When Seducing A Duke (8 page)

“Thank you.” She cleared her throat. “Well, enjoy the rest of your evening, Lady Rose. I’m sure we will meet again over the course of the Season.”

Rose forced a smile. “No doubt. Good evening, Lady Devane.”

When she exited the room, Rose went in search of champagne and Kellan and his request for another dance. She desperately needed something to take her mind off that awful conversation with Grey’s former lover, and not just because Lady Devane might be responsible for the attack that could have killed him.

But because the entire encounter was another painful reminder of everything that stood between Rose and Grey ever having a future.

When Camilla and Rose returned home that evening, Grey took one look at Rose and wondered how much she’d had to drink, and why her mother seemed oblivious to the fact that her daughter was half pickled.

Oh, she didn’t act drunk, but he could tell she was. She was far too relaxed and happy in his presence. Not to mention that she was smiling this silly little smile that made her absolutely adorable.

Add that adorableness to her already stunning appearance and was it any wonder his heart kicked up a fuss at the sight of her? The dark blue silk gown she wore was embroidered with even darker flowers that seemed to shimmer in the light. The wide neckline left her neck and shoulders bare, giving him a delicious amount of pale flesh to admire.

She was beautiful. There was just no getting around it.

“Did you have a good time, Rose?” he asked, needlessly.

“Oh, yes!” She grinned happily at him. “It was lovely.”

Odd, he almost wished he’d been there to experience it himself based on that simple testimonial. How long had it been since he’d missed the stuffy confines of a ball, the poor food of a midnight supper?

Never. The ball wasn’t what he’d missed that evening.

“I’m off to bed,” Camilla announced with a smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes. “I’m not used to city hours yet.”

“Good night, Mama,” Rose said and hugged her mother. Grey bade her good night as well, and once she had disappeared up the stairs, Rose turned to him, much of her high spirits having seemed to disappear.

“She’s missing Papa,” she explained quietly, weaving just a little. “She didn’t say anything, but I can tell.”

Grey couldn’t imagine ever loving someone enough to marry them, let alone how it would feel to lose them. It had to be awful. “You must miss him as well.”

“I do.” Her gaze was still fastened on the staircase. “But not like she does. He was her life.”

“And the two of you were his.” That much he could tell her truthfully. No one who knew him would ever argue what Charles Danvers felt for his wife and daughter.

“Yes,” Rose replied not without some harshness as she finally turned her gaze to his. “It was his desire to please us, to give us everything we wanted that led to his losing everything. There are times, Grey, when I wish he had loved us a little less.”

There was nothing he could say in response that could make that any easier, so he remained silent.

And then she said the damnedest thing. Standing there, in the middle of his foyer at half past three in the morning, with all the servants gone to bed except for the poor maid who would have to remove the evening’s finery and tuck her mistresses into bed, Rose looked at him with a gaze that was unnerving despite its slightly unfocused glaze.

“Do you love me, Grey?” she asked softly.

His heart slammed so hard against his ribs he thought something might be broken. He couldn’t draw breath.

“Of course,” he replied lightly, though it felt as though he was being strangled. “You and your mother mean more to me than you know.”

“No,” she insisted hotly, a wavering finger in his face. “It’s you who do not know. How can you not know?”

He frowned at her. This situation was about to spiral into something better left avoided if he didn’t figure out how to diffuse it. “You’re right,” he said, taking her by the elbow and steering her toward the stairs. “I don’t know. Why don’t you explain it to me over breakfast, when you’re sober.” Of course, there was little chance she’d remember to do just that.

She turned on him so quickly he hadn’t time to react. Before he knew what she was about, Rose was pressed against him, her arms tight around his neck.

Dear God, he had fantasized so many times about having her touch him like this. And now, all he could think of was getting her safely to bed before she made a commotion and someone saw.

“Rose,” he said softly. “Rosie. Let go.”

She shook her head. Her eyes were just wet enough that his resolve melted under the sight of them. What he would give so that Rose never cried except for tears of joy.

“I wish I could let go,” she told him, speech slightly slurred.

And then she kissed him. And oh, dear God, it was sweet and terrible and everything that could bring a grown man to his knees. And when she pulled away—he hadn’t even the presence of mind to push her—her breath coming just as rapidly as his own.

“Do you know me now, Grey?” she asked softly. “Or do I need to wear a mask and pretend to be someone else while you pretend I’m me?”

Grey froze, a chill hand wrapped sharp fingers around his heart. “There will be no more pretending, Rose,” he informed her with more vitriol than he knew he had in him, especially where she was concerned.

“No more pretending,” he repeated as he pried her arms from around his neck and pushed her away. “It’s over, though scum that I am, I had hoped it might last a little longer. I suppose I should thank you for ruining the charade.”

Chapter 7

R
ose stared at Grey, the harsh lines of his face, the faint sneer around his mouth. She expected that he might be angry to learn her identity, but not like this. He didn’t seem so much angry at what she had done, but rather that she had confessed to it.

