Page 55 of Scoundrel Take Me Away (Dukes in Disguise #3)

Accusations. Gabriel shouting, ranting, that his uncle had left him to rot.

Throwing out the wild speculation that perhaps he’d even hired the kidnappers in the first place to get Gabriel out of the way.

The answering fury on his uncle’s face, and his freezing tone as he acidly informed Gabriel that his abduction was his own fault.

If he hadn’t disgraced the family name with his degenerate behavior, drinking and whoring and gambling, he never could have been taken.

The truth of it piercing Gabriel to the bone, turning his vision white with an anger so livid, so encompassing, he couldn’t contain it.

I never want to see you again. You are no longer my family.

Uncle Roman’s shocked face. You can’t do this.

A smile that drew blood. I am Thornecliff. I can do whatever the fuck I want.

And he had.

Uncle Roman thought him debauched? Thorne would show him debauched.

Drinking to excess. Gambling until he knew how to win every hand, whatever it took.

Starting fights until he knew all the ways to end them, the dirtiest back-alley tricks and underhanded maneuvers.

Racing horses, betting, overturning carriages, ruining reputations, spreading gossip and lies because none of it mattered anyway, it was all so stupid and pointless.

Letting Wycombe house go to ruin because he couldn’t bear to step foot inside the hall.

Keeping Thornecliff only for Rosalie, because it was her family home too, and using it to throw lavish, depraved bacchanals that would make Roman sick when he received reports of them.

Throwing out everything Roman ever told him about how to manage an estate and doing it his own way, because fuck him. Needing money when the income stopped, trying on the mask as a lark, as a way to dare Fate and God and Uncle Roman (and weren’t they all the same thing?) to catch him this time.

Women. So many women.

Lucy.

Bold, defiant, too young. Even for someone as far gone as Thorne, she was too young. Too innocent. Too fucking tempting.

Telling her to grow up, furious that this slip of a girl could rile him so badly, hating himself for making her go.

Missing her.

Years of trying to subtly find out from her brother what she was doing in Europe, how she was doing. When she was coming home. Hating himself for caring.

Seeing her again. So jealous of himself he could scream.

Lying. Seducing. Somehow tricking Lucy into thinking he was worth something. Hating himself.

A kiss in the rain. One final chance to save Lucy from himself. The monumental effort of pushing her away.

I hate you.

He came back to the present with the floor hard beneath his knees and the sound of his own rasping breaths loud in his ears. He brought up a shaking hand to cover his hot, dry eyes while Dom cursed and tore out of the room, shouting for help.

Lucy hated Thorne. She’d always hated him.

He’d done everything he could to ensure it.

God. He’d fucked her, masked and pretending and lying and betraying her with every touch, every caress. And then he’d fallen.

And she’d discovered what he’d done. She knew all of it, all of him, all the ways he’d hurt her and her family, all the ways he’d deceived her…and she’d said they were engaged.

When they weren’t . A short stab of pain, brief and bloody.

They weren’t engaged. They weren’t anything, except two people who had lied so much to each other that the truth felt as distant as a star.

I told her I loved her last night , he realized with an ache that cut through him. And she said ? —

A noise at the door barely registered. The doctor, he supposed dully.

But then he felt a rustle of skirts against his legs as she knelt beside him on the rug. Cool, soft hands brushing back his hair.

He breathed in the smell of sugared lemons and held it in his lungs until they burned.

Lucy.

“Darling, are you all right?” Her voice wavered with worry. “Your cousin tore out of the house as though his hair was on fire, and now here you are on the floor—what is going on?”

He kept his eyes squeezed shut, like a child who believed if he couldn’t see the monsters, they wouldn’t be able to see him either.

A large part of him wished he could tell one more lie, and keep this strange, sweet fiction of a life where Lucy pretended to be his bride and pretended to love him—but he knew he couldn’t.

The time for lying and pretense was over.

Forcing his eyes open, his gaze roved over her lovely face, her brows pinched in concern and mouth beginning to pull down at the corners into an unhappy curve.

