No Duke Will Do - Eva Devon Page 0,19
was certain.
He was the key to her liberation. . . And he knew it too, but something was holding him back.
And for the first time, she wondered if it was possible that Richard Heath could be afraid of her.
Chapter 8
As a child who’d known nothing but the filthy, infested warrens of the East End, Richard loved the country.
As soon as he’d had enough money, he’d bought himself a retreat outside the city.
It was within a few hours’ drive of his club, and it was perfect. Whenever he could, he came away from the din and the dirt and the filth of London Town to drink in the pure air and bathe under the shade of ancient trees.
Though the grit of the city was in his veins, he enjoyed the solitude and the peace the country gave him. The sound of birds, the wind through the trees, the flowers, the scent of earth, they were all magnificent things.
He found that if he could immerse himself in it, he could find peace. A temporary respite from nightly terrors.
He hoped Mary would find it, too.
As the coach rolled up to the cottage he had bought, not an estate—he didn’t need an estate—but a beautiful cottage of beautiful yellow stone in a small copse of trees near a stream, he studied her face.
She looked out the window, peering at it. “This is yours?” she queried.
“Indeed, it is,” he said, trying to seem disinterested in her opinion. “What do you think?”
“It is nothing like your club,” she mused, almost leaning out the open coach window.
“No,” he laughed. “It is nothing like my club and for a reason. My club is not for me.”
“And this is for you?” she asked, turning to him, eyes wide with understanding.
“It is. What do you surmise from it?” he asked, curious what such a place might say about him to a lady like herself.
She gave it thought before she surmised, “That you are, at heart, a simple man.”
A deep rumble of a laugh came from him. “Could anyone accuse me of such a thing?”
“I do,” she said. “Or at least, so it would seem. This is not a great house or a grand proclamation of wealth and power.”
“I don’t need to proclaim wealth and power,” he stated easily.
“Because you have it,” she returned.
“I’ve spent a good deal of time acquiring it,” he said factually.
“You’ve been ruthless,” she observed.
“I have,” he agreed, finding no reason to deny what was obvious.
“Well, then, let me see this simple side of you.” Her smile lit her whole face, and it seemed a weight had been lifted from her. “I am curious.”
The sight of her losing her cares, nearly undid him.
He was happy to show her this side of him. He did not think she would appreciate the others. The darker, more grim bits of him that had dug their way through the grime and the dirt and the sludge of London.
He opened the coach door, jumped down, and held his hand out to her. She took it lightly and followed him.
He guided her up the small walk. He had arranged for food to be sent to that house, but he had no servants. He did not wish anyone to observe them together, and he felt she needed time alone to regain the strength she already possessed.
She was already growing.
He could see it. Her shoulders were back. Her chin lifted high. She followed him up the way to the ancient oak door. He opened it easily, and they crossed the polished paving stones, stones that had been smoothed with the steps of others over several hundred years.
It was an old house, and he loved the idea of all the people who had lived here before, the families. He’d never had a family. He doubted he ever would, but he liked to imagine happy people had dwelt here, living out their lives, never worrying about their throats being slit or about being stabbed in the dark.
No, this was a place where bread was baked, herbs were hung, and children laughed. He could imagine another life for himself. A fantasy, never a reality, but still, here he could dream.
Mary looked about, taking it all in eagerly. “It’s beautiful,” she said.
“Like you,” he replied.
She arched a brow. “You think me beautiful?”
“You know you are,” he returned.
“My mother was beautiful too,” she said.
“There you have it. It is in your family.”
“It is one thing to be beautiful,” she said. “But it’s better to be clever, I think.”
He cocked his