Eleven Scandals to Start to Win a Duke's Heart
Page 72
There was such uncertainty in him—in this man who never doubted himself. Whom no one ever doubted. She ached for him. “She will forgive you.”
“You don’t know that.”
“I do . . .” She paused. How could she not forgive him? “I know it. You came after her. After them both.”
To take care of them.
“Do not make me into a hero, Juliana. I found her . . . discovered her situation . . . she would not tell me who the father was . . . and I was furious. I left her here. I wanted nothing to do with her.”
She couldn’t believe it. Wouldn’t believe it.
“No . . .” She shook her head. “It’s not true. You are here now.”
He turned away from her and returned to the window to look out over the heath. He was quiet for a long moment. “But for how long?”
She moved toward him.
He spoke before she could. “I only came to decide what to do next. To make her tell me who the man is. To make arrangements to hide the child. To hide my sister. Do you still think me a hero?”
Her brow furrowed. “Do you still plan to do those things?”
He turned back to her. “I don’t know. Perhaps. That was certainly an option when I was on my way here . . . but now . . .”
He trailed off.
She could not remain quiet. “Now?”
“I don’t know!” The words echoed around the room, frustration and anger surprising them both. He thrust both hands through his hair. “Now, my well-laid plans seem completely unreasonable. Now, my sister won’t speak to me. Now . . . now, I’ve held the damned child.”
They were inches from each other and when he looked at her, she could see the anguish in his eyes. He reached toward her, the backs of his fingers trailing along her cheek, the movement so soft and lovely that she closed her eyes against the feeling. “You have made everything more complicated.”
Her eyes flew open at the accusation. “What does that mean?”
“Only that when you are near, I forget everything that I am meant to remember—everything I am meant to be. And all I want is this.”
He settled his lips to hers, the softness of the kiss enhancing the ache that had settled deep in her heart during their conversation. She let him guide the way, his lips moving against hers, desperate and gentle all at once. His tongue brushed against her and she opened for him, allowing him entrance, giving herself up to the slide of the caress.
This was not a kiss of celebration, but of devastation. It was a kiss that laid them both bare, and it tasted of regret as much as it did of desire. And even as she hated the emotion in it, she could not resist it.
Did not want to.
Her arms came up, fingers slid into the soft curls at the nape of his neck, and she kissed him back with everything in her, passion and emotion and longing. She met him stroke for stroke in the hopes that she could somehow convince him, with movement instead of words, that things could be different. That things could change.
And then they did.
He broke away with a curse, and she grew cold even before he stepped back from her, putting several feet between them—feet that felt like miles. They stood there for a long moment in the dimly lit space, breath coming in twin, harsh bursts.
He wiped the back of one hand across his mouth as if to erase the memory of her, and she winced at the movement. “I have to protect my family, Juliana. I have to do what I can to protect our name. To protect my sister. From them.”
“I understand.”
“No. You don’t.” His beautiful eyes betrayed his emotion. She could not look away from the emotion there, so rare, so tempting. “You can’t. This cannot happen. I am the duke. It is my duty.”
“You say it like I have asked you to deny that duty.”
He closed his eyes. Took a deep breath. “You haven’t.”
“No,” she protested. “I haven’t.”
“I know. But you make me want to deny it. You make me want to throw it all away. You make me think that it could all be different. But . . .” He trailed off.
This is how things are done.
She heard the words even though he did not speak them.
She wanted to rail at him. Wanted to scream that it could be different. That he could change the way things were done. That he was a duke, and the rest of his silly world would forgive him most anything—and who cared what the horrible lot of them thought anyway?
But she knew better. She had said as much to him before, countless times. And they meant nothing. They were mist on cold marble.
He pressed on. “I am not free to do as I please. I cannot simply turn my back on the world in which we live.”
“The world in which you live, Simon,” she corrected. “And yes, I think you are free to do as you please. You are not a god, not even a king, but just a man, just flesh and blood like the rest of us.” She knew she should stop, but she was down this road now, unable to turn back. “This isn’t about your sister, or your niece, or about what is right for them. This is about you. And your fears. You are not trapped by society. Your prison is of your own making.”
He stiffened, and the emotion was instantly gone from his eyes—the cool, aloof Duke of Leighton returned. “You do not understand that of which you speak.”
She had expected it; nonetheless, the words stung, and she moved away from him, to the cradle. She ran one finger down the soft, mottled skin of the sleeping baby’s cheek. “Some things are more powerful than scandal, Simon.”
