Worth of a Duke

by K. J. Jackson

  It turned Rowen savage, holding no bars against what he needed to unleash in her. How he needed to take her. Fill her. Deep and hard, again and again.

  She held fast to him, her body trembling, the throes of her orgasm jerking through her muscles. Softly screaming his name in his ear.

  It only took moments, and Rowen came, brutally, his body shuddering under her.

  Emptying into her, lost in her body, in all the woman above him was, the click of the door only partially made it into his consciousness.

  Only partially, and he did not bother to convince himself it was real.

  His imagination.

  Only his imagination.

  { Chapter 16 }

  Rowen propped his ankle onto his knee, leaning back in the leather chair. Gaze lost on the fire in the study, he took another sip of brandy.

  He had hoped the brandy would numb the urge he was having to go up to Wynne’s bedroom, to wake her up, to take her.

  No matter that it was the middle of the night. No matter that it was only a few hours since they left the painting room.

  But it was already a precarious precipice they were balancing on. He still had serious concerns about Wynne’s state of mind. About her grief. About his own state of mind. About the demons she managed to drag from the depths of his mind. About the fact that he was very quickly coming to the point where he was consumed with her.

  All he wanted to do was be with Wynne. Talk to her. Laugh with her. Take her to his bed and keep her there until the need for her was sated—sated for at least a few hours.

  He needed to get a license and find a minister, and soon. He was done sneaking around with Wynne.

  Rowen took another slow sip, still hoping it would help—but also disgusted that the brandy had done very little against easing the turmoil going on in his mind.

  “I saw you.”

  The words came into the room, harsh, accusing. And then the duchess appeared out of the darkness, stepping in front of him and blocking his line to the fire.

  Rowen’s eyes fell closed with an inhale. He could not take the duchess right now. Not tonight. Not after what he had told Wynne. Not when all he wanted to do was curl up with Wynne tight to his body.

  “Let me be more specific, L.B.” He heard the duchess’s skirts swish. “I saw you in the painting room, not but a few hours ago.”

  Shit.

  Rowen’s eyes opened slowly to the duchess, fury palpitating.

  “You have compromised her, L.B.”

  “What do you want, Duchess?”

  She took a step closer, lording over him. “I want Wynne back. You have taken her away from me, and I want her back as mine.”

  “She is not a pet, Duchess.”

  “I am aware. She was my friend, and you took her away.” Her voice turned wicked. “Just as you have always taken everything from me, L.B. But you will not have her as well.”

  “Wynne is a grown woman who can make her own decisions. And be very careful with your next words, Duchess. Do not dare to threaten her again.”

  “No. Do not worry on that, L.B. I have decided that would not be fair.” The duchess’s arms came up slowly, crossing over her ribcage. She tilted her head slightly toward him, her voice suddenly sweet honey. “You are right—Wynne should not be the one to suffer because you cannot keep your breeches buttoned.”

  Rowen’s eyes narrowed, wary. “What are you planning, Duchess?”

  “I believe it is time to share our secret, little bastard.”

  The glass shattered in his hand.

  She had not been bold enough to utter those words since he was six—not since she had conveniently replaced them with “L.B.”

  Rowen threw the shards to the floor, blood drops splattering, and jumped to his feet, stance threatening. “You would not dare.”

  “No?” She looked up at him with wicked coolness. “It will remove you from Wynne, and she would remain unharmed, her reputation intact.”

  “You talk gibberish, old woman. How would that remove me from Wynne?”

  She shook her head, pitying. “L.B., do you honestly think she wants a man who has been stripped of a dukedom? Who has nothing?” She stepped closer, her folded arms touching him as she sneered up at him. “I removed Victoria from your grasp rather easily. And I did not even need to tell her of your lineage.”

  “You? Victoria?” Rowen froze, shock vibrating through his body.

  She nodded, vicious smile on her lips.

  He blinked, shaking himself free of the blow. “Whatever you did, Dowager, it has no bearing. Wynne cannot be manipulated as easily as Victoria was.”

  “But do you want Wynne to know you are a bastard? A worthless little bastard? Who your real father is? I will do it, L.B., and I will do it with great satisfaction.”

  Rowen had to physically fight his own hands to keep them from wrapping around the duchess’s neck. He seethed down at her. “You would not dare. The line ends with me, Duchess.”

  “It ended with my son.”

  He forced a chuckle. “Yes. But do remember it is this very secret that keeps you in this place. That keeps you an army of servants. Clothes to wear. Food to eat. Your own holdings are not enough for any of that—your husband made very well sure of it.”

  “Something my son would have corrected, had he the chance to do so.”

  “But he did not get the chance, Duchess. And you enjoy your comforts too much. Your power. Power that disappears the second the duchy is dissolved.”

  She took a deep breath, a bright smile appearing on her face. “I am willing to sacrifice. If for nothing else, than to see you destroyed, once and for all. And Wynne will be at my side once again.”

  “Do not do this, Dowager.”

