Celine was perfect.
Delaney was right. She was absolutely, undeniably perfect. She was beautiful, she was titled, she spoke French, and she was intelligent enough to discuss agricultural reform during a promenade. She was a partner who could stand beside a Duke and actually help him run his world.
This is it, Rowan thought. This is the perfect woman.
He should be ecstatic. He should be falling to his knees and thanking providence. But as they walked under the canopy of the elm trees, Rowan felt a strange disconnection. He was admiring her, yes. He respected her. But he didn't feel the pull. He didn't feel the dangerous, magnetic gravity that he felt when he was arguing with Delaney.
Celine was a calm river. Delaney was a storm.
And God help him, he missed the rain.
"Your Grace?" Celine asked, noticing his silence.
Rowan snapped back to the present. He needed to focus. He needed to secure the match.
