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How is this possible?

Her mind could not fathom what was right before her. If the Duke had purchased Ashbourne Hall for profit, as was her understanding, why had he kept as much of it exactly as it was?

If he had bought the property to create his own legacy, this was not the way to do it. He could have sold her family’s furniture an bought his own. He could have redecorated the house so that he could sell it to someone else. After all, he had bought it a mere fraction of its cost.

A tiny fraction.

It was why Lord Frederick thought he was a rather shrewd investor.

Yet, the supposed shrewd investor was acting like a custodian, caring for the house but keeping it the same.

The familiar sight of the Harcourt things had Rosamund running to Henry’s former room. She just had to see it. She flung the door open and was greeted with cool air smelling faintly of old paper and cedarwood.

Inside, the room barely changed. It still looked like her younger brother’s room, as if he was just strolling in the gardens and would be back soon. The same iron bedframe with the pale blue sheets and blanket were on it. Everything smelled fresh as if someone had been instructed to wash and return the covers to their proper place. Henry’s small writing desk remained on the same spot, and a dried inkwell he had used during his lifetime remained on top of it.

However, it was when Rosamund turned to see his former corner bookshelf that tears finally rolled down her cheeks. There, placed as they always were on the middle shelf, were six small, hand-carved wooden horses.

Seeing everything still there brought back so many memories.

Oh, Henry. Why did you have to leave so young?

Rosamund sank to her knees, an arm stretched so that her fingertips could touch a wooden horse. She let the sobs come, and she did not know if coming to see Ashbourne Hall was a blessing or torture. Her shoulders shook as she cried quietly.

Then, she heard it. A step crossing the doorway. She did not have to look to know that it was him. It was not only his scent, of expensive leather and forest rain, but it was just his presence.

Rosamund rose from her position and turned to see the Duke. He was watching her with a pale face. His brows were drawn together in a frown. They were, after all, in a place of grief. A place of loss. She turned to him, not bothering to wipe her tears.

“Why?” she choked out, her voice cracking.

She gestured at everything in the room. They both knew it was not only the room that was being questioned. Somehow, she knew that he understood even before she asked, “Why did you keep everything?”

Eight

“Some things do not belong to me,” the Duke said softly.

The door to Henry’s former bedroom remained ajar and felt more like a doorway to a past that could have been better. Westbourne stood there, a broad, immovable silhouette against the glaring sunlight. However strange it might be, he did not look nearly as out of place there as she expected, and not only because he legally owned the place. In spirit, it looked like Henry still governed the room.

“Stop speaking in riddles, Your Grace,” she said shakily. “I want to know what happened to this room. Look around. Of course, you know what I am talking about.”

She gestured at everything she could point at. Everything she could reach was a reminder of the past. They were her childhood treasures, and what was left of the boy who should have inherited Ashbourne Hall. It should have been his. Instead, he became the house’s own.

“If you hated my father enough to destroy him, why preserve his children’s rooms? I saw and heard you drag his name through the mud and make every possible ally shun him. How does this make sense?” Her questions rained upon him, but he remained still, as if he was made of stone. “All that we are as Harcourts remained like ghosts upon your rooms, the sheets and the wood. You did not even claim the house as your own. Is that why you are furious that people think you have made a great purchase? Are you not supposed to make a profit by selling our things?”

Through it all, Westbourne listened without flinching. He absorbed all of Rosamund’s words. The questions floated around him. Even the way she called the furniture and everything inside Ashbourne Hall as “our things” did not seem to affect him.

But something was certainly happening beneath the quiet surface.

“I brought you a hundred thousand pounds. While it does not cover the true worth of Ashbourne Hall, it was still a lot more than what you paid for it! Taking the money will show Lord Frederick and everyone else looking up to you that you know how to make a profit. To make for it a business. I am confused, Your Grace.”

Rosamund waited for anything from the Duke, anything at all, but there was no answer.

“I hate you most when you become silent,” she whispered, “because it feels like another decision you have made for me. You have taken so much from me, Your Grace, but I will not let you take my freedom.”

She turned away, feeling like she was talking to a wall the whole time. How could he be this silent? He could have made things simpler by explaining his side. As she was about to leave, she saw a faded blue wool coat.

In that moment, Rosamund could not move. It was Henry’s favorite coat. He would wear it even when there were others available. He would wear even when there was a tear by the elbow and the cloth began to fuzz. It was almost like he was not an earl’s son who could have bought him more coats.

Rosamund swayed, her knees buckling under the sheer weight o the memory. Sometimes, when she walked on her own, trying to annoy the Duke, she forgot that what she really was an orphan.