A Scandal By Any Other Name-Chapter 107 - Hundred And Seven

The morning sun did not merely rise over Hamilton House; it announced itself with a bright, cheerful arrogance. It spilled through the gaps in the heavy velvet curtains of the Blue Suite, casting warm, golden shapes across the thick carpet. Outside, the birds were chirping a lively, joyful tune in the elm trees.

Delaney woke up.

She blinked against the bright light, her mind slowly pulling itself out of the deep, dreamless sleep she had finally fallen into hours before dawn. For a brief second, she did not remember. She only felt a strange, lingering warmth in her chest.

Then, she touched her lips.

The memory hit her like a runaway carriage.

The dark study. The scattered ledgers on the floor. The terrible, crushing secret of the railway contract. And then... the kiss, the hug.

Delaney let out a soft, horrified groan. She flipped over onto her stomach and buried her face deep into her soft feather pillow.

"How could I have let my lust get the better of me?" she asked herself, her voice muffled by the linen.

She squeezed her eyes shut, but the images only grew sharper in her mind. She remembered grabbing the crisp white linen of his shirt. She remembered pulling him forward. She had initiated it. She, the sensible, invisible matchmaker, had thrown herself at the Duke of Ford.

And heaven help her, he had caught her.

She remembered his face. She remembered the way the fierce, possessive anger had completely drained out of his bright brown eyes the moment she touched his cheek. He had leaned into her palm. He had looked so incredibly submissive last night, like a man who had finally surrendered after a long, exhausting war.

He looked nothing like his normal persona. To the world, he was the Golden Duke—perfect, untouchable, and firmly in control. But in the quiet shadows of his study, with his cravat undone and his hair a wild mess, he had been just Rowan. It was as if she, a penniless woman held the real power behind closed doors. 𝒇𝙧𝙚𝓮𝔀𝓮𝒃𝙣𝓸𝒗𝒆𝒍.𝙘𝒐𝒎

She felt the blood rush hotly to her ears. Her entire face burned with a bright, fiery blush.

"How do I face him?" she whispered to the mattress.

She shook her head against the pillow, trying to physically dislodge the memory of his mouth against hers. It was impossible. She could still feel the phantom weight of his hands on her waist, and the wicked, teasing tug of his fingers on her silk belt.

Taking a deep, shaky breath, Delaney rolled over and sat up.

She looked to the side of the room.

There, sleeping peacefully on a thick woolen blanket near the cold fireplace, was Smith Jones. The actor was snoring softly, his hair rumpled, looking completely oblivious to the sheer emotional chaos tearing his temporary ’wife’ apart.

Delaney let out a long, heavy sigh.

"I have to be with this man for two more days," Delaney muttered to herself.

She dragged herself out of bed. She washed her face with cold water, hoping to erase the blush, and dressed in a very modest, high-necked dress of dark green wool. She pinned her dark hair up into a tight, secure bun. She needed armor today.

In thirty minutes, Delaney and Smith finally descended the grand staircase. When they entered the morning room for breakfast, they found the entire party already gathered.

The room smelled of freshly brewed coffee, toasted bread, and roasted sausages. Aunt Margery was feeding Fifi a piece of bacon under the table. Lady Farrington was complaining about the draft from the window. Ines was buttering a scone.

"What a blissful morning it is, is it not my love?" Smith said brightly. He offered his arm with a perfect, charming smile.

Delaney forced her lips to curve upward. "Yes it is, husband. Yes it is."

Smith led her to the table. With exaggerated, doting care, he pulled out her heavy wooden chair, waited for her to sit, and then gently pushed her in. He took the empty seat directly beside her, sitting much closer than a typical gentleman would sit.

From across the table, Ines watched them.

The Duchess of Carleton took a slow sip of her tea, her dark eyes observing everything. She immediately noticed that Miss Kingsley was in a much better state than yesterday. The gloomy, miserable gray mouse from the bowling green was gone. Today, Delaney’s cheeks were flushed with a natural, healthy pink. Her hazel eyes were bright and lively.

In fact, Delaney was currently smiling at something Lady Celine was saying across the table.

"And then the horse simply refused to move," Celine laughed, her blue eyes sparkling. "Mama was furious, but I thought it was quite clever of the beast."

Delaney laughed, a genuine, musical sound. "Horses often have more sense than their riders, Lady Celine. They know when a road is not worth traveling."

Ines smiled into her teacup. It was lovely to see the two young women getting along, bonding over their shared conversation from the garden.

Then, Ines turned her head slightly to look at the head of the table.

She turned to see her brother.

Rowan Hamilton was sitting perfectly straight in his high-backed chair. He was wearing an immaculate black morning coat, his cravat tied with crisp perfection. He looked every inch the powerful Duke.

But his eyes told a completely different story.

He was staring directly at the two women talking, but Ines knew exactly who he was looking at. His bright brown eyes never left Delaney’s face as she smiled at Celine. He looked at her mouth, watching her laugh. He looked hungry. He looked like a man who had tasted heaven and was now being forced to eat dry toast.

His facial expression changed drastically the very second Smith joined the conversation.

"My wife is excellent with horses," Smith boasted lightly, reaching over to place a warm, fresh muffin onto Delaney’s plate. He let his hand brush gently against her wrist. "She has a very gentle touch. Do you not, my dear?"

Rowan’s jaw locked. The muscle in his cheek twitched violently.

Delaney stiffened slightly at the touch, but she kept her polite smile firmly in place. "Thank you, my dear."

Throughout the entire breakfast, Delaney actively evaded the Duke’s gaze.

She could feel his eyes on her. It was a heavy, physical weight, like the heat of a fire. But she refused to look down the length of the table. She did not know how to react. If she looked at him, she knew she would blush. If she looked at him, she would remember the study, and the secret of the contract, and the terrible reality that they had no future.

So, she looked at Celine. She looked at Aunt Margery. She looked at the silver coffee pot.

And, most of all, she used the actor sitting next to her. She was silently, desperately grateful for Smith’s constant distractions. Every time Smith offered her jam, or asked her a question about her tea, it gave her a perfect excuse to turn her head away from Rowan.

But Rowan was not having it.