Scoundrel of My Heart (Once Upon a Dukedom #1) - Lorraine Heath Page 0,66
for the door.
“Lady Kathryn?”
Stopping, she turned to glance back at him. Confusion marred her eyes, no doubt because he’d addressed her so formally, but it was imperative to constantly remind himself she was beyond reach. “Thank you for your care.”
“While I wish it wasn’t necessary, tending to you was my pleasure.”
As she left, he slammed his eyes closed as images of another sort of pleasure, hot, sweaty, and extremely carnal, raced through his mind. He flopped down onto the bed, onto his back, and groaned as his side protested the abuse. He cursed Kingsland for having not already married her, for not removing all temptation of her.
Chapter 15
He awoke to the light patter of rain. After rolling out of bed, he walked to the window, parted the draperies, and gazed at the gloominess that somehow comforted and brought solace. He understood why Kathryn loved this place, why she’d not considered giving it up for any man who didn’t meet the criteria required for her to have it. She was more relaxed, happier, at peace here.
Why the devil hadn’t Kingsland asked for her hand already? He’d had months of calling upon her. Was the man blind to the treasure she was? She’d make an excellent duchess, wife, and mother. When he envisioned her with children, he saw them as blond—which was impossible, considering how dark the duke was, how coppery red her own hair—frolicking through the tall grasses, rushing down the trail to the water’s edge, and squealing with delight as the sea rolled in to tickle their toes.
He placed his scarred palm on the glass, splayed his calloused fingers. The hand of a brute.
Eventually, if his business continued in the direction it was going, if his investments continued to reap rewards, he could purchase a cottage by the sea. But it was unlikely to be this one, wouldn’t hold her memories. If he confessed his feelings for her, asked her to marry him, she wouldn’t be the wife of a gentleman but that of a scoundrel and worse: a man willing to do anything to survive.
He cursed the rain that was going to keep them there for another night, keep her within proximity. At the club witnesses—some studying him warily, some glaring openly—served as a reminder they were watched, and so he’d kept his hands off her when he’d dearly wanted to touch her. He’d maintained a distance, not only physically but mentally as well. He’d fought against letting her delve beneath his surface, battled against letting her know that he could survive for weeks on one of her smiles, for months on a single peal of her laughter.
To aid in his quest to shield himself from her, to protect her from him, he’d built a wall, brick by brick, each representing an action in which a gentleman would never engage but that he had—multiple times. The hefting of boxes, the hauling of crates, the pulling on ropes. The pummeling of a fist, the intimidating, the spying. The learning of secrets, the threatening to reveal them. The power that could be used for harm. The night he hadn’t hesitated to use it to destroy.
His past should be enough to ensure he kept his hands off her. But when she’d kissed him at the club and in the carriage, the bricks crumbled, and he had been forced to rebuild the wall.
He shouldn’t have come here, shouldn’t have caught a glimpse of what life with her might be: dances along the shore, the music of her soul on the air, smiles exchanged, laugher shared . . . and peace.
How he longed for peace. Maybe it was the reason Marcus was obsessed with discovering the truth of their father, because without it, for him, peace could not exist. But Griff was learning that the truth didn’t bring peace. It brought only misery.
Because the truth was—and had been for longer than he’d realized—he loved Kathryn. Loved her with a strength of conviction and passion that was terrifying. It had prompted him to write the duke in order to ensure she gained what she desired.
The wager had been an afterthought, to provide him with consolation. If he couldn’t have her, he’d have his damned club. But the laughter within its walls had not been hers. The smiles had not been hers. The seductive whispers had not been hers. He’d not been able to put her there—until the night she’d walked in. And now he’d not be able to stroll through it without bringing forth images