Page 18 of Daring with a Duke (The Jennings Family #2)

18

Felicity

F elicity rode down the dirt path that hugged the River Arun, her destination in sight: a grouping of large willow trees. She needed some time alone today, some time with her thoughts, to reorient herself with her goal. She had stopped Mr. Thorne and asked for a scenic spot for picnicking, somewhere serene. And he had told her of a place by the river with mammoth willow trees which had sounded like utter perfection.

She approached a willow, fern-green branches falling in layers, half over the ground and half over the bank of the river. She dismounted and lifted her head to the sun, letting its warmth rejuvenate her just as it did to the plants surrounding her.

This spot was surreal, as if she was walking toward a painting. She stepped inside the curtain of willow leaves, the soft branches grazing her bare arms where she’d rolled up the sleeves of her lawn shirt. The leaves whispered as they slid around her, like a magical world murmuring to her, mingling with the muffled bubbling sounds of the river. And there in the distance, peeking between a small gap in the branches: a pristine view of Devonford Castle.

She lay down on her checkered green-and-white picnic blanket, eyes drifting close as she immersed herself in the sound and feel of nature—birds calling, grass rustling, the breeze sneaking through gaps in the willow branches. And she let her thoughts flow just as freely as the river.

The Plan was supposed to be simple. Bed the Duke, a man who should be just as lust-crazed as his son, just as undiscerning in his choice of bed partners. Then walk away, revenge in her right hand and a nullified betrothal in her left.

She took a deep breath of fresh earth and spring florals and let the comforting scents ease her mind, settle the chaos roiling in her chest.

Now, more than ever, she understood the Duke differed from his son in nearly every conceivable way.

A man who rehabilitated horses because he liked doing so— infinitely patient, gentle, caring.

A man who not only refused a beautiful woman for his son’s sake but went out of his way to attempt to make himself unappealing—honorable, loyal, adorable.

A man who loved his daughter unconditionally despite the fact she didn’t fit the traditional mold of a duke’s daughter—accepting, supportive, protective.

He was bloody tempting, so very bloody tempting.

How could she bed him now? When it went against every one of the principles in which he lived his life. When it would completely ruin his chance to make reparations with his son. When her blasted heart was getting involved.

But that meant sacrificing her future, resigning herself to a life as Colborn’s ornament, only allowed out of her cage when he wanted to parade her around. Giving up any semblance of control and handing it over to someone who didn’t deserve—couldn’t be trusted with—that privilege.

She took another breath, the chaos building instead of calming, so volatile now that she feared she might break, snap, explode into a score of minuscule fragments, reduced to mere dust carried away by the soft breeze.

The question remained, the question she came out here to ponder, the one she wasn’t any closer to answering:

Who did she hurt?

Herself…or the Duke?