Page 20 of How to Love a Duke in Ten Days

In their moments together, he’d not detected a trace of true disgust. Fear, but not revulsion.

In fact, he’d imagined for a brief moment that he’d read admiration in her whisky eyes. The kind of feminine appreciation his looks had entitled him to his entire life beforethe incident.

Which made absolutely no fucking sense.

In his experience, people often reviled what they feared, or vice versa. So, if she wasn’t repulsed by him, why fear him?

Had he been mistaken? Had he read admiration where none existed?

Perhaps his physical reaction to her had somehow interfered with his powers of observation, and his speculation was nothing but fanciful tripe.

A latent yearning for a captivating woman to return his desire.

Because it had been ages. Or, at least, what seemed like ages.

Glancing up toward the turrets of Castle Redmayne with frank detestation, he tossed the cloth aside with undue violence.

It would be ages more. Possibly never.

Tugging his damp shirt from his trousers, he whipped it down his shoulders, away from the chill bumps blooming on his skin. God’s blood, it was cold. Cold as gray stone and the merciless sea.

This place. This fucking castle had always been thus, he imagined. Cold. Empty. Miserable. From the momentthe Viking, Magnus Redmayne, had mercilessly claimed Torcliff and the surrounding land, up until the current fucking useless lord, it seemed that nothing at all could make this place hospitable.

Piers glared out into the unrelenting storm across the vast castle estates and down to the treacherous red cliffs. Maynemouth Moor, where fifes and fishermen had once lived, had lately been renovated into charming cottages and even boasted a seaside resort.

Where is Dr. Lane resting her head tonight?he idly wondered. In some cozy stone bungalow with an equally erudite man, no doubt. Cecil, did she mention his name was?

Lucky bugger.

They probably pored over maps together, speaking animatedly about curious dig sites, and cursed tombs.

Cecil.He spat on the ground. What a name. Probably wore spectacles and a smart mustache. Likely had a hunchback from bending over texts, soft, scholarly hands and—Piers stroked his beard—and a weak chin. At least he hoped the punter was possessed of a weak chin. Or weak arms, at least.

Piers pictured them in one of the little homes on the moor hunkered over a well-worn desk using bloody, damned—he didn’t know what—magnifying glasses and cartographer tools or some such.

Cecil would make a terrible pun. She’d lift her delicate chin and laugh with her entire body, her eyes sparkling with tears of merriment. They’d take dinner. And drinks. Sherry or brandy.

Piers’s lip curled at the thought, tightening his scar. A painful reminder why a woman like that would rather have academic Cecil over a hard-hearted huntsman like him.

He kept all the beasts at the accursed Castle Redmayne.

So, what was it about this storm that made him envisage another destiny? What if he’d been born another man?

Suddenly that cottage on the cliffs became something else. The man at the table wasn’t good old Cecil.

Dr. Lane greeted Piers, instead, with enthusiastic kisses and a lively story about a runaway horse. Before unpacking the maps and magnifying glasses, he’d light the golden lanterns and check her properly for bruises. Peel away her soiled kit and bathe the chill from her bones. He’d stretch her out upon a rickety brass bed that made unholy noises and proceed to welcome her home properly.

After, he’d feed her from his hands and watch her features beam with enthusiasm as she discussed fucking Borneo or wherever she’d returned from.

Maybe, in this pleasant fiction, they’d take their restless spirits and find meaning and fulfillment reading the bones of the dead.

And why not? Let Cecil keep the beasts at Castle Redmayne.

A sheet of brilliant lightning blanketed the sky, reflecting off the turbulent ocean below the cliffs and wiping away the image he’d so preposterously invoked of a life he could never have.

Christ.When did he develop a penchant for revolting sentimentality?

Piers stared into the dark storm long enough for his entire torso to go numb, watching as one by one the cottages at Maynemouth Moor tucked in for the night.