Page 28 of The Duke’s Rejected Mate

There has to be something. No one has power of any sort without even a hint of corruption. Glancing at the window, I grit my teeth as my brain continues to seek any sort of answer. Hell, compared to what I’ve done in the military, this should be nothing.

I storm out of the room and down the hall, slipping into a side door hidden in the wall. The air is cold and crisp as I make my way down to the lower level where I keep things I’d rather polite society not see.

There’s no need to light my way. I know this route as if by memory. Each step comes to me in rote measure as I go down the flight and stop near the end. Only when I slip into the room and close the door behind me do I find the lantern near the opening and strike the my tinderbox to start the spark.

Slowly, the room comes into view as I make my way over to the wall. There, hanging off by itself, is the crop I used on her that night. That fateful evening where I knew I wouldn’t be able to get her out of my mind. That night, when everything changed between us.

Groaning, I slip it off the hook and hide it under my coat. From there, I gather some rope and tuck it into my pockets. With a soft breath of air, I blow out the lantern and make my way back through the house.

Cook should be asleep by now, but she always manages to leave some bits of cake for those who feel the need to fatten their bones in the middle of the night. Cynthia could certainly use a little more food in her body.

I snag a few slices and tuck them into an oiled rag before slipping out the back and into the night. There’s no need for Erebus. Not when Mother’s house is so close. Keeping my steps quiet, I make my way around the houses until I’m back at the servants’ entrance.

This will be the last time. It has to be. I can’t keep torturing us both.

Pretty words, but deep inside, I know they aren’t true. I know deep down I’ll never leave her side until the parson demands it with vows made before God and man. Even then, once she has her heir and spare, I’m sure I can slip in with nary a whiff of scandal.

My pulse pounds in my ears as I near the door. Will she be asleep this time? Will she be waiting for me?

As I open it and step inside, I look over at the bed where Cynthia lies on her side, arms wrapped around her waist as tears dry on her face. Rushing over, I set the cake on her nearby nightstand and run my fingers over her hair.

She looks up at me with such sorrow, such remorse that I nearly break my vow then and there to never compromise her. I come so close to opening her main door so that any passersby can see the things I do to her. Henhaven wouldn’t marry her then. She’d be all mine.

But even as those thoughts go through my head, I force them out. What I do is selfish enough, but only hurts Cynthia and me. Even now, not so very many doors away, my sisters lie in their beds dreaming of balls, operas, and husbands. As much as Cynthia belongs to me, I can’t take that future away from them. It’s a burden only we can share.

Instead of having my way with her, I simply grab the cake and make my way over to the other side of the bed. I gather her into my arms and purr, letting the sound heal us both. Her body feels so small, so unbelievably fragile as I rest her head against my chest.

Bit by bit, I feed the cake to her, forcing her to eat, forcing her to stay strong. Lifting my head to the ceiling, I pour my anguish out, letting it seep into the room. Tomorrow, I will put my efforts toward some other means of disqualifying Henhaven as her husband. Tonight, I’ll simply hold the woman I crave most in my arms as we both simply feel the heartache crashing between us.

Chapter 13

Cynthia

Tuesday

Nothing.

As I turn over and brush my hand over the cool sheets, my heart sinks just a bit more. Of course he can’t be here. To do so would be to invite all manner of scandal, and under his mother’s roof no less.

It still hurts my heart to know I will never wake up next to him, that it will just be me in my room with Henhaven next door. How will I bear it? Closing my eyes, I conjure the memory of Charles’s arms wrapped around me. He was so tender last night, so unlike himself.

Rising, I pull my wrap around me and open the curtains to look out into the streets. Fog coats every surface, turning them a dismal gray. Just perfect for the sour mood in which I find myself.

The room feels chilled despite the embers from the fire struggling to stay lit. I glance about, taking in the empty space. Not one piece of Charles remains behind. No note. No cravat. Nothing to prove he was even here.

The stand next to the bed lies empty. Not even a crumb of the soft cakes mars the surface. Gone is the wrapper they were in. Vanished, as if a specter had passed through, then disappeared once more.

Was it my imagination? All of it? Did he even come through the door? Does it even exist?

Crossing the room, I run my hands along the rough indentations in the wood, seeking out his entrance. There, just barely perceptible. I lodge my fingers in the crack and tug. The wood barely budges, but it gives slightly. It must be locked somehow. That, or I am going more insane than I thought.

As I pull away, the room door opens, revealing my maid and her tray with warmed chocolate. With a soft sigh, I go over to the table and sit, waiting as she places it before me. Her voice is a gentle hum in the background as she fusses about the room, preparing it for the day.

Even as I drink the warming chocolate brought in by the maid, I find no joy in it. Though normally the bright spot in my morning, it sits heavily in my stomach, making it churn. I’m not ill. I know that much. This always happens when exhaustion and nerves run ragged.

The maid waits for me, standing by the basin to help me wash for the day. It’s rote. It’s routine. It’s safe. And yet, my mind can’t help but wander to the unsafe topic of Charles. Would it really be so bad to have us compromised and be done with?

Duty.