Page 121 of Her Beast of a Duke

His eyes dropped to her mouth before rising back to her face.

“The what?” she asked.

“Aphrodite,” he repeated. “Well, I never got your name, and we met at the lovers’ painting, so I called you that in my head.”

Hermia laughed, shaking her head. “And I have dubbed you the Ares from the art show.”

She was not happy about it, not when she was still vibrating with fury at what he had done.

“Well,” he answered, amused by her admission, “I looked for you, regardless. You did a good job of hiding yourself in London.”

Because I was sent to the countryside the following morning.

She did not tell him that part.

Heavens, he stood so close—close enough that she could see brown flecks in his eyes, the shade of the dark, mysterious parts of the ocean.

Swallowing hard, Hermia forced herself to step away, before thoughts of how his lips had once parted around the birthmark apparently depicted in the painting, how he had let his hands wander before his mouth did, and how he had coaxed noises from her she did not know she could make, could overwhelm her.

Her face burned, and she busied herself by pretending to adjust her cloak.

“I will do everything in my power to restore your family’s reputation,” he promised. “I will meet with your father. I have sold several antiques to him during my auctions over the years.”

That part was true; her father had mentioned it to her.

“I will make a public announcement, claiming your innocence,” the Duke continued. “I will pay off the scandal writers and speak with connections. Everybody will know that you are completely innocent, that you and I have never met before today. A coincidental likeness.”

“We have met, though,” Hermia pointed out. “That was my last defense, and now I have lost it. I never imagined the audacious duke who painted me to be the… the man who knows where my birthmark is.”

At that, he looked away and cleared his throat.

“Regardless,” he said thickly, “I will restore your family’s name. I have some expertise in the area.”

Still dubious, Hermia studied him. But her attention eventually drew his own back to her.

He didn’t look away from her, but the longer she stared, the more helpless she felt. Somehow, she didn’t trust the words of this man, no matter how safe he had made her feel that night.

One night, she had dared to live for herself, and this was the consequence.

There always was, and she should have known better.

“I must go home,” she said. “My parents do not know I snuck out, and I have a long journey ahead of me.”

Before he could ask why it was long, she opened the study door. Right as she did, thunder clapped overhead, and lightning flashed through the sky.

She jumped, releasing the door handle.

The heavens opened, and rain fell like a sheet, hard enough to patter noisily against the glass.

“How are you getting home?” the Duke asked, his eyes fixed on the storm outside.

“I have Aphro—I have my horse,” Hermia said, not wanting to draw further attention to her fixation on the night they had spent together.

“No,” he answered. “Absolutely not. You are not riding out in the storm. You will take one of my carriages. Your townhouse cannot be far.”

“I am not supposed to be here,” she admitted. “And I-I reside in our country home.”

“I cannot let you go out in this rain on horseback,” he insisted. “It is torrential, you will catch your death. Take my carriage; I will hitch Aphrodite to it.”