Unfortunately, not. Saying so, however, would have been unforgivably rude. He was incapable of feeling—that much was indisputable. But Heaven forbid he forgo manners. A man had to have some standards.
“You performed your duties to perfection,” he conceded.
A feline sound emanated from her lips. “Everyone warned me—”
“Myself included.”
“—your murderous, cold-blooded heritage would manifest.”
How trite of her to resort to the tiresomely obvious.
“My father wastriedfor murder, not convicted.” He paused. “Clarity is important.”
“You—” she pointed at his chest as if he were the one on trial “—are as mad as they say he was.”
“Doubtful. Again, clarity. My father kept crickets as pets.” He rubbed his chin and leaned back in his chair. “And, he may, or may not, have skewered his valet and deposited the body atop his wife.”
Ash’s father had not been convicted because the only witness, Ash’s mother, had fled the country that day. The court had only his father’s description. And his father, as everyone knew, had been—from childhood—mad as a Bedlam-bound scrub.
“How can you speak of horrors in such a flippant tone?” She paled. “Is nothing inviolate to you?”
Interesting question. “I cannot think of an exception.”
Her huff blew a loosened curl from her face. “Honestly, I begin to understand why your wife preferred death to—”
He did not remember leaping from the chair. Nor did he remember extending his hand toward Liza. However, he was infinitely relieved he stopped short of wrapping his fingers around his former lover’s throat.
He dropped his arm and stepped back. Deliberately, he interlocked his hands behind his back.
“Miss White.” His enunciated syllables were whisper-soft. “You have freely taken everything I promised. And you have stated your wish to end our liaison.” He leveled his gaze. “Now I will wish you well, and you will promise to vacate this house by quarter’s end.”
She slammed her fist against the table. The glass in her hand fractured into slivers. Her face twisted in shock and pain, and blood seeped from the open wound.
“Look!” she screeched. “Look what you’ve done!”
Calmly he lifted her arm, and with his free hand, he rang the bell. This was exactly the sort of thing he’d tried to prevent.
“Unhand me.” She tore herself away.
Probably best. A maid appeared at the door. Her eyes widened, and she rushed toward her mistress.
“Careful!”
He reached out to guide the maid around the broken glass, but she skittered beyond his reach, more frightened of him than the glass.
“Get out.” Liza’s voice was filled with loathing. The maid drew back. “Him—not you.” Liza allowed herself to be tended without moving her gaze. “You have taken much from me, Duke. But nothing I cannot recover. And do you know why?”
Rhetorical, of course. Obligingly, he waited for the linguistic slap.
“BecauseIhave a heart.”
“That you do,” he acknowledged with a bow.
He instructed the maid to send for a doctor before turning toward the hall. Eighteen months had been too long an association. A mistake he would not make again. He hadn’t the will nor the wish to ruin anymore lives.
No matter how clear the terms, the longer one danced with a devil the more destructive the burn.
“Ash?” Liza called.
