Tall, Duke, and Dangerous (Hazards of Dukes #2) - Megan Frampton Page 0,37

his face ever again. To hear that pained tone in his voice.

He still looked pained. “This was my choice, Nash. Mine. It might be a poor one, but let me own it.” His expression didn’t change.

So this wasn’t the best idea she’d ever had. It wasn’t necessarily the worst—following Lord Brunley into that room might be, or perhaps the time, soon after Sebastian gave her funds for clothing, that she wore a butter-yellow gown that made her look like a wilted sunflower.

But it was among those unfortunate decisions. Even though it was also now going to feature as one of the best memories of her life. Contradictory oxymoron.

Drat.

“I think we’ve had enough instruction,” Nash said at last. He didn’t add anything, didn’t move, just stood and waited.

Even though that was the last thing he wanted to do. Which meant it was the only thing he could do.

Kissing her had been—well, he shouldn’t think about it. Not now, not when she was still here, alone in the room with him.

His cock throbbed, and he wished he could just give in to what he and his cock wanted, which was to strip her bare and have her on the floor of his training room.

But he could not.

She was the last person in the world he could get involved with. He already knew he liked and cared for her, and now he was realizing he desired her as well. That meant involvement, and involvement meant emotion, and emotion meant passion, which resulted in violence.

You take after me. In every way.

He would not and could not care for anyone with whom he was intimate. It was the quickest way to following in his father’s fiststeps, and he would not do that.

She opened her mouth as if to reply, but didn’t. He ached to hear what she might have said, even as he dreaded it. But she’d already said the most damning thing aloud, hadn’t she? It didn’t mean anything.

To him, it meant everything. It meant he knew he would never be entirely happy with his life, that his world would continue to be colored in muted shades because he didn’t trust he could handle the full, glorious color of things. Like her, whose skin was soft gold, and whose hair was dark chestnut, and whose eyes were like melted chocolate.

“I’ll go. Your grandmother requires your presence, after all.” She swung her head up, looking defiant. “Does this mean you no longer wish to instruct me at all?”

“No. We’ll just—I’ll ask Finan in next time.”

She narrowed her gaze. “Because I am not to be trusted.” It was not a question.

“No, I—” And then he stopped, because of course he couldn’t think of what to say. Everything else had changed, but at least that hadn’t. He never knew what to say.

She shrugged. “Fine. You can let me know when you can find time in your very busy schedule to teach me what you insist on teaching me.” Her tone was derisive, and he flinched in response. She was hurting, clearly, but there was nothing he could do about it.

Or nothing he could do about it that didn’t involve resuming their previous activity.

“Oh, and you might want to put a shirt on. It could get cold.”

She wasn’t just hurting, she was furious.

And glorious in her anger—he wanted to bathe in it, to have her unleash all of her emotions onto him so he could feel their intensity, allow himself to feel all of it instead of locking it down or channeling it for a fight.

He couldn’t. He couldn’t even let her know how he felt, not even a minuscule amount of it, because then she would push at him, forcing him to reveal more and more, to talk, for God’s sake, and he could not allow himself to do that.

He was afraid that if he started talking to her, he would never stop.

So he had to ensure their relationship was limited to what he would show her, guiding her to live her life without his protection. Because he knew, as much as he knew he could not be with her, that seeing her with some other man would break him.

So she had to be rendered safe before then.

“I’ll send Finan with a note.”

He leaned over to pick up his shredded shirt, then walked to the door, only turning back to her when he had his hand on the doorknob. “I’ll ask Richardson”—his butler and also his half brother who was at least a decade older than he—“to