by Devon, Eva
He drove a hand through his hair, tempted to break open the brandy bottle he kept in his cupboards, but he wasn’t about to do that. He wasn’t so far gone he’d start drinking in the late morning over her.
Not yet.
“Your Grace, are you ready to send the article to print?” his assistant asked quickly from the door.
“Yes, send it,” he all but barked.
“All well?” his assistant, a fresh-faced young man who had rejected Oxford, asked. “Your Grace?”
“Fine, fine,” Rafe declared, but he knew that, really, he needed to do something about his obsession. Going down to the country to get away from her seemed the likeliest choice. Cowardly but likely.
It was really the only answer for things. If he could have, he’d have left that instant, but he couldn’t go until after Drake’s wedding.
Thank God, his fellow duke was getting married in just a few days. Then he could escape her, and with any luck, she’d find a suitable husband immediately.
He straightened as a terrible idea occurred to him.
Perhaps he could find the fellow.
Yes, that’s what he would do.
He would find someone suitable, and then she would be out of his reach forever.
Now, he wouldn’t tell her he was doing such a thing. If he did, he was fairly certain she’d have none of it.
He began to think of all the gentlemen who might be appropriate, someone with enough funds to keep her comfortable for the rest of her life.
Somebody who wasn’t going to suddenly ruin himself, as her father had done.
Someone who was intelligent.
Someone who was reasonably attractive.
Someone who wouldn’t run with a host of scandalous women.
And suddenly, as a very small list of men who might qualify for such a thing came to mind, he began to feel this strange sort of sensation in the pit of his stomach.
Rage.
Yes, that’s what it was.
He tensed with horror at how taken in he was already.
There was no denying the absolute fury he felt at the idea of some other gentleman supporting her, reading her possible and potential future essays, and praising her. The bastard would be the one to pull her up on his lap while they read the words she’d spun together. . .
No, that should be him, shouldn’t it?
He should be the one who took her in his arms and praised her for her work. He’d urge her to write more and more and to become whatever she wished to be.
He gave a sharp shake of his head, trying to eradicate the image.
No, he couldn’t.
That wasn’t who he was.
Finding her a husband was the only way.
And once she was married, perhaps then he could. . .
No, no, he wasn’t going to do that to her. He wouldn’t ruin Penelope’s life or her marriage by pursuing her after she’d wed someone who could give her a decent life.
Besides, he didn’t think Penelope was that kind of woman, a woman who could live married and have affairs. She seemed the sort to be a true heart.
So there it was.
He would send her out of his life and never have to think about her, her inspiring bright blue eyes again, or the way that she made his heart do things that it had never done.
Grabbing up the article, he strode to his office door and thrust it at his befuddled assistant. “Send it to print immediately,” he said gruffly.
He paid no heed as the young man darted out.
Rafe shut the door harder than he intended, hoping that he could put her out of his thoughts as quickly as he had just sent the article to press.
And so he put his head down and began reading the lists and lists of interviews that had taken place in the last few days, showing the further falling in the East End of people being swept up by criminal gangs. It shouldn’t have surprised him, the willingness of people to sell other’s souls, their hopes and aspirations, for a price.
It was amazing what one was willing to do when one had no hopes or dreams or aspirations of their own.
Chapter 10
Penelope’s cousin looked remarkably happy despite the fact that her marriage was not a love match.
The fact that Persephone’s face shone with pleasure filled Penelope’s heart with delight.
Despite its necessity, it was a grand match in every way.
Even if Persephone had protested for years that she would never wed, it seemed to be the best possible thing for her in this circumstance.
Aside from Persephone’s seeming happiness despite her sacrifice, Penelope felt gratitude.
She did not know what she and her father would have done if Persephone hadn’t pursued the Duke of Drake in a polite but determined manner.
Her cousin’s blunt proposal had succeeded, and they all seemed to have found a positive out of such a dire event.
Penelope’d never forget that dark day when her father had realized he was absolutely ruined.
It had been a blow for all of them, gutting the small family of three thoroughly. But then the Duke of Drake had literally come to the rescue.
Well, that wasn’t actually true.
No, it was Persephone who had come to the rescue.
Percy had taken matters in hand, and she’d known that the Duke of Drake was looking for a wife.
She’d proposed herself, and Drake, who’d liked her quite well, had accepted. Penelope now only hoped that the two would be happy together.
They certainly seemed a splendid match.
A pair in looks, in mindset, in worldview, and in turn of phrase, they made each other laugh, and they certainly seemed to be able to talk for hours on end.
There was also a certain smolder between them, which Penelope envied immensely. For the only man whom she had ever smoldered over was the Duke of Royland.
Tragically, it didn’t seem as if she was ever going to get to marry him or possibly engage in scandalous behavior.
For a rake, he was terribly principled.
Still, the wedding day had come. The vows were spoken. The only thing left was for the cake to be eaten at the morning breakfast, which was about to transpire.