  The smile slipped from her face. “You go. You leave Notlund. Or I tell her the truth. She will be the first to know. The first to know you are a bastard, living a life, owning a title you do not deserve. Can you imagine how she will look at you, L.B.? The disgust on her face? For her to know you are lower than dirt? I can imagine it. I can imagine it very well.”

  Rowen glared down at her, her words filling his head, wrapping around his neck, setting free the demons from his childhood.

  Demons choking him.

  She wouldn’t. She had never even dared to suggest this move in the past. She would lose too much.

  But then Rowen saw it in her eyes. She would. She would do it just to see him suffer. Just to plunge the knife of revenge into him. The revenge she always needed.

  A lifetime of warfare against him would not be enough for her. No—she had waited, waited until this very moment. This moment when he actually had something to lose. She waited until she could make him lose the very thing that meant the most to him.

  Wynne.

  She had recognized it before he even did—how much Wynne meant to him. That Wynne was the very thing that could destroy him.

  Losing the title—he could handle that. The estate—he could care less. He had never wanted the blasted dukedom anyway.

  But Wynne knowing. Knowing he was a bastard. How she would look at him once she knew. A bastard baby. Worthless.

  He truly was worthless.

  If he was lucky, it would just be pity in Wynne’s eyes. If he was unlucky, disdain—scorn—revulsion.

  And he could not take Wynne looking at him like that. He could not.

  Rowen pushed past the duchess, storming to the door.

