He mourned the loss of her, even now with her in his arms. But this was his fate—forced to love her from a distance, smothering the emotion. Emotion he knew would fight valiantly to resurface with every future visit from her and his son.
It was his punishment. Penance for the sins of his past. For the sin he had committed only hours ago.
And he feared this punishment might be the one that finally broke him.
He was at a loss of what to do. How he was to handle the crushing weight that was rapidly becoming too much to bear.
But what he did know was he needed to get her out of his chamber. Because he was not thinking straight, and this—sleeping with her, regardless of if it was for revenge or the desperation of two people destined for a life apart—was not the answer.
So, he lifted his head and committed her to memory. Committed to memory the woman that was his undoing.
He traced the slim arch of her brow, the delicate tilt to her nose, the soft curve of her cheek, the gentle fullness of her bottom lip. He let his hands trail down her arms, soaking in the softness of her skin. And because he was a glutton for punishment, he trailed his nose against her neck, breathing in the scent of flowers and Felicity.
He kissed his way down her chest, squeezing his eyes painfully tight against the burn building there as he made his way past her breasts, breasts that were not for him. His fingers absorbed each indent of her ribs, the slight swell of her stomach, the ridges of her hipbones. He paused, crouched before her, and rested his head against her stomach, his breath labored and uneven.
And then, with his last ounce of restraint, he picked her robe off the floor and wrapped it around her. He turned her around and gently guided her to the door.
He sent her away.
Even though it killed him.
He sent her away.
23
Felicity
Felicity’slimbsfeltlikea bowl of undercooked, wobbly custard, doing very little to support her as she made her way to the sideboard in the castle’s library. The room was stupidly bright in the afternoon light. This castle had too many bloody windows. Was it asking too much that she wanted a dark and dreary castle to mope in? But no, this castle wasbright. Sodding inconvenient.
Her visit to Ash’s chamber and the tears that had ensued once she had returned to her own had completely drained her of energy, of feeling. So, she decided she was going to do the responsible thing. She was going to get herself a bottle of brandy and a book—and drown herself in liquor and literature—as any other mature adult would do in her situation. The situation where one loses what might potentially be the love of their life and is forced to marry that person’s son instead.
A hysterical bubble of laughter flew past her lips and echoed in the library while she searched the sideboard. Her plan for revenge had gone awry in the worst, most unimaginable way. Because this intolerable pain in her chest? It was stupid bloody love. And she was a stupid bloody idiot. Who fell in love with the man they were meant to seduce?
It sounded like a terrible gothic novel, so absurd it couldn’t possibly be real. A ridiculous and completely implausible dream spurred on by too much sugar before bedtime. But the hollowness that grew with every beat of her pathetic heart proved it was her reality.
Perhaps if she went to her brother now, Felix would be more inclined to end the betrothal. If her brother knew of her feelings for the Duke, he wouldn’t sentence her to a lifetime with the man’s son, would he? She was sure he would still insist she marry, but at least it wouldn’t be to Ash’s son.
“Felicity?”
Her eyes fell shut. She knew that slightly slurred tone. She had heard it often during the four years they had been betrothed. Colborn’s second love after swiving was drink.
She stood, the neck of a bottle of brandy clutched in her fist, arm loose at her side, and studied her fiancé. He was rumpled from traveling, hair turned up on one end, probably from sleeping against the squabs of a carriage. He was still irritatingly handsome, which somehow seemed unjust. Despite the slight slur to his voice, his blue eyes, eerily similar to his father’s, were clear beneath his pinched brows. Only a trifle disguised, then. Sometimes Felicity got the impression that Colborn affected a more intoxicated demeanor than the truth.
She uncorked the brandy and took a swig out of the bottle. “Hullo, Colby.”
His lips curved up in a sly smile. “I quite like that dress, fiancé.”
She barely repressed her shudder at his possessive use of fiancé and the insinuation in his tone. She had donned another too-small, too-tight dress since they were all she had left. His eyes scoured her bosom, and his tongue licked over the corner of his mouth.
She set down the brandy on the sideboard with more force than necessary, the bang echoing through the enormous two-level library like a gunshot. She laced her fingers and rested her palms over her chest, hiding the tops of her breasts from view.
“Stop ogling my breasts, Colborn.”
“Why? They’re as good as mine.”
She growled. She wanted to throw the brandy bottle at his fat sodding head. “They. Are. Not. Yours.”
His lids lowered, and his grin grew, his face pure dissolute rake. “That growl was delicious, love. Went straight to my cock.” He stepped forward and cupped her jaw, and she jerked away. “There’s fire in your eyes, something I’ve never seen before. I’d love you to unleash that passion on me.”