But there was one thing that was absolutely clear. The Duke of Royland was determined to prove a sod.
Penelope drew in a calming breath as she stalked out of the salon. She almost couldn’t believe he’d just said such terrible things to her friend!
He’d done it again, insinuating that Persephone had only married Drake for his money!
Truthfully?
Persephone never would’ve married a bounder even if he’d been rich as Croesus. No, she’d married Drake because he was acceptable, a good sort, and really a rather admirable prospect. Persephone had done it for her family, not for anything else. Perhaps there was a measure of fortune-hunting in that, but in Penelope’s mind, all marriages were such things.
My goodness, the Duke of Royland had even suggested that he did not wish to see Persephone hurt the Duke of Drake!
What a ridiculous thing to say.
Persephone would never willingly hurt anyone.
And so, as she stormed toward the corridor, heading for the library, looking for a bit of air, she squared her shoulders, determined not to seek out Royland again.
He was an idiot, even if she did admire him on some points.
When she came into the library and tucked herself into a corner, she pulled down a book, hoping to lose herself in it for a few moments.
It did seem that she needed to recuse herself from polite society to collect her furious thoughts. She did hate how sometimes anger overcame her when she felt that injustice had been done.
Once she had opened the ivory pages and began scanning the beautiful black words, she thought of the essay she had begun composing the day before.
It was already several hundred words long, and she was quite pleasantly proud of it.
As a matter of fact, as soon as she allowed someone she trust
ed to read it, she was going to submit it to several newspapers under the name Anonymous and hope for publication.
It was a thing she had never considered. . . To write, but now it seemed that that was absolutely the best course for her. She adored it. She’d spent her entire life reading, and she’d journaled every day for as long as she could remember.
Now setting her thoughts to such purpose, well, it seemed the right thing to do. She was quite pleased by the fact that she might have some sort of potential influence on people.
Of course, they could never know she was a lady.
That simply couldn’t be done, and no gentleman would listen to her, unfortunately. Or at least, very few gentlemen would, and none of them would likely be able to further any of the causes she was passionate about if she was the one who was protesting for their improvement.
So, as she turned the page, she found herself slipping away into the book.
Several minutes later, she realized she was not alone.
A creak on the floorboard startled her.
She tensed.
She was tucked quite carefully into a beautiful, green leather chair, its height hiding her from view. But still, she sensed that there was someone there.
And she knew exactly who it was.
His unique scent wafted towards her.
It wasn’t overpowering.
It was subtle, but still, she sank down further in the chair, not wishing to speak to him right now, especially if he’d come to tell her off.
She had no desire to hear it. She would absolutely not listen to another foul word against her friend.
“I know you’re there,” he said, his voice a seductive rumble.
She tensed further.
She was going to remain silent.
Indeed, she was.
“Penelope,” he continued, his voice a soft growl. “You can’t hide from me.”
She snorted then slid further down in the chair, horrified she’d given herself away so easily.
“Ah,” he said, “there you are.”
She snapped her book closed and placed her feet on the ground. “Indeed, I am, Your Grace, but why ever have you followed me?”
“Because I’ve been an absolute bounder and must apologize to you,” he replied readily.
“Apologize to me?” she sputtered, book passing from hand to hand. “You have no need to apologize to me whatsoever. You need to apologize to my friend.”
“And I have done so, in my way. You have to understand that my friend Drake, well, he’s a very special fellow indeed, and I care greatly for his feelings. And. . . I also wished to drive you away, which has caused me to act poorly.”
She pressed her lips together. Drive her away? That was food for thought. But more importantly, his continued concern for Drake. . . She could not begrudge him that. She felt the same way about Percy.
“I understand that he is your friend, and I am glad that you care for him so deeply,” she ventured, sliding off the green leather and finding her footing. “Friends should defend each other, and so I must defend mine.”
“And I admire you for it,” Royland informed easily. “You see, I’ve known Drake for some time, and he has certain things that make it difficult for him to be happy, shall we say, and I often worry that someone might take from the little happiness that he’s found.”
She sucked in a defensive breath, ready to go to battle on behalf of her friend. But then she truly considered his words. He truly cared about the Duke of Drake. . . An admirable thing.
So, instead of launching into a defensive diatribe, she assured, “Persephone would never do such a thing.”
“So you tell me, and I do find that upon speaking with her, she is a rather impressive personage.” Rafe took a step farther into the room. “I hope that you’re correct. I hope that they shall make each other happy, and I hope that she is as lovely as you obviously believe her to be.”
She turned from the fire and faced him, book still clasped in her hands as if it were an amulet. “Why should you trust my opinion? You clearly think little of me at all.”
“Oh-ho-ho,” he chortled. “Penelope, that is the furthest thing from the truth. I admire you greatly, just as you seem to admire me.”
“Then, why can’t we be friends?” she protested suddenly, shocked at her own outburst.
