Page 26 of The Duke’s Rejected Mate

At this, his face falls a touch as his shoulders sag. “Forgive me, Miss Campbell. I fear I let my excitement run away with me. This is certainly not a passion we both share. I shall endeavor to find another topic of amusement to you when I see you next. Pray tell me your passions so that I may research them.”

At this, Charles pushes off the fence and walks over. “She’s rather fond of cakes. In fact, I fear she has an unlucky ability to cast flour about as if conjuring the bit of food from thin air.”

Henhaven looks between us before bowing. “Your Grace. Forgive me. I didn’t see you there. Sounds as if you know quite a few intimacies about our dear Miss Campbell.”

“Well, seeing as she’s nearly inseparable from my sisters, it’s hard not to.”

“I see. In that case, I will be on my way so you may rest before dinner. Miss Campbell. Norhaven.”

“Henhaven,” we both murmur as I dip into a curtsy.

As he drives away, I look up at Charles and plant my hands on my hips. “That was rude.”

“No,” he growls, leaning in so close I fear what others might say if they pass by. “What’s rude is allowing him to touch what’s mine. Fear not, little vexation. I will see to you soon enough. Now go. Your bed is waiting. Rest before I get my hands on you tonight.”

Chapter 12

Charles

Sitting across from Cynthia is near torture. My cock pulses with every slip of the fork between her perfect lips. Soon, it will be me easing into her mouth, feeding her my cock as if it were a most precious dessert.

Unfortunately, every time I breathe in, I take her scent deep into my lungs—damnable peony and parchment. How I long to drag her over to my town house and put her over my desk. I would write upon her flesh, drawing my name with my quill as her scent blooms in the room.

“Charles?”

Blinking, I look over at my mother, forcing the lurid thoughts from my brain. “Forgive me, Mother. I was distracted. What were you saying?”

She gives me a soft, knowing smile as her gaze turns toward Cynthia for the briefest of moments before bringing it back to me. “I was merely inquiring into the nature of your cook. Is she unable to feed you?”

My brow furrows as I tilt my head, my brain refusing to make sense of her words. “She is well adapted to the task. Why do you ask?”

“Well, you seem to be eating here far more often as of late. Though I do keep my doors open to all my children, I confess I am curious as to this sudden turn. You have appeared on my doorstep far more often these last few days than you have all Season.”

“Have you missed me, Mother?” I tease, doing my best to keep the tone congenial.

“Well, of course. You are my son. Are you saying this change of heart is because you miss me as well?”

Leaning back, I place my fork on the napkin and give her a large grin. “I figured now that Lewis is far more occupied with his bride, it would do your heart some good to have this bachelor here where you can be entertained.”

Penelope shuffles about in her chair as her lips turn up into a mischievous smile. “If your aim is to entertain, then you must take a turn on the pianoforte. I dare say Miss Campbell must be bored staying here with us. You must give her some joy in these dark times.”

“Dark times indeed,” I snort. “And that is to say you three haven’t been entertaining her at all?”

“Well, of course. One does what one must. But to see you play the pianoforte… Why I feel that would be most entertaining indeed.”

“Right,” I grumble. “And it has nothing to do with the laughing that will happen behind your fans when I fumble the notes. If you want a performance, go to the opera.”

“Cynthia is already slated to go,” Georgiana pipes up. “The invitation came this afternoon.”

I glance over at Cynthia and note the light flush to her cheeks. Was she going to tell me, I wonder. Or would I find out about it in the same way I did her traipsing about Hyde Park with her ill intended?

“Did it?” I ask, doing my best to keep my tone neutral. “And are you attending with her?”

At this, Penelope slumps into her seat. “No. It’s only for Cynthia and a chaperon. We are not eligible or invited.”

Sophia gives her sister a small smile and pats her arm. “Fret not, Penelope. He is her betrothed. I’m sure after they’re wed, there will be plenty of opportunities.”

“But I have a dress I would so love to show off to the Ton,” she continues, babbling away at this missed opportunity, not even realizing the pain it’s causing her dear friend.