Page 22 of Daring with a Duke (The Jennings Family #2)

22

Ash

A sh rode up to the stables, his heart straining against his ribcage as conflicting emotions pumped hectically through it. He had just kissed Felicity. His heart swelled to threatening proportions, so large he was sure it would choke off his air supply. Having her in his arms, her lips against his…it was unlike anything he had ever experienced in his three-and-forty years of life.

Dear God, he had kissed Felicity. His son’s betrothed. He thought he might be sick. His stomach roiled worse than after a night of too much drink.

And what was even worse? He wanted to do it again.

He dismounted and led his bay into the stables. Four gleaming brown Yorkshire Coach Horses, sweat slicking their coats, were being rubbed down by grooms. He frowned and searched out his stable master. Those horses looked like they had just arrived fresh from pulling a coach.

Instead of Barrow, he spotted his best mate striding toward him, Sam’s expression drawn tight.

“Sam—” Ash started.

“Colborn just arrived.”

Ash’s overwhelmed heart dropped to the stable’s stone floor. He couldn’t form a coherent thought, panic flooding his mind with nothing more than an incessant buzzing.

“But… The roads. Not…”

Guilt twisted Sam’s features. “That may have been a bit of a falsehood. The roads have been traversable…”

Ash’s eyes slid shut. He couldn’t even say he was surprised. He knew Sam had been up to something; and based on his run-in with his best friend and Barrow earlier, it would seem Sam had roped Barrow into his machinations as well.

“How long?” Ash asked, turning and heading in the direction of the castle. With each step, he pushed his emotions down, rebuilding the unfeeling exterior he wore day to day. Until her.

Sam fell into step with Ash. “We were informed yesterday mid-day.”

“God-fucking-damnit, Sam. Why?” He stared at his friend, pleading with his eyes. “Why would you bloody do this? If you hadn’t—I wouldn’t have—bloody fucking hell.” He dragged a hand down his face, fingertips digging into his flesh. He wouldn’t have kissed Felicity. He wouldn’t have felt… He wouldn’t have felt.

“Because…” Sam said, his voice climbing in volume. “You are too much of a bloody idiot to see what life is clearly slapping you across the face with.”

“And what is that, Sam? Because what it seems like is that life sent my son’s fiancé here to parade in front of me. To fucking torture me. Torture me with something I can never have.”

Sam’s large hand closed around Ash’s upper arm, and he pulled Ash to face him. “Have you ever thought that maybe, just maybe, she shouldn’t be your son’s fiancé.”

“We are not having this conversation,” Ash gritted out. Because voicing the words—no, just thinking them—was a betrayal. Bloody hell, he had already entered betrayal territory.

He glanced up at the subtle drum of thundering hooves. Lady Felicity’s small form in the distance hurtled closer as she rode hard in the direction of the stables. Fuck.

He wrenched himself from Sam’s grip and stormed toward the castle. He glanced down at his dirt-covered riding breeches. Because he had been on the ground with Felicity. God damnit! He needed to change. He needed to prepare himself for seeing his son.

Bury the emotions.

He needed to steel himself against seeing Felicity again. Because after that dance and that kiss, he feared it would take one look, and everyone in the room would know how he felt about her. Himself included.

And he really couldn’t handle that right now.

Fuck. Shite. Fuck. Shite. Fuckshite .

Ash stood, hands planted on his washstand, staring blindly at the dark wood. He couldn’t bear to look at his face. He had washed the dirt and sweat, the scent of horse, and feel of Felicity from his skin. But he was still uncomfortable, still felt dirty, and no matter how hard he scrubbed, he couldn’t get the sticky feeling to go away.

And now he stood here, holed up in his room, like a coward. A coward who was afraid to see his son. He didn’t even know why he was avoiding it. Colborn was probably already well on his way to drunk. They barely spoke when they saw each other as it was.

But what in the bloody hell was Ash going to say to his son about the whole— your fiancé is randomly here at your country home even though you weren’t here .

His eyes sank close. He wasn’t ready for his and Felicity’s time to be over. He had thought he had more time. A roiling discomfort filled his gut. Ah, guilt, there you are . Because a father was not supposed to want more time alone with his son’s betrothed. A father was not supposed to kiss his son’s betrothed. A father was not supposed to want to keep his son’s betrothed for himself.

Sam’s words came back with alacrity. Have you ever thought that maybe, just maybe, she shouldn’t be your son’s fiancé.

Pain speared through Ash’s heart, severing it. He let out a roar and slammed his fist against his washstand. The bowl of cloudy water upended, crashing to the floor.

Why was it that he committed sin after sin? Was there a place worse than hell for people like him? Surely once you hit a certain number of sins, you were too far corrupt, even for a place such as hell.

He took a steadying breath through his nose that came out much shakier than he would have liked. Collect your bloody wits, Ash . He needed to explain Felicity’s presence here. And telling Colborn she was here for revenge by sleeping with his father wasn’t exactly Ash’s first choice.

But perhaps he could say she was here about the betrothal. That she was concerned. Yes, that could work. It would be a great way to lead into a conversation about his son needing to clean up his act.

His son needed to grow up and learn that the world was not his due. Which meant Ash needed to practice some tough love, actually be a father, and stop handing over anything and everything Colborn asked for, cleaning up his messes for him, allowing him to shirk any and all responsibilities. Then perhaps Colborn would start turning into a man—a husband—who could make Felicity happy.

He stared at the broken shards of the porcelain washbasin, eerily similar to the battered muscle in his chest. His stomach sloshed violently again. Most definitely not guilt that time. That was a deep, acidic agony eating him from the inside out. Because, fuck, his heart wanted her so badly. With the way it squeezed and constricted inside his chest, he thought it might be trying to sneak through his ribcage to run off and be with her.

