Page 21 of The Duke’s Rejected Mate

Though I know they do not mean to exclude me, I cannot help but feel as if I’m simply a bother. It would be so much easier if I were their sister.

It’s as if a knife plunges into my heart as Penelope turns to me, face alight with the largest smile. She holds out her hand to me, beckoning me to come follow.

It would be so easy. It would be so simple. All I’d have to do is compromise Charles. Honestly, the sketches I hide would be more than enough to show proof that we’ve engaged in scandalous behavior. If only it wouldn’t cause such devastation.

What would Penelope think if she knew her brother came into my room in the dead of night? That he forced his seed into my body until it dripped from me, even into the morning? My clit throbs in heated remembrance as I walk behind.

As much as I want to retire to my room and chase that feeling from last night, duty calls. It wouldn’t look well on me to stay behind while my hostesses take to the streets. My head aches as an odd warmth seeps through my veins, no doubt brought on by the strain I’m currently under.

Groaning, I roll my head on my shoulders and do my best to act as happy as my three friends. “Who are we to visit first?” I ask as we reach the base of the stairs.

Penelope turns back to me, her face beaming. “I thought we could call upon the Duchess of Birchleigh for a moment, then the Duchess of Foxford. I do long to see Teresa’s child now that they are receiving guests.”

A baby. That would be a pleasant change. With no siblings of my own, I am at the maternal mercy of others. It would be quite pleasant to hold the infant.

As I step into my room, the maid is there, waiting for me. The bed is fully made up and pristine, as if I never had any interaction with the maddening Charles Barrington.

But I did. Every inch of me feels imprinted with his heat, his scent, the feel of his breath upon my skin. My limbs tremble as I undress, slowly easing out of my clothes so the maid can help me into my calling dress. It’s so odd having a stranger help me like this.

In many ways, it just makes me feel even more alone, despite the fact that I can hear one of the triplets, probably Penelope, laughing from another room. I just wish there was someone I could talk to about this, someone I could gather counsel from… Someone who wouldn’t judge or cry foul if I told them what’s happening between Charles and me.

In these moments, I do so detest the fact that we women are held to such a standard. How are we to learn? To know what is right and what isn’t? Or, more to the point, how to suffer continual heartbreak when it feels like the world is falling in on us?

As the maid finishes, I stare at my reflection in the mirror. My eyes seem dull and sunken in. My face is pale, nearly translucent. I honestly look a fright.

Charles has to find a way. He just has to. Because, as I see it, we are doomed to live out our very own tragic version of Romeo and Juliet. I can only hope our affair doesn’t end us.

Chapter 10

Charles

My balls ache as I ride Erebus into the heart of London. Seeing Cynthia there, watching her face tinge with red as she sat across from me… It’s almost too much to bear. How long will we both stay locked in this torment?

Growling under my breath, I maneuver my stallion around a man stooping down to gather something that had fallen to the ground. Though I’m sure, rationally, there is the normal number of people crowding the streets, it feels as if that amount has grown, multiplied overnight.

The thought is rather absurd, to be sure, yet here I am, pulling hard on the reins so as to not trample yet another person in my way. It’s as if Heaven itself conspires to keep me from my task.

My heart pounds in my chest as I finally arrive at White’s. As the servant takes Erebus from me, I hop to the ground and brush off my clothes, taking a moment to control my emotions before coming in. I can’t play my hand yet. I can’t show the desperation I feel sliding through my veins at every throbbing pulse.

So far, only a few men sit in their chairs, taking in the papers. A soft, near-silent hum envelops me as I nod to the porter, grab my own paper, and sit off to the side where I can watch and listen. Not many converse, but there’s still time yet.

The small muscles in my jaw jump as I grind my teeth together, pretending as if I’m reading. Nothing new. No announcements I haven’t already seen. No missives that might give me some insight into the man set to marry my obsession.

Glancing over at the bow window, I do my best to smother my groan as Arlo Mathews, Duke of Dunton, takes his place in so prominent an area. If only there were a way to rid London of such a cad. In all honesty, I should be grateful it’s Henhaven who’s asked for Cynthia’s hand and not this arrogant arsehole.

No doubt he would have already compromised her and forced a wedding, leaving me with no other recourse but to either find a way to steal her from him, or see him in a grave. Honestly, my heart shouldn’t leap at so dastardly a thought. Too bad I never saw him on the battlefield. He wouldn’t survive it long enough to mar London with his odious presence.

As I keep pretending to flip through the pages, Henhaven’s name comes up nearby. I angle my ear, desperate to hear what’s being said. Unfortunately, the party is just out of reach. A heavy sigh slips from my lips as I tuck the paper under my arm and make my way over.

Chase Taylor, Duke of Hartham, looks up at me, his expression guarded as I come near. Goose-flesh prickle over my arms as I get closer, noting the hesitation in his gaze and speech. It’s as if he wishes to be far from me, but that’s absurd. I never did anything to the lad.

Though between the two of us, I should be the injured party. It is his stepmother who’s now married to my brother. It’s his common, low-born stepmother who’s now at the head seat of the Barrington family while my Cynthia is forced to wed another.

Not that I should really hold him accountable for the Duchess of Whiteport’s actions. It’s not as if she knew about the feud happening between Lewis and me. I can’t blame her for wanting to marry another duke after her horrific ordeal.

It still doesn’t help the sting I feel in my chest whenever I’m around them. Which, honestly, is blessed little at this point. If I were to reside in their company for much longer, I fear I might say something I shouldn’t. As it is, this lad might have information I need, and so I shove my anger to the side and approach.

“Norhaven,” he says with a stiff nod as he stands closer to Grayson Hunt, Duke of Hardon, brother to Benedict’s wayward wife.