He waved his free hand. “Many women marry after taking a lover. With the sum of money I leave you, you’ll be free to do whatever you choose. Perhaps your current fiancé will wish to rekindle—” He stopped, his other hand dropping to her waist. The very idea of another man touching her irritated him immensely. He gave his head a shake. Of course, he felt that way now, he’d yet to bed her. In his experience, over time, this passion coursing through him would cool. It just needed an outlet.
Her skin paled, making her hazel eyes appear even larger. “I don’t think that would be wise.” Then she carefully stepped to the side, slipping from his grasp. “I need time to consider your offer, Your Grace. Thank you for your understanding.”
He narrowed his gaze but dropped his hands to his sides. “It’s Damian.”
“Damian,” she repeated just above a whisper. “Dinner will be at seven.”
He drew in a deep breath, resisting the urge to pull her closer. “Can I expect your answer by then, Mrs. Winterset?”
She shook her head, a grimace furrowing her brow. “I don’t know.” Then she spun and fled the room.
He watched her go, dissatisfaction rumbling through his chest. He’d scared her off, God damn it. But he hadn’t been with a woman for so long and she was absolutely perfect for him. Holding himself back would be incredibly difficult now.
With a grunt of frustration, he reached down and plucked a small sandwich from the tray, then popped it into his mouth. The ham melted on his tongue like butter, the bread was soft and tasted just a touch sweet. It was delicious and he had to confess. She’d been right. He was hungry after all.
He ate another, still staring at the door. He was starving for something else far more important. Her.
Chapter Three
Cassandra retreated to the safety of her room, barring the door behind her and then pressing her back against it, her head clunking against the wood. How could she have let this situation spin ridiculously out of control?
Because she’d had such a visceral, heated response to him from the moment he’d stepped into the room. The entire interaction replayed in her mind as she continued to lean against the door. She remembered every touch, every glance, and all the words as her heart continued to hammer in her chest.
Closing her eyes, she placed a hand over the racing organ, willing it to slow its wild beat. What had come over her?
A duke. That’s what.
She gave her a head a shake, finally pushing off the wood. She needed to consider his proposal. And his enticing kiss.
Perhaps, she’d consider the kiss first. It had been…wonderful. Or perhaps even more than just fantastic. The light touch had stolen her breath and made butterflies dance in her stomach. It had stolen her reason and certainly her sense. Was that simply because he’d caught her off guard?
It was possible. Then again, the reason she’d responded so ardently to him was more likely because he was just new and different and any excitement would quickly wear off. Her fingers pressed into her cheeks. Even if she said yes to his plan, would he grow resentful of her lack of zeal too?
Then she shook her head. His reaction didn’t matter. Or she’d like to believe it didn’t. This would be an arrangement. In some ways, perhaps, far more superior than the one Raithe had been trying to make for her. She’d not have to face crushing resentment when the duke grew disappointed with her. He’d just end their relationship. Unlike a husband. With a marriage, there was no escaping when one partner was unhappy with the other.
But with the duke, there was an end…and then she’d be free. With money, and a home, she could quietly live out her life. No worries about whom she might disappoint or how she’d failed as a wife.
She nibbled her lip. What would others think of her?
He was right, of course. Widows were free to take lovers but what of Raithe? He’d been like her brother and she doubted he’d approve.
She sighed, rubbing her face. Raithe would surely understand her aversion to marriage because he seemed to share it.
Her more pressing concern was how she’d keep the duke happy long enough to collect all the benefits he offered. Because, somehow, the longer their arrangement lasted, the more likely it was she’d disappoint him.
She shook her head. That didn’t matter. This time around, she’d make a decision that benefited her, not someone else. John certainly hadn’t appreciated her sacrifices during his sickness, particularly on the days he felt the worst.
She started to undress, determined to take an afternoon repose and compose herself for dinner. She’d need her wits in order to make the proper choice for her future.
But her thoughts still swirled even as she lay in bed. Did she actually give up on the idea of getting married forever? Somehow the thought made her stomach churn despite her worries that she’d fail once again at the endeavor.
Unable to rest, she finally rose again and prepared for dinner, choosing a green gown that highlighted the color of her eyes and cinched at the natural waist to show off her curves. After her maid completed fixing her hair into an elegant coiffure that pulled back from her face in loose waves, Cassandra made her way downstairs early, wanting to compose herself before the duke’s arrival, but she found him already waiting in the sitting room when she arrived.
Her heart began to beat wildly the moment she saw him. She stopped short in the doorway, resisting the urge to turn and flee. Honestly, she just might have done it, but his eyes caught hers and he stood, never breaking contact. “Mrs. Winterset.”
“Your Grace.” She gave a stiff curtsy and then took a single step into the room. She hated the sound of her married name on his lips. It was a reminder of John, of her failures, of the situation in which she found herself.
His eyes narrowed as he moved closer, then took her elbow and led her to a high-backed chair.