But unlike his heart, his brain knew that wasn’t an option. The only thing he could do was try to ensure she had a semblance of the future she wanted—a happy future with a respectful, faithful husband—by speaking with his son. That Ash could do for her.

A soft snick came from behind him.

“Sam, we are not having this conversation right now, so save your breath.”

No response.

A soft whoosh whispered in the quiet of his chambers.

He frowned and spun around to face his chamber door. That sounded suspiciously like fabric…

His heart froze, and his brain deserted his skull. Because that was most definitely not his best mate standing naked in the middle of his chambers.

No, that was Felicity.

His breaths came strangled, short and sharp and not nearly enough to provide his body with the oxygen it required. His eyes, traitors that they were, drank her in. He couldn’t help it; his gaze went to her breasts immediately. Her shoulders were rolled back, basically offering them up to his eyes to feast on.

Blood fled the rest of his body and settled in his groin at a dizzying rate. He staggered a step before he collected himself. Collected himself as much as one could when a naked goddess stood in front of oneself.

His gaze skittered down to where her waist narrowed until it flared back out at her hips. Hips that led to the glorious curves of her thighs, muscled yet soft. And between those thighs? A triangle of auburn curls that would forever be imprinted into his brain. His cock pulsed, ached. It would seem he was always aching for her.

He wasn’t sure it was fair that the fates created someone so perfect. It sure as hell wasn’t fair the fates had thrust her in front of him. Dear God, Ash, don’t think the word thrust right now. Because the thought of being buried inside her? Being as intimately close to her as physically possible? His heart climbed up his throat, suffocating.

His gaze traveled back up her body until he met her gaze. Her chin jutted out, determination hardening her features. But even with her jaw set and mouth pressed in a thin I will not fail line, there was a slight quiver to her lips.

“Felicity…” He ground his teeth at how hoarse and heated his voice came out. He tried again. “Felicity, what are you doing?”

Her lips trembled more violently when her mouth parted to speak. “I was informed of C-Colborn’s arrival. I came here for revenge, Your Grace. My time is up.” She drew in a stuttered breath. “Th-This is my last chance.”

The hard set of her jaw melted away, determination transforming into desperation before his eyes. Her delicate nose flared, amber eyes turning wild, her gaze darting around his chambers. He slowly stepped over to her, and by the time he reached her, her entire body was trembling, vibrating like an anxious horse seconds from breaking.

“You want to sleep with me for revenge?” he whispered, and he feared she could hear just how much his soul longed for her in his ragged words.

She nodded, but the tears brimming in her eyes, the torture swimming there, said otherwise.

“I-I cannot marry him. I cannot do it.” Her voice was raw, broken, just as he was.

A tear broke free, and he wiped it away with his thumb. But he couldn’t pull his hand away. He kept it there and cradled her face, her eyes falling shut and squeezing out a few more stray tears.

“I will speak to him, Felicity.” He choked out the words, words that were toxic on his tongue. They scraped against his painfully tight throat, dragged forth like jagged bits of gravel. “I promise you I will make him change his ways. I have not been the father he needs, but if I try now, I know I can turn him into a man you would be happy with. It won’t be as you think. I will fix this for you.”

He would do everything in his power to reshape her future, ensure it was bright and full of promise. Worthy of a woman as remarkable as she.

Felicity turned into his hand and kissed his palm before a shaky breath coasted against his skin. When she looked back at him, the misery storming in her amber irises was like the lash of a whip. He would submit to endless lashings if it meant protecting her from pain.

“I will never be happy with him, Ash. No matter what you do.”

And her next whispered words were like the drop of a guillotine on his heart.

“I cannot spend a lifetime married to him and a lifetime looking at you.”

His strength fled him, and his forehead fell against hers.

“I would rather face a life alone than live a life always watching you from afar… Knowing I will never experience your touch.” Her breath danced over his lips, hovering there. Haunting him. “Please give me this one memory. So I have it to hold on to.”

He closed his eyes and let agony slither around him, slimy scales closing around him tighter and tighter. His heart was blown apart, a piece of glass shattered into shards that kept doing damage, inflicting small wounds inside his chest.

He mourned the loss of her, even now with her in his arms. But this was his fate—forced to love her from a distance, smothering the emotion. Emotion he knew would fight valiantly to resurface with every future visit from her and his son.

It was his punishment. Penance for the sins of his past. For the sin he had committed only hours ago.

And he feared this punishment might be the one that finally broke him.

He was at a loss of what to do. How he was to handle the crushing weight that was rapidly becoming too much to bear.

But what he did know was he needed to get her out of his chamber. Because he was not thinking straight, and this—sleeping with her, regardless of if it was for revenge or the desperation of two people destined for a life apart—was not the answer.

So, he lifted his head and committed her to memory. Committed to memory the woman that was his undoing.

He traced the slim arch of her brow, the delicate tilt to her nose, the soft curve of her cheek, the gentle fullness of her bottom lip. He let his hands trail down her arms, soaking in the softness of her skin. And because he was a glutton for punishment, he trailed his nose against her neck, breathing in the scent of flowers and Felicity.

He kissed his way down her chest, squeezing his eyes painfully tight against the burn building there as he made his way past her breasts, breasts that were not for him. His fingers absorbed each indent of her ribs, the slight swell of her stomach, the ridges of her hipbones. He paused, crouched before her, and rested his head against her stomach, his breath labored and uneven.

And then, with his last ounce of restraint, he picked her robe off the floor and wrapped it around her. He turned her around and gently guided her to the door.

He sent her away.

Even though it killed him.

He sent her away.