Not Another Duke (The Kent's Row Duchesses Book 2) by Jess Michaels

Author:Jess Michaels [Michaels, Jess]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: The Passionate Pen, LLC
Published: 2023-09-04T18:30:00+00:00

CHAPTER 12

Roarke had grown up in a fine townhouse, not unlike Flora’s, with a handful of servants and access to almost anything he might have wanted. Over the years, as his father’s fortune had slipped, the family had slumped lower into smaller homes, fewer servants, possessions and clothing that were more worn and out of fashion.

And once Roarke had mishandled what little fortune he’d inherited after his father’s death? Well, that had landed him in his current accommodations. A hovel was a kind description. It was a single tiny room above a smoky pub on a street he hadn’t even known existed as a young man. And while it was safe and nearly warm and almost always dry except when rain blew against the windows from a certain direction, it was not fine. It was not a place he would bring friends or, God forbid, a lover.

He tried to picture Flora here, her sunshine lighting all the darkest corners. But all he could see was the horror on her face if she knew where he stayed. Worse, what he was.

A liar.

He’d meant to tell her the truth yesterday. At least, he’d believed he had. But the moment she started talking about seduction and desire, the moment she’d kissed him, he’d just let all the bad things float away. He’d let himself have the tiniest taste of happiness for the first time in a very long time.

And now he hated himself even more for it.

“I will do it today,” he told the grainy reflection of himself in the cracked mirror where he was looking to get himself into acceptable condition to meet Flora for their walk. “I’ll tell her, as gently as possible.” He bent his head. God, what could he say?

“Flora,” he said to the mirror image. “I lied to you. I was sent here by your stepchildren.”

God, he could almost imagine her expression crumpling with pain and hurt and hate. The hate was what he dreaded most. He’d have earned it with his ungentlemanly behavior. No amount of practiced words would change the meaning of what he’d have to say to her.

There was a rap on the door behind him and he frowned at it. Probably his landlady. She always banged on the door like she was ready to tear it off its hinges.

“Mrs. Westin,” he said as he came to it, opening it. “My rent is not due for—” He cut himself off. It wasn’t his grizzled-faced landlady who stood there waiting for him. It was his cousin, Philip.

He looked almost enraptured as he peered past Roarke into the home. His pleasure in the face of pain was so complete it made Roarke despise his cousin even more. A pure hatred rose in him and he stepped to the side to block the view.

“What do you want?” he snapped.

Philip chuckled before he shoved past Roarke and into the room. “That’s not a very polite way to speak to the man who holds your purse strings.”

“The duke holds the purse strings, Philip,” Roarke snapped.

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