My Dearest Duke by Kristin Vayden

Author:Kristin Vayden
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Sourcebooks
Published: 2022-08-30T00:00:00+00:00

Nineteen

Rowles delayed the trip to Cambridge. Running away had never solved any problems, and currently he had more than his share of them to deal with in London. First and foremost, Joan.

He’d tried.

He’d kept his distance.

He’d utterly failed.

Because the moment Joan beamed at Archby, something in his soul had snapped. Because seeing her court another was entirely different than understanding the concept of it, and all his good intentions evaporated. While she’d danced with Archby, he’d forced himself to unclench his fists.

During every dance when she swirled away with another suitor, he’d forced a calm he didn’t feel till all his patience was spent and all that was left was desperation.

So he’d asked for a waltz, praying she’d agree.

And when he’d held her, the familiar scent of rosewater clung to her skin and erased any other thoughts. Her luminous green eyes captivated him, and he’d been powerless to look away, to do anything but drown in her gaze, drink it in, pretend for a moment that it was where he belonged—while in her arms.

He’d tried to apologize, but the effort was weak even to his own ears, and the attempt had only made matters worse, which was why he followed her to the front of Almack’s. He couldn’t, wouldn’t let her leave when she was so clearly angry with him, and rightfully so.

He’d taken away any choice she’d had to choose him by taking himself from the running.

And wasn’t that exactly the sort of thing they’d talked about? Women having little say in the matter of their futures? And here, after all his spouting about the intrinsic value of a person, man or woman, he’d made such a grave error.

He’d decided to make the choice for her.

Rather than trust her judgment.

In his efforts to be self-sacrificing, he’d overstepped and sacrificed that which wasn’t his: a choice.

He’d wanted to say so much to her, but words failed him. So instead he’d acted. He had whispered her name, a prayer and litany on his lips. When she had refused to turn, he’d stepped closer, careful and cautious—making sure he wouldn’t put her in a compromising position and thus take away another choice. Carefully, and so softly it was hardly a touch at all, he’d reached out and traced a light finger up her gloved hand to her elbow, his body catching fire at the innocent touch.

She’d turned, and in a moment, he was sure she’d read his soul—only to have the carriage arrive. And if the eyes were indeed a window to the soul, he was certain hers went from affection to anger in a flash.

Affection for him.

Anger for her brother.

Because in Rowles’s unguarded moment, he’d shifted his attention to Morgan as well and nodded his understanding. Because he shouldn’t be so close, and he shouldn’t be following her; but Joan saw. And worse, Joan understood, if that fire in her eyes was an indication.

And so, reason number two for staying in London was to be around for Morgan’s sake. He’d likely gotten a tongue-lashing he’d not soon forget, and it was all Rowles’s fault.

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