The light stroke of his fingertips sent tingling sensations curling through her arm and down her body. They both stopped in front of the seat, the light pressure on her elbow increasing the slightest bit. “Have you come to any decisions?”
She gave her head a shake, frowning. What was his hurry? “Opting for a life as a mistress is difficult.”
“Why?” he asked, leaning down as though to better hear her answer.
She turned away, looking out into the darkening sky. “I suppose it changes who I am. Or at least who I thought I was.” Her hands fisted into her skirts.
He stepped away then, crossing the room and pouring not one but two glasses of wine. “How so?”
“Well.” She drew in a deep breath, slowly exhaled before speaking. “When I married my first husband I had grand illusions that—”
“Don’t tell me,” he interrupted, turning back to her with two glasses in hand. “You thought you were in love.”
“No.” She sipped her wine to stall and to gather her courage. “I thought I was a good person.”
He stopped, bringing his own glass to his lips and cocked his head to the side. Funny, when he considered things, he presented his scar rather than hiding it. “Explain.”
She shook her head. “I’ve already told you so much about myself. I know almost nothing about you.”
He leaned closer, clinking his glass against hers, before raising it in the air. “To getting to know one another better.” Then, he finally brought the glass to his own lips and took a drink.
She took another sip, too, not sure if she actually wished that or not. She tried his trick, turning her head to the side and assessing him. It actually worked. She found that he wasn’t all that scary, scar and all, but something in the way she reacted to him was frightening. The way she seemed unable to form a thought in his company. The way her pulse beat wildly and her limbs barely worked.
“What is it you wish to know? How I got the scar?” She saw him straighten, harden and she knew the question irritated him. Not that she’d asked.
“No actually, it wasn’t.” She smoothed her skirt. “But I was wondering, whenever you’r
e assessing me, you turn your head, presenting your scar. Why?”
His eyebrows shot up and a small smile played at the corners of his lips. “No one has ever thought to ask me that before.”
She took another sip of her wine. “Is that good or bad?”
“Good.” He moved closer and her eyes dropped away from his and back down to the floor. Whenever he was close, she couldn’t concentrate. “The truth is the scar disconcerts people. I get more honest answers when I present the mangled skin.”
She drew in a small breath. It was brilliant and rather intimidating. To know that his scar repulsed people and to use their revulsion as a tool to get what he wanted. It took a strong constitution to weather people’s disgust. “I’m not certain I could ever be that brave.”
He took another swallow of his wine. “It’s not bravery. It’s cunning. And I don’t give a damn what other men think of my face.”
She noted he said men. “And women? Do they find it dashing?”
She caught the flicker of a grimace before his face returned to a blank mask. “At the moment, Mrs. Winterset, I only care if you find it dashing or grotesque.”
Her insides shivered again. But she didn’t wish to think about herself or her past.
She wanted to continue to talk about him. Without thought, she lifted her hand and ran the tips of her gloved fingers across the jagged skin. “It adds to your look of danger and power. For that reason, the scar is dashing, but it also looks as though it caused you a great deal of pain.”
He covered her hand with his, pressing the palm to the cheek. “It did indeed hurt very much. But it wasn’t the damaged skin that caused the real pain.”
She gasped in a breath. What did that mean?
Why had he just shared that painful detail about his past?
Damian never shared with others the pain he’d experienced that day he’d been scarred for life or the dark ones that followed. How someone he loved could so cruelly hurt him, scar him completely, inside and out.
“What was the real pain?” Her words were so low, he might have missed them but her fingers flexed against his cheek.
He shook his head. “It doesn’t matter. What did you mean, you thought you were a good person?”
She slid her fingers down his cheek and along his jaw. “We’ve hardly talked about you at all.”
“It’s my turn to ask.”
He watched as indecision tightened her face. “To be a man’s mistress…”
He supposed he understood. But her fingers fluttered and she shifted as though the answer made her uncomfortable or she wasn’t being truthful. “A duke’s paramour holds more sway than being Mrs. Winterset.”
She took another swallow of wine and didn’t answer. But he saw it again. The way her face twinged. Did she do that every time he used her married name?
“Dinner is served,” the butler called from the door.
He held out his elbow. “You know,” he started, “if we’re going to get to know one another, we might as well be honest.” She jolted, the shudder reverberating through his coat.
They followed to the dining room, silence settling about them until they’d been seated. Her gaze had cast down at the table and he itched to lift her chin again. Instead, he cleared his throat. “The scar is from a red-hot poker. Wielded during a fight with my former fiancée.”
She gasped, one of her hands clunking against the table. “A woman did that to you?”
He quirked a brow. “Any man worth his salt is at a woman’s mercy.”
“How so?”
He waved a hand in the air. “Even with my face on fire, I’d never strike back.”
A little something in her melted. He held an air of danger but those words…they put her at ease. “So, what happened with this woman?”
