Two days later, the gravel of the Hamilton courtyard crunched under the wheels of an elegant, white carriage, crested with a coat of arms Carcel recognized far too well.
He stood by the drawing room window, a cup of coffee, untouched and cold, in his hand. He had been standing there for an hour, a silent, brooding statue, waiting. He had, with his own, cursed hand, written the letter. He had signed his name. He had, essentially, invited his own
replacement, his own rival, into this house.
The bitter, jealous, possessive taste of it had been in his mouth all morning. He watched as the footman opened the carriage door.
"It seems," he said, his voice flat, his gaze fixed on the carriage, "Amelia has arrived."
Rowan, who had been impatiently pacing the length of the room, stopped. He had been, for two days, a man possessed by a new, brilliant, and, in Carcel's opinion, stupid, plan. He was playing matchmaker. It was, Carcel thought, a deeply terrifying development.
