The relief and excitement that lifted through her chest and into her entire body was so strong that she couldn’t deny how much this man’s company was beginning to mean to her. She tempered it, trying to maintain some calm as she said, “I would enjoy that. How about around one? Then we could have tea after if you have time.”
“I’ll see you at one.”
The horse was ready now and Roarke took the reins from her servant with a smile. Once the man had gone, Roarke took her hand and lifted it to his lips. She wasn’t wearing gloves, so the warmth of his lips eased through her skin and made her weak in the knees. He met her gaze as he kissed her skin, the promise in his eyes bold and passionate.
“I very much look forward to that, Flora.”
Then he swung up on his mount and rode away, leaving her to stare after him, with a hundred memories to relive until they met again.
CHAPTER12
Roarke had grown up in a fine townhouse, not unlike Flora’s, with a handful of servants and access to almost anything he might have wanted. Over the years, as his father’s fortune had slipped, the family had slumped lower into smaller homes, fewer servants, possessions and clothing that were more worn and out of fashion.
And once Roarke had mishandled what little fortune he’d inherited after his father’s death? Well, that had landed him in his current accommodations. A hovel was a kind description. It was a single tiny room above a smoky pub on a street he hadn’t even known existed as a young man. And while it was safe and nearly warm and almost always dry except when rain blew against the windows from a certain direction, it was not fine. It was not a place he would bring friends or, God forbid, a lover.
He tried to picture Flora here, her sunshine lighting all the darkest corners. But all he could see was the horror on her face if she knew where he stayed. Worse, what he was.
A liar.
He’d meant to tell her the truth yesterday. At least, he’d believed he had. But the moment she started talking about seduction and desire, the moment she’d kissed him, he’d just let all the bad things float away. He’d let himself have the tiniest taste of happiness for the first time in a very long time.
And now he hated himself even more for it.
“I will do it today,” he told the grainy reflection of himself in the cracked mirror where he was looking to get himself into acceptable condition to meet Flora for their walk. “I’ll tell her, as gently as possible.” He bent his head. God, what could he say?
“Flora,” he said to the mirror image. “I lied to you. I was sent here by your stepchildren.”
God, he could almost imagine her expression crumpling with pain and hurt and hate. The hate was what he dreaded most. He’d have earned it with his ungentlemanly behavior. No amount of practiced words would change the meaning of what he’d have to say to her.
There was a rap on the door behind him and he frowned at it. Probably his landlady. She always banged on the door like she was ready to tear it off its hinges.
“Mrs. Westin,” he said as he came to it, opening it. “My rent is not due for—” He cut himself off. It wasn’t his grizzled-faced landlady who stood there waiting for him. It was his cousin, Philip.
He looked almost enraptured as he peered past Roarke into the home. His pleasure in the face of pain was so complete it made Roarke despise his cousin even more. A pure hatred rose in him and he stepped to the side to block the view.
“What do you want?” he snapped.
Philip chuckled before he shoved past Roarke and into the room. “That’s not a very polite way to speak to the man who holds your purse strings.”
“The duke holds the purse strings, Philip,” Roarke snapped. “You’re just the lackey.”
It was probably imprudent to say so, and Philip’s enraged expression verified that. But then his cousin drew a few deep breaths, his fists relaxed at his sides and he looked around. “Good Lord, this place is utter shite. Your part of the family was never exactly dripping in gold, but you truly have fallen.”
Roarke lifted his chin and tried not to let the vulnerability he felt in this moment overtake him. He didn’t let people see this life he was forced to lead exactly because of this judgment.
“My mother gets the lion’s share of whatever funds I manage to scrape together,” he said. “Which I know you know since you and your siblings are lording her safety over me.”
Philip smiled as he drew a gloved fingertip over the surface of a table. But Roarke kept the small space clean, so he had no satisfaction in finding dust or debris left behind.
“We use what we can,” Philip said. “It worked, didn’t it? After all, I know you saw Flora yesterday.”
Roarke stared at him, his stomach turning. “Thomas had me fucking followed?”
“Well, we’re not certain we can fully trust you, cousin,” Philip said, and looked up at him, his smile cold and brittle. “Perhaps I misjudged you, though. Our man said he saw you two standing very close together at the stable there, and that you…” His voice dropped, became huskier. "...kissed her hand.”
Roarke staggered back. That moment by his horse had felt so personal, so private. He could still feel the weight of Flora’s fingers against his. That had been real, not a manipulation, just like the time they’d shared in her parlor had been real.
And now it was spoiled because he knew Thomas had been watching it all, through his proxy. Perhaps even through Philip, himself. That his cousins had been judging and laughing and seeing it as a way to hurt Flora.
