Rowan led Ines up the steps and into the house. The warmth of the foyer wrapped around them. Simmons, the butler, was standing there with a silver tray, looking as pleased as his stiff face would allow.
"Welcome home, Your Grace," Simmons said.
"Thank you, Simmons," Rowan said, handing over his hat and gloves. "Tell the kitchen to prepare a feast. I want roast beef. No more pheasant. I have eaten enough birds to grow wings myself."
Simmons bowed low. "At once, sir."
Rowan turned back to Ines. He tucked her hand into the crook of his arm, and they began to walk slowly toward the drawing room. The pace was leisurely, a stark contrast to the frantic energy Ines had felt earlier.
"How is everything going?" Ines asked him, looking up at his profile. "Did you manage to survive the Elders without challenging anyone to a duel?"