“Friends?” he queried. “I suppose we could attempt to be friends.” His dark eyes deepened to the color of whisky that had been aged almost too long. “But I’ve seen the way that you look at me, and I’m fairly certain that you’ve seen the way that I look at you. Friendship is difficult when people feel such passion for each other.”
She flushed. Goodness, she loathed that his voice alone could cause her heart to beat faster. But speaking of passion, her heart all but leapt into her throat.
He was so blunt. But she couldn’t blame him. She was often equally so.
Regardless, she challenged, “Must you put it thus?”
“Should I put it another way?” he asked. “Is it not true?”
“It is true,” she agreed, though she hated to admit it so easily. No doubt, he saw her as an easy conquest, which was mortifying in the extreme. “That kiss. . .”
“That kiss was remarkable,” he continued for her, his voice rugged, as if he could barely admit it.
“Truly?” she asked, stunned by the intensity of his speech. “You’ve kissed so many people.”
He laughed, a deep, low roar of a sound. “Indeed, I have, and how bold of you to say so.”
“I think that we should not shy from the truth,” she said, squaring her shoulders.
It felt like such a bold thing before a man who had led Wellington’s armies, as she understood. But she wouldn’t give in easily to his power.
“The truth?” he repeated. “The truth, Penelope, is a very dangerous thing, indeed. It can get one into a great deal of trouble.”
“I don’t mind a little bit of trouble,” she admitted before she licked her lips. “I’ve already known some.”
“Look at what happened with your father,” he bit out. “That is what a bit of trouble can do.”
“I agree with that,” she rushed easily, because she did. And yet, she could not leave it at that. “But what is this life without a little bit of strife? One must have the sour with the sweet, or else one will know no variance.”
“Be careful what you ask for, Penelope,” he warned, his voice a gentle roughness. “One might end up with too much sour if they’re not careful.”
“I think I’m willing to chance such a thing,” she said, willing herself to be strong. “I would not like my life to be entirely too sweet, too safe.”
He stepped towards her, closing the distance until the space between them positively crackled with need. “You say that only because you do not know the dangers of having lost that safety.”
“Perhaps you’re right. I cannot know,” she said, her breath coming in rapid takes now. “But I do know that I don’t wish to regret anything.”
He searched her face. “You mean you don’t wish to regret. . .”
“I don’t wish to regret the opportunity to know something that I might never know again,” she rushed in.
“Are you referring to the kiss?” he asked, his voice rasping with hunger.
She swallowed, wishing he would fold her into his embrace. “Yes, I am,” she dared. “It is perhaps the most important moment of my life, that kiss.”
“You cannot be serious,” he countered, but even as he said it, she saw it in his eyes.
The kiss had meant something to him too, something far more profound and deep than he was likely ever willing to admit.
“It scares you,” she said, her voice a whisper in the room filled with beautiful books.
“It does,” he agreed without hesitation. “Because I find that I want you more than I’ve wanted anyone in my whole life.”
“Then, why not have me?” she challenged. She bit her lower lip then, stunned at
her own audacity.
“My God, my dear girl.” His dark eyes widened as he took her in like a bonbon that he could devour in a moment. “Can you hear yourself?”
“I can,” she dared, longing to be eaten. It mattered not if that made her a fool. She could not turn away from the passion he promised. “I’m willing to chance it if you are.”
“And if we were to be found out,” he said with frustrating calm, “you would be utterly ruined.”
“Yes,” she confirmed, not allowing foolishness to sway her answer. “I would.”
“You want that life?” he prompted, his face shadowed with doubt. “To be utterly ruined, to be destroyed in society?”
She did not miss the incredulous note to his question.
“I honestly cannot tell you what I wish and what I don’t wish,” she answered firmly, even as she felt completely out of her usual realm. “But I do know that if I stayed too safe, if I stayed too close to harbor, I will regret it for the rest of my days.”
Those perfect, ivory shoulders of hers drew back, and she met his gaze without any doubts. “I cannot live placidly, Your Grace.”
“I never took you for a fool, Penelope,” he whispered, shocked that he could barely speak before the boldness of her declaration.
Had he ever felt such passion himself? Never before she had so wildly entered his life.
“I’m not a fool,” she said fiercely, “but I cannot live my life as a prisoner or as one who tries nothing.”
Suddenly, he saw her as a bird beating its wings against the bars of a cage, and he found himself saying, “I see you have little sense and far too much sensibility.”
“Do not tease me,” she bit out. “I have read the novel.”
“So have I, obviously, and I never quite understood how Marianne could risk so much,” he said softly.
“Could you not?” she asked, amazed that he should say such a thing given his work on the news sheets.
“Of course not.” He looked above her, as if making eye contact would be too much. “Her sister is far more sensible.”
“Of course she is more sensible,” Penelope replied, slightly annoyed by his deliberate obtuseness. “But look how she almost lost him, Edward that is, just by being silent. If she’d spoken up, she could have had him, but they were both so sensible they nearly lost it. Everything that they could have had,” she declared, “was nearly gone due to their sense.”
