Ten Days with a Duke (12 Dukes of Christmas #11) - Erica Ridley Page 0,17

a comment so crass, but what good did that do her? No amount of turning over new leaves could erase the casual cruelty in his past.

Back then, he’d been forbidden to speak to her. That was the command Eli should have heeded. After yet another humiliating loss in the boys’ races, he’d hidden behind the stables to escape his father’s inevitable wrath, if only for a few moments.

And then she was there. His opposite in every way. The girl he was supposed to hate.

It was love at first sight.

She was so talented, so clever, so funny. Everything about her was perfect. He couldn’t believe she was standing there, talking to him. When he realized the only logical reason was because she didn’t know who he was... he knew it was his only chance.

And so he’d kissed her.

That he should not have was obvious in retrospect, and yet he could not regret it. He would kiss her every day for the rest of their lives if such a choice was his to make.

But that wasn’t the only time his actions had been unforgivable.

Chapter 6

“I’m sorry,” Weston said again.

Olive believed he was. It changed nothing.

She didn’t trust him. Perhaps would never trust him. She certainly wouldn’t forget what he’d done.

Heaven knew, she’d tried.

“If it had just been that day...” No. That day was bad enough. “I adored competing. After winning that medallion, I would have dedicated my life to racing. But I dared not show my face again to that crowd. Literally. I knew what they thought of me. How ugly I was.”

He winced.

“Papa didn’t know what was said. He told me children were foolish and cruel. By the time I was older, it would all be forgotten. But it wasn’t, was it?” Her chest tightened. She gripped the fence for comfort. “I was blackballed from Society at the age of eighteen because of the horrid appellation you and your father put on me. Mocked by thousands because of the contours of my face. Can you imagine...”

Her voice broke. She couldn’t continue.

“I have some idea,” he said quietly. “And I’m sorry. When I saw the caricatures, I tried to stop them.”

She snorted tonelessly. “Don’t add lies to your crimes. I’ve no doubt your father paid to put them there and chortled with glee when they gained a life of their own.”

“He might have.” Weston was silent for a moment. “He probably did.”

There. She’d wrested that much of an admission out of him. It didn’t make her feel the least bit better.

Weston was being so... nice.

She knew it was a lie. It must be a manipulation. He’d seemed nice the first time, and look how that had turned out. She could not let him erode her shields. A second rejection from the same rotter would prove her a horse’s arse on top of horse-faced. He’d humiliated her before and was more than capable of doing it again.

Her only defense was not to forgive.

“There’s something I want to show you,” he said. “In my bedchamber.”

She slanted him a quelling look. “There’s nothing I want from you in a bedchamber.”

“I’ll bring it out,” he said quickly. “Just... wait in the corridor for a moment.”

Of course he wasn’t trying to seduce her. That the thought had crossed her mind was laughable. Ho, ho, ho. Olive’s cheeks heated at her mistake.

“Very well.” She gestured toward the empty house. “Show me what you’ve got in your bedchamber.”

The servants were gone. Her father was up at the castle. But Olive had no need for a chaperone.

She followed him into the house.

Only once had a man shown a modicum of interest. A local matchmaker had brought him over. He was handsome and charming.

After meeting Olive, he’d married the matchmaker instead.

There had been no one since. Not romantically. People came from far and wide, but their interest was in the horses, not her.

“It’s in here.” Weston dropped to his knees before a leather valise. “I know it won’t make up for anything I’ve done, but you’re the one who deserves to have it.”

He rose and held out his fist, palm down.

She held out her hand. Her fingers trembled. The air was charged, as if she were setting herself up for a fool in yet another trick.

The weight that dropped into her palm was heavy. Metallic. Cool to the touch.

He took his hand away.

She stared at hers. At the brass medallion a euphoric young girl had won a decade ago, only to lose it in the mud and the muck while fleeing