“Which charade exactly have I ruined?” she demanded, suddenly very sober. “The one where you set out to sleep with another woman and pretend that she is me? Or the one where I pretend you might actually give a damn.” She didn’t normally use such language—it was unbecoming—but the situation seemed to call for it.

He cast a quick glance up the stairs. “Lower your voice, for Christ’s sake.” Then, he seized her by the elbow and pulled her roughly toward the first open door—the rose parlor. How appropriate that he choose the room with her name in which to put an end to all of their deceit.

Grey practically tossed her into the room before stepping over the threshold himself and shutting the door behind him. With four walls so close around them, his anger suddenly seemed a tangible thing, and if Rose were honest with herself, she was a little frightened of it.

His eyes glittered like pale, hard stones. “How could you do this?”

There was no point in pretending ignorance. “I had a suspicion that you might have feelings for me. I knew you often went to Saint’s Row, so I aspired to be there on the same night.” It felt good to confide. And, yes, her tone was more boastful than it should be, but she had been very clever and was proud of that fact. The only time she hadn’t been clever was this evening. But then she hadn’t been trying to impress him, she’d hope he’d sweep her up into his arms, carry her to his bed, and make love to
her
—not someone he pretended to be her.

“I have no interest in knowing how you came up with the plan, or how you managed to put it into motion. What I want to know is why you chose now to reveal yourself?”

That’s what he was angry about? Not that she had tricked him, but that she had chose to reveal it?

“Because,” she replied stubbornly, moving around the oak and cream brocade sofa. The more space between them the better. Space—and resentment—would keep her from sobbing. “I couldn’t lie to you any longer.”

A bitter smile twisted his lips, tugged the scarred flesh of his left cheek. “That is such a fucking lie in itself.”

Her eyes widened. She’d never heard him use such language before. It was almost as fearsome as it was erotic. “It’s not a lie! I could no longer continue with the foolish farce. It was an imprudent idea to begin with.”

“I shan’t argue with you on that point.”

Rose scoffed at him. “You don’t get to play morally superior with me, Grey. I may have been stupid enough to conspire against you, but you didn’t even recognize someone you’ve known for years! If one of us must be the bigger idiot, I think it must be you!” Oh dear God. She covered her mouth with her hand. What had she just said?

Dark arched brows pulled together tightly over stormy blue eyes. “You’re right,” he agreed. “I am an idiot, but only because I allowed this ridiculous ruse past the point when I realized your identity.”

Rose froze—like a damp leaf on an icy pond. “You knew?” And yet he continued to pretend…oh, he was worse than she by far.

“Of course I knew.” He glowered at her. “Blindfold me and I would know the scent of your skin, the exact color and texture of your skin. Do you not realize that I know the color of your eyes right down to the flecks of gold that light their depths?”

Heart pounding, stomach churning in shock, Rose could only stare at him. How could he say such things to her and sound so disgusted? “When?” Her voice was a ragged whisper. “When did you know?”

“I suspected before but tried to deny it. The morning after we last met I took one look at your sweet mouth and knew there couldn’t be two women in the world, let alone London with the same delectable bottom lip.”

It hurt. Oh, she hadn’t thought hearing him say such wonderful things could hurt so much! She pressed a hand to her chest. “You suspected and yet you made love to me any way.”

“Made love?” He snorted. “That’s a girl’s term, Rose. What you and I did…it was something far worse than making trite love.”

Worse? How could he malign what had transpired between them. “So you regret it, despite your own choice to continue with the charade.”

“What I
regret,”
he growled, suddenly moving toward her, “is your sudden attack of conscience.”

He was mad. She took a step back. “I don’t understand you.”

“If only you had managed to keep your guilt where it belonged.” A ravaged smile curved his lips as he shook his head. “We might have continued on, with neither being the wiser, but now we must endure the rest of the Season together, knowing what we can no longer have.”

“Then you admit you have feelings for me.”

He laughed hollowly. “So many I can scarce discern them all.”

It was a hollow victory at best. “If you care for me and I for you, then why can we not reveal our feelings? You have but to ask and I’m yours.” Even though it meant breaking her promise to her father.

This time Grey’s smile wasn’t bitter, it was sad. “Even if it means never attending another ball? At least not with your husband? Even if it means having people whisper behind your back, pitying you for being married to ‘Ruined Ryeton’?”

Rose opened her mouth, but nothing came out.

He saw her hesitation and grabbed it, but not before she saw the flicker of hurt in his eyes. “Being with me means more than being a recluse, Rose. You and your mother have already been touched by the scandal that surrounds me. I won’t have people speculate that I will drive you insane like I did the lover who had me attacked—although the main suspect seems in possession of her faculties.”

“I don’t care about that,” she insisted. But she did, a little. She couldn’t help it. It was easy to say the words, but could she honestly survive that kind of scrutiny and cruelty when Grey wouldn’t be there by her side through it? Could she go to balls and parties by herself and bear the malicious glances, or worse the pitying ones?

“You should. Your father did.”

