked as perfectly put-together at midnight as he did at noon. He held a small silver tray in his white-gloved hands. Resting on the tray was a single, sealed letter.

"Your Grace," Simmons said, bowing his head respectfully. "This came in for you just now. By a late rider from the village."

Rowan stood behind his desk. He leaned heavily against the edge of the wood, trying to look casual. His heart was still hammering a frantic rhythm against his ribs.

"Could it not wait till tomorrow?" Rowan replied, his tone clipped with poorly hidden annoyance. He wiped a bead of sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand.

Simmons looked completely unbothered by the Duke’s irritation. He stepped further into the room, holding the tray out.

"You told me when the letter arrives I should bring it immediately, Your Grace," Simmons replied calmly. "You gave specific instructions this morning regarding any mail from the tenants."

Rowan blinked. He had completely forgotten. He had indeed asked for immediate updates regarding some tenant disputes. It felt like a lifetime ago.

Rowan let out a long, weary sigh. The annoyance faded, leaving only exhaustion. "Very well then. Thank you, Simmons. Put it on the desk."

Simmons stepped forward and placed the letter gently onto the messy pile of ledgers on the desk. As he did, he paused.

The butler possessed incredibly sharp eyes. He noticed that the Duke was breathing rather heavily. He noticed the bright, unnatural flush staining Rowan’s cheeks and neck. He noticed the fine sheen of sweat glistening on Rowan’s brow.

"Your Grace, are you quite well?" Simmons asked, genuine concern entering his voice. "You appear to be sweating."

Rowan stiffened. "I am perfectly well, Simmons. I have simply been working hard. The numbers are... frustrating."

Simmons looked around the room. The fire in the grate had burned down to glowing red embers, but the room was indeed a bit stuffy.

"Should I open the curtain for you?" Simmons asked helpfully. "To let in a bit of the cool night air?"

Before Rowan could answer, Simmons turned on his heel. He began to walk directly toward the large window at the back of the study. He walked straight toward the heavy velvet curtain where Delaney was hiding.

Behind the fabric, Delaney squeezed her eyes shut. She bit down hard on her lower lip to keep from making a sound. Her hands were shaking violently. If Simmons pulled that fabric back, it would all be over.

Rowan watched the butler take one step, then two. Pure, blind panic seized the Duke.

"No!" Rowan shouted.

The word exploded out of his mouth. It was incredibly loud, sharp, and totally lacking his usual aristocratic control.

Simmons stopped dead in his tracks. He jumped slightly, startled by the sheer volume of his employer’s voice. He slowly turned around, a look of profound confusion written all over his wrinkled face. He looked at the curtain, then back at the Duke.

Rowan swallowed hard. He realized he had overreacted terribly. He quickly cleared his throat, forcing his shoulders to drop and his face to relax into a mask of mild indifference.

"I mean," Rowan said, his voice lowering to a much calmer, steady tone. "It’s fine, Simmons. The night air is damp, and I feel a slight chill coming on. I would prefer the room to remain warm."

Simmons stared at him for a long moment. He was a smart man. He knew when a Duke was lying. But he was also a perfect servant, and a perfect servant knew when to mind his own business.

"As you wish, Your Grace," Simmons said smoothly. He bowed deeply.

"You may go," Rowan added quickly, waving a dismissive hand. "Goodnight, Simmons."

"Goodnight, Your Grace."

Simmons turned, walked back to the heavy oak doors, and exited the room. The latch clicked shut securely behind him.

Rowan stood frozen for a full ten seconds, just listening to the sound of the butler’s footsteps fading away down the hallway. Only when the house was completely silent did he let out a massive, shaky breath.

He reached out and picked up the letter Simmons had delivered. He broke the wax seal and unfolded the paper.

He read the neat handwriting. He let out a dry, humorless chuckle.

It was a request from a tenant, Mr. Higgins, complaining that the roof of his barn was leaking and asking for the estate carpenter to repair it before the next rain. Rowan had almost suffered a heart attack over a leaky roof.