  “Be gone by morning, L.B.”

  ~~~

  He had asked her to trust him. Yet in all of it, he had omitted that one truth. Kept that one lie hidden from Wynne.

  Hell, his whole damn life was lie.

  Every morning. Every evening. It was the one thought that sent him to sleep. The one thought that greeted him when he woke.

  Who he really was. A bastard.

  For as far from his childhood as he had come, that one fact remained with him. He was a bastard. Born a bastard. Would always be a bastard. The one fact he could n
ot escape, could not forget.

  Rowen exhaled, his breath crystallizing in the cold morning air. Phalos had been faster along the trail than Rowen would have liked.

  He wanted to drag out his exit from Notlund. Drag out putting more distance between him and Wynne. But Phalos was feeling spry legs and happy to be tromping through the forest.

  Three hours since he had disappeared from the castle at the sun’s first rays. Three hours of torture he could only hope would ebb once he made it to London.

  But he was not about to give up on the slight sliver of hope he had left—that Wynne would choose to come after him on her own accord. Rowen had left Notlund to satisfy the duchess’s demand, but the one thing the dowager forgot was that she could not control Wynne.

  Wynne would come after him. She had to.

  He had left her the horse. The note. The money. She would come.

  And Rowen was taking the roundabout way to the main road to London—the trail Wynne knew—just in case. The same trail that had first brought Wynne to Notlund.

  A squirrel flitted down a tree and scampered across the muddy trail in front of Phalos. The image of the first time he had met Wynne flickered into Rowen’s mind. Of her gutting the squirrel. Offering the meat up to him.

  Earthy. Genuine. Trusting.

  It was who she was. All of those things, to her core.

  It hit him.

  She wouldn’t care. She wouldn’t care who his father was. How he was born. If he had a title or not. If he had money.

  It was him—without the title, without money, without land—him that she had first smiled at. First offered half a squirrel to. She didn’t know who he was then, she just knew she liked him. Knew he had helped her, and wanted to repay him.

  She was living in a damn forest—and more than content to do so. And he was worried about how she would react to his lineage? That she would leave him—deny him if she knew the truth?

  He had asked Wynne to trust him, yet he had not given her the very same.

  Pure stupidity.

  Rowen yanked up on the reins, stopping Phalos.

  Wynne was the exact opposite of everyone he had ever known. The trappings of wealth and a title were nowhere near important to her.

  Take away her painting, she would care.

  Not enough food to eat, she would care.

  Beyond those two things, she was happy.

  Just happy to be in his life.

  Rowen curled over, head bowed. Physically disgusted at his own stupidity. Disgusted that he had let the duchess into his head. Disgusted that he had doubted himself—doubted Wynne.

  He had just made the decision for her—decided how she would react to his lineage.

  Except he was wrong, and he knew it. Completely and utterly wrong.

  And he had left her with a note.

  Bloody hell.

  He spun Phalos, heels digging in. He needed to get back.

  Back to Wynne before she found his note.

  { Chapter 17 }

  The feel of Rowen’s lips, his body encasing her, ebbed away as lucidity pulled Wynne away from the darkness of dream and into the morning. Too exhausted by Rowen the previous night, she hadn’t bothered to pull the heavy drapes against the window, and sunlight streamed in, calling her to the day.

  She rolled to her side, eyes closed and lips still pulsating. She needed to fall back asleep. Fall back into the deliciousness of her memories—of Rowen.

  Her eyes flew open. Even better than the memory of Rowen would be finding him and tagging along with him down to the stables. She could get him to take Phalos out so she could study the muscle tone of the horse. Plus—she smirked to herself—then she could study the muscle lines of Rowen as well.

  The sun would be warming the air, and if she was fast, she might catch Rowen before he headed out of the castle for the day.

  She was dressed, sitting on the side of the bed and tying up her tall boots when she noticed a cream envelope with her name scrawled across it on the table next to the bed.

  Had that been there last night and she missed it?

  Boots tied, she stood, picking up the envelope and opening it.

  A small notecard inside, it had just a few words on it.

  Wynne—

  Please visit stall 39 in the stables.

  —Rowe

  A smile spread wide across her face. Rowen had a surprise waiting for her. She sprang over to the bureau and pulled out a dark wool cloak, wrapping it around her as she went out the door.

  Braiding her hair along the way, fifteen minutes later, Wynne had greeted several of the stable hands on the way into the center stable, and was watching the brass numbers on each stall tick upward as she made it deep into the structure…34…35…36…37…38…39.

  She stopped, seeing immediately a gleaming new side saddle, a motif of ivy etched into the deep brown leather, draped over the short wall at the front of the stall. The horse she had ridden to Tanloon, the beautiful honey-colored mare with a creamy white nose, stepped forward at noticing her, sniffing at the saddle and watching Wynne with interest.

  She glanced into the stall and then looked around. No one was nearby. And Rowen was nowhere to be seen.

  Opening the gate of the stall, Wynne moved in and stroked the bridge of the horse’s nose. “Here I am, sweetheart. Stall 39. Do you know why I am here, girl?”

  The horse whinnied, shaking her mane, then nudged Wynne’s still outstretched hand for another stroke. The smell of fresh hay wafted up and Wynne had to hold her nose against a sneeze. Mindlessly, Wynne rubbed the horse’s nose, looking around.

  It was then that she saw the corner of a cream envelope sticking out of the leather pouch on the sidesaddle. The same cream envelope as in her room.

  She looked about once more. Still no one around.

  Lifting the flap on the pouch, she pulled the envelope free. It, too, had her name across the front of it. This envelope was sealed with a splotch of thick red wax. She hadn’t thought of Rowen as the romantic-surprise sort, but the mystery of this was fun, she had to admit.

  Smile playing on her lips, she cracked through the wax and pulled out a lighter, folded sheet of vellum.

  Wynne—

  This horse. You know her, and she is now yours. Her name is Sandy. She comes from a fine line of horses—direct from the Godolphin Arabian. She will take you wherever you decide to go. She is honorable and smart. She likes you, and I pray she will be as loyal a friend to you as Phalos has been to me.

  The sidesaddle has a special satchel attached to it that will hold your brushes, and has a few containers for paints that should hold steady enough not to break.

  I have had to leave Notlund, Wynne, and will not be back.

  The horse, the side saddle, and the money you will find in the bottom of this satchel should be able to take you wherever you would like to go, give you the opportunity to do whatever you wish. It should give you freedom to live your life how you most desire.

  I wish you nothing but happiness, Wynne. You are a remarkable soul, and I am a better man for knowing you.

  Thank you for coming into my life.

  Please know that I will be in London, should you ever need assistance. For anything.

  You are never alone, Wynne. Never.

  Love,

  Rowen

  Her eyes narrowed in on the words at the bottom of the letter.

  Love.

  Love, Rowen.

  Love.

  Her eyes went over the last two words again and again.

  Rowen was telling her he had left—never to return—then wrote “Love”?

  What type of vicious cruelty was that?

  Her mind could not immediately comprehend the note. He had left, but he loved her? Gone, but it was nice to know her?

  Without thinking, her left hand dove into the satchel, reaching to the bottom. A leather bag. She picked it up, heavy in her hands, and could hear the coins clinking within.

  She dropped it, fire in her
hand.

  He had just paid her.

  Paid her like a whore. Money, a horse.

  A whore.

  She was a whore.

  A whore like her mother.

  The paper fell from her hand as her legs crumpled beneath her, dropping her into a scattering of hay.

  A whore.

  Just a damn whore.

  ~~~

  Six hours into the woods, and Wynne knew she should think about trapping a squirrel or a rabbit, but the anger in her belly had not eased in the slightest, and she knew she wouldn’t be able to eat anything anyway.

  Not that she could even see straight enough to trap anything right now. The whole of her leaving Notlund—of grabbing her brushes and her grandfather’s knife—had been done in a blinding haze.

  She had kept the clothes she had on. They were from the duchess, so she gave herself margin in taking them—but beyond that, she walked out of the stone keep with exactly what she had walked in with.

  Less, as she already realized how very much of her soul would forever be lost to that place.

  She had started off in the only direction she knew—the way she and Rowen had first walked into the estate. But as soon as she had seen a trail veering, she took it, and within a few hours, she came upon the stream she remembered and she turned south.

  Wynne didn’t know how she was going to manage it, but she was going to get to the coast. Get to the seaport at Liverpool where she and her mother had landed in this blasted country. And then she was going to figure out a way to get on a ship back to America.

  Back to the only place she knew was a home. The only place she could trust as a home.

  It didn’t matter what she had felt at Notlund—how very much that had started to feel like a real home. It didn’t matter because all of that had been a lie.