He did not speak as she crossed the room, brushing past him to the door, where she turned back, and said, “I only hope you see that before it is too late for her.”
“You don’t know that.”
“I do . . .” She paused. How could she not forgive him? “I know it. You came after her. After them both.”
To take care of them.
“Do not make me into a hero, Juliana. I found her . . . discovered her situation . . . she would not tell me who the father was . . . and I was furious. I left her here. I wanted nothing to do with her.”
She couldn’t believe it. Wouldn’t believe it.
“No . . .” She shook her head. “It’s not true. You are here now.”
He turned away from her and returned to the window to look out over the heath. He was quiet for a long moment. “But for how long?”
She moved toward him.
He spoke before she could. “I only came to decide what to do next. To make her tell me who the man is. To make arrangements to hide the child. To hide my sister. Do you still think me a hero?”
Her brow furrowed. “Do you still plan to do those things?”
He turned back to her. “I don’t know. Perhaps. That was certainly an option when I was on my way here . . . but now . . .”
He trailed off.
She could not remain quiet. “Now?”
“I don’t know!” The words echoed around the room, frustration and anger surprising them both. He thrust both hands through his hair. “Now, my well-laid plans seem completely unreasonable. Now, my sister won’t speak to me. Now . . . now, I’ve held the damned child.”
They were inches from each other and when he looked at her, she could see the anguish in his eyes. He reached toward her, the backs of his fingers trailing along her cheek, the movement so soft and lovely that she closed her eyes against the feeling. “You have made everything more complicated.”
Her eyes flew open at the accusation. “What does that mean?”
“Only that when you are near, I forget everything that I am meant to remember—everything I am meant to be. And all I want is this.”
He settled his lips to hers, the softness of the kiss enhancing the ache that had settled deep in her heart during their conversation. She let him guide the way, his lips moving against hers, desperate and gentle all at once. His tongue brushed against her and she opened for him, allowing him entrance, giving herself up to the slide of the caress.
This was not a kiss of celebration, but of devastation. It was a kiss that laid them both bare, and it tasted of regret as much as it did of desire. And even as she hated the emotion in it, she could not resist it.
Did not want to.
Her arms came up, fingers slid into the soft curls at the nape of his neck, and she kissed him back with everything in her, passion and emotion and longing. She met him stroke for stroke in the hopes that she could somehow convince him, with movement instead of words, that things could be different. That things could change.
And then they did.
He broke away with a curse, and she grew cold even before he stepped back from her, putting several feet between them—feet that felt like miles. They stood there for a long moment in the dimly lit space, breath coming in twin, harsh bursts.
He wiped the back of one hand across his mouth as if to erase the memory of her, and she winced at the movement. “I have to protect my family, Juliana. I have to do what I can to protect our name. To protect my sister. From them.”
“I understand.”
“No. You don’t.” His beautiful eyes betrayed his emotion. She could not look away from the emotion there, so rare, so tempting. “You can’t. This cannot happen. I am the duke. It is my duty.”
“You say it like I have asked you to deny that duty.”
He closed his eyes. Took a deep breath. “You haven’t.”
“No,” she protested. “I haven’t.”
“I know. But you make me want to deny it. You make me want to throw it all away. You make me think that it could all be different. But . . .” He trailed off.
This is how things are done.
She heard the words even though he did not speak them.
She wanted to rail at him. Wanted to scream that it could be different. That he could change the way things were done. That he was a duke, and the rest of his silly world would forgive him most anything—and who cared what the horrible lot of them thought anyway?
But she knew better. She had said as much to him before, countless times. And they meant nothing. They were mist on cold marble.
He pressed on. “I am not free to do as I please. I cannot simply turn my back on the world in which we live.”
“The world in which you live, Simon,” she corrected. “And yes, I think you are free to do as you please. You are not a god, not even a king, but just a man, just flesh and blood like the rest of us.” She knew she should stop, but she was down this road now, unable to turn back. “This isn’t about your sister, or your niece, or about what is right for them. This is about you. And your fears. You are not trapped by society. Your prison is of your own making.”
He stiffened, and the emotion was instantly gone from his eyes—the cool, aloof Duke of Leighton returned. “You do not understand that of which you speak.”
She had expected it; nonetheless, the words stung, and she moved away from him, to the cradle. She ran one finger down the soft, mottled skin of the sleeping baby’s cheek. “Some things are more powerful than scandal, Simon.”
He did not speak as she crossed the room, brushing past him to the door, where she turned back, and said, “I only hope you see that before it is too late for her.”
