Anger was a fire burning hot and demanding in his belly. But along with the anger was the desire which had never fled, regardless of the time, the distance, and everything she had done. Goddamn her, she was a gorgeous, faithless witch.
“You know as well as I that my true name is not Robin.” Calmly, he tucked his mask inside his coat.
“I…do not… I cannot…” Her words trailed off lamely.
Such an excellent actress. But then, she always had been, had she not? He thought of all the times she had claimed to love him. All the sounds she had made when she’d been beneath him. He’d been convinced her ecstasy and her emotions were both real. How stupid he’d been.
Her face was pale now, her eyes wide. She swayed, and then her eyes rolled back in her head as she crumpled to the carpets.
“Christ,” he bit out, disgusted. “A bit much, do you not think, Duchess?”
But she did not move.
Nary the flicker of an eyelid.
It would appear she had not feigned her distress. The duchess had truly swooned.
His left ankle had been broken and it had healed improperly, but thankfully, he had not been left so afflicted that he could not lower himself to his knees at her side. Doing so required care and was not without some pain. But then, what day of his life had not been filled with pain from the moment he had last seen her?
He was going to have to touch her.
Damn it.
And damnher.
He seized her shoulders, reminded of how delicate she was. How soft and smooth her creamy skin. The scent of her filled him with unwanted memories.Roses. Tamping down his reaction and his recollections both, he gave her a gentle shake.
Her head lolled. Adrian patted her cheek, trying not to notice the way her breasts were all but escaping from the bodice of her evening gown. Curse her for fainting on him. This was not the reaction he had anticipated. Fear, outrage, bitterness—he had prepared himself for all those emotions.
A collapse? He had never supposed that would be the manner in which she greeted the news he was returned. But then, one could only suppose the unexpected reappearance of a man she’d plotted against would cause some degree of shock, even for a woman as cold and heartless as the Duchess of Longleigh. He patted her again, and she shifted, inhaling swiftly, her eyes fluttering open.
“Robin,” she whispered, her brow furrowing.
To the devil with bloody Robin.
He was not that man any longer.
Hell, he never had been.
“Adrian Hastings,” he corrected her, for that was his true name, the one he had been denied for so long. “I am not Robin.”
She blinked, frowning. “What happened?”
“You fainted.” If he was grim, there was good reason for it. He felt grim. He felt lethal.
He ought to be lethal after what she had done, but a merciless end was too good for her. She needed to suffer.
“I fainted?” she repeated, her voice sounding worn and confused.
“Yes. As I said.”
He would not feel sympathy for her.
Belatedly, he realized he had been stroking her cheek with the backs of his fingers, offering her comfort. She was warm and soft, and he hated himself for instinctively enjoying the physical bond they had always shared. The body often lied to the head and the heart. No one knew that sad, despicable truth better than Adrian did.
She inhaled slowly, the action making the swells of her breasts rise and fall. “I don’t understand who you are or what you are doing here.”
“Do not pretend with me, Duchess.”