A muscle in his jaw ticced. That was a story he’d not delve into. “We parted ways shortly after.” But he’d hoped he’d accomplished his mission. He’d wanted to share so that she might. He’d like to know exactly what held her back from accepting his terms. And from life in general. He knew, of course. Despite the financial freedom he offered, a woman’s very security, her identity was tied into the match she made. But, somehow, he sensed something else also held her back. “Now it’s your turn. You married to be a good person.”
The soup was served and he watched as she stared into beef broth. “My husband. He was ill when I married him. He never seemed able to breathe right. Every winter it got worse until the last…”
His brow drew together. His chest tightened both in admiration and, honestly, regret. It was a difficult choice she’d made and one that had lasting ramifications. She wanted to be a good person so she’d married a sick man. “You married him to be his nurse.”
One of her shoulders raised. “That was part of the reason, to be certain.”
He grimaced. He’d sensed that she was kind. And he had his evidence but now he wondered, would a woman who married a sick man consent to being a temporary fixture in his life? Was he a complete cad for even asking? He didn’t want to feel remorse. He’d help her. Make her life better and ultimately give her choices. With the money he’d provide, any number of men would wish to wed her. But a woman with that sort of moral compass…
His gut clenched when he thought of her refusal. He wanted her more than he’d wanted anything in quite some time.
He cocked his head. Surprisingly, she’d make a good duchess. She had a quiet calm presence about her. And she possessed an inner dignity and reserve suited to become one. Not to mention her sweet and alluring beauty.
But he’d never marry a woman to whom he was so attracted. After what had happened to him years ago, a relationship filled with this sort of passion would need an exit strategy.
She looked up at him. “You’re doing it again.”
“What?” Then he realized. He’d cocked his head again and he nearly grinned. “I was wondering what your lineage is?”
She picked up her spoon, delicately dipping the utensil into the warm liquid. “I am a vicar’s daughter. My husband was the first son of the second son of the Viscount of Cloverly.”
Intriguing. She was related to the peerage and educated enough to be suitable. Not that he was considering a proposal.
“And what is your fear? Entering into a bargain with me?”
She gave him a rueful smile. “There are too many concerns to count.”
“Try.” He leaned in, not bothering to even pretend to eat.
She took a breath. “My mother would turn over in her grave.”
“It’s a mother’s entire job to be disapproving.” He waved his hand to dismiss her comment.
She shook her head, setting the spoon down again. “I thought for a time that I was everything I was supposed to be. The good daughter doing God’s work.”
He grimaced then. She was meant to be a wife not a mistress. Even a fool could see it was true. He hated himself a little. He fisted a hand under the table. Or perhaps he hated his past that hardened him against such a woman. “And the reasons you are tempted by my offer?”
She fiddled with the corner of her napkin. Her slender fingers and tapered hands touching the napkin with a gentleness that made him imagine them dancing over the skin of his chest in just such a way. “As we’ve already discussed, financial stability.” Her hand fluttered. “A certain level of independence.”
So…there was hope. “Both true. You could choose to marry or not, socialize or not. Very few women will have as much choice as you will.”
She nodded. “That is true, I suppose. It leaves me with a great deal of options.” She reached for her spoon again. “And oddly, the safest route before me, I would guess.”
Now that was a bizarre comment to make. “Now I am not sure if I should be insulted. Very few women consider me safe.”
Chapter Four
His words were undoubtedly true. On the surface, there was little about this man that appeared safe. From his scar to his proposition to the sheer power he
possessed, right down to the intensity of his stare, he was a force to be reckoned with.
She was aware that he did not need to offer her a home and money. He need not calmly discuss the pros and cons of entering an arrangement with him. Many men in his position could just take her without asking. It was a sad fact of life. And she believed him when he’d said he’d never hurt a woman. The evidence was before her every time she looked at his ravaged face.
Which strengthened the case to accept his offer.
The staff served the next course and each began to eat the roasted duck with delicate au gratin potatoes and asparagus as silence fell between them.
She didn’t mind the quiet, in fact, it was nice. Companionable, easy. Neither word at all what she’d expected from this man who had practically stolen all the air from the room the moment he’d entered it.
He took another sip of his wine, then held up his glass. They sat across from one another, the head of the table empty. “May I offer another toast?”
She reached for her glass, eyeing him as she held the bowl between two fingers. “What are we toasting to this time?”
“The future.” He clinked his glass to hers.
She gave him a long stare before she asked, “Our future together or the one after that?”
“Well, I hope it’s together.” He winked then, but she shook her head.
“Whether I accept your proposal or not, the future is not ours. That’s the point, isn’t it?”
He set down his glass, his eyes narrowing. “Does that bother you?”
She shook her head. “No, not at all. I’d consider it one of the pros.”
He tilted his head to the side, a flicker of interest crossing his face. “Explain.”
“Again?” A small smile tugged at her lips. “Is that what being with a duke entails? A great many explanations?”
She felt the change in him. His energy went from relaxed to hungry in a moment as every line in his body tightened. “No. That isn’t what it would entail at all.”
When to Dare an Dishonorable Duke: Regency Romance (Romancing the Rake Book 7) Page 3