This was a night for revelations indeed. “What do you mean?”

Grey ran a hand through the thick waves of his hair. The rich fabric of his dressing gown parted to reveal a snowy white shirt open at the throat. She remembered how he tasted there, so warm and salty. When his gaze locked with hers, Rose was certain he could read her mind. She was also just as certain that he recalled the taste of her flesh as well.

“Before his death your father begged a promise from me. He made me swear that I would look after you and your mother.”

“And you have,” she insisted.

He held up his hand to prevent her from saying more. “And made me give my word that I would never touch you in any manner other than brotherly.” Another rueful smile. “So you see, I preferred being able to pretend that I had kept my promise rather than face the truth of breaking my word.”

He broke her heart, damn him. “He made me promise not to become attached to you,” she confided, continuing with the evening’s truthful trend. “It seems Papa saw something that neither one of us did.”

“Oh, I saw it. I’ve seen it since you were eighteen years old and we danced together at some insipid ball. I don’t remember where it was, or the day of the week, but I remember that you wore a pale tea-colored gown with Belgian lace, and that you had pearls in your hair.”

She couldn’t breathe. The tilt of his lips, the bleakness of his gaze, it was all too horrible. “And you wore a red cravat,” she whispered. “I thought you looked so rakish in it.”

“I was rakish,” he admitted. “Your father knew that.”

“You’re not like that anymore.”

The pity in his expression was almost too much to bear. “Only because I hurt a woman so badly that she wanted to see me dead.”

“But—”

He closed the distance between them and cupped her bare shoulders in his warm hands. “She could be a friend of yours, Rose. Someone you’ve met and liked. Do you want to look at every woman over the age of five and twenty and wonder if she was the one who had my face sliced open? Because I won’t lie to you. Despite the prevalent conjecture that Lady Devane must be the guilty party, there are easily twenty women who could have orchestrated the attack. And those are only the ones who made their hatred known.”

Her stomach rolled. “I don’t believe you.”

This time his smile was kind. “My darling Rose. I was the worst sort of man, and in some ways I still am. The society you so dearly love made me into someone I don’t care to remember, someone I would never want you to know. And I fear you would come to know him. The gossips wouldn’t be able to help themselves.”

“So you’d deny your feelings for me because you’re afraid what society might say?” Her temper flared. “I never thought you for a coward, Grey.”

He pulled her tight against him, so that she could feel his breath against her temple. Such torture to be held in his arms and not be able to kiss him, or touch him as she wanted. Even more terrible, was the inescapable feeling that this would be the last time he held her thus.

“I hate society. Society reviles me.” He ran a hand down her back. “I’ve seen the look on your face before you run off to a ball or a tea. You love being around people. You thrive on it. I don’t want to ask you to give that up. I
won’t
ask you to give that up.”

There it was, the final thrust of the knife. He wanted her. He cared about her, but neither went deep enough that he was willing to compromise for her as she believed she was willing to do for him.

And the salt in the wound was that part of her that agreed with him. “Thank you,” she murmured, trying and failing to push her way out of his embrace. “Now I know where I stand.”

One strong hand came up to cup her cheek, forcing her to look at him even though she’d rather eat glass. “You must have known this would happen, Rose. Otherwise, you wouldn’t have gone to such extremes in the first place. Tell me, what did you honestly hope to achieve with tonight’s revelation?”

Yes, what had she hoped for? “I do not know. Perhaps a balm for my guilty conscience. Or perhaps I’d hoped that you would beg my forgiveness for not recognizing me.” This time she managed to free herself from his embrace. “Or maybe I hoped that my virginity and my heart might actually mean something to you.”

She moved to walk away before hot tears could spill over her cheeks. She didn’t mean to sound so foolish. She had engineered this situation herself, and had no one but herself to blame for its outcome. At least she should be adult enough to accept that.

Grey caught her arm as she tried to move past him. “Both are gifts I will treasure forever, you can be certain of that. No one has ever bestowed anything more precious upon me in the entirety of my life.”

Damn him. The tears she tried so hard to stall slipped helplessly down her cheeks, scalding her flesh like hot, briny acid. She looked at him regardless, let him see the anguish on her face. “Obviously you have little regard for such gifts, sir, if you are willing to discount them so completely.”

He flinched, but it was a meaningless victory. “We all, in the course of our lives, are given gifts we know we cannot accept, Rose. You are that to me.”

Such beautiful and hurtful words she’d never heard before, and hoped to never hear again. She lifted her chin and blinked most of the tears away. “Thank you, Grey. That makes me feel so much better.”

He didn’t try to stop her this time as she brushed past him, but he obviously wasn’t done with her, for he stopped her as she reached the door. “Rose.”

She didn’t turn, but straightened her shoulders. “Yes?”

“Go out and enjoy all the Season has to offer, and find yourself a man who will realize he is the luckiest man alive to have won you.”

Hardening her expression, she cast one final glance at him over her shoulder. “Thank you, Your Grace. I believe I will do just that. Lord knows I won’t find him here.”