“I remember,” he said, his own voice unrecognizable. Harsh. Raw.

Something flashed in her blue eyes, a sharp flicker of fear. “What do you remember?”

Nothing , he wanted to cry. I don’t remember anything and nothing has to change.

But it was far too late for that.

“Everything,” he said, and watched the light die out of her eyes. “I remember everything.”

* * *

Lucy’s heart froze in her chest like a rabbit staring down the sights of a gun, then immediately kicked into a frantic pace.

Her hands tightened on his shoulders but when he pulled away to stand, she let him go and stumbled to her feet as well.

“That’s wonderful,” she said, hating the quaver in her tone but unable to steady it.

“Is it?”

In the terrible silence that followed, Lucy could almost see him drawing the mantle of Thorne over his shoulders.

She knew it for what it was now: armor. Defense. Protection for the vulnerable, abandoned, betrayed boy he’d been—and never wanted to be again.

She knew him so well now, Lucy thought in despair. Which was why it surprised her not one whit when he cast himself down into one of the chairs in an elegant sprawl and looked up at her with dark, hooded eyes.

“I remember it all,” he said with a careless gesture of one long-fingered hand. “Including you passing yourself off as my betrothed. A fitting vengeance for my many crimes, I’m sure.”

Lucy tensed. “You think I told my family and friends that we are engaged in order to punish you for something?”

“Why else?” He shrugged, but his face was still and watchful.

“To protect you,” she said evenly. “From being found out as The Gentle Rogue. And to protect myself, of course?—”

“From being found with The Gentle Rogue lying in your garden after falling from your window, yes.” His lips quirked into the semblance of a smile. “What an awkward position my clumsiness put you in.”

Awkward. That was a good word for this conversation, Lucy thought bleakly. Awkward and painful beyond belief, to look at this man she’d held in her arms and taken into her body and to whom she’d surrendered her heart…and see a stranger staring back at her.

No, not a stranger. A mask. The old Thorne mask he’d fashioned from pain and loss and trauma, and wore to hide his true self from the world.

No wonder he’d been attracted to life as a highwayman. How much simpler to tie on a scarf and a domino, and poof , be someone else.

“I remember everything that happened between us, too,” Lucy said, moving to stand beside the window where she could look out at the plum tree shedding its silken petals over the kitchen garden. “For instance, I remember what you said last night before we fell asleep.”

“Come, Lively, you know better than to hold what a man says in bed against him,” he replied with a sardonic twist to his tone that she hated. “Or on a settee, as it were.”

“Why are you doing this?” she whispered, though she already knew. She’d always known he would push her away the moment his memories came back.

The more fool her, for allowing herself to forget.

“I’m not doing anything,” he denied. “Merely trying to sort out the past few weeks, which have been uncommonly eventful. Surely you agree.”

“Last night,” Lucy pursued doggedly, her gaze riveted on the plum tree, “you told me you love me.”

She heard him shift in his chair. Probably shrugging again, the wretch. “And last week you told me you hate me. We are people of strong passions, Lively.”

“I don’t hate you,” she said.

His voice hardened to cold steel. “Yes, you do.”

Anger sparked to life in her chest, a welcome change from the bleak despair that had been creeping over her since she entered the dining room. “Don’t tell me how I feel.”

“Then don’t lie to me.” His voice sharpened. “Or is it yourself you’re lying to? Either way, it needs to stop.”

“Yes, let’s tell each other the truth, for once,” Lucy shot back, whipping around to glare at him.

His black eyes burned in his calm, expressionless face. His posture was loose and easy, deliberately casual, but Lucy’s gaze caught on his white-knuckled grip on the arms of the chair.

The cracks in his composure gave Lucy hope.

“Fine,” he said, releasing the chair to cross his arms over his chest. “What do you want to know?”

She asked the question that had been on the tip of her tongue for days. “Why did you push me away that night I came to find you at The Grand?”

He frowned, and she knew she’d surprised him. “That’s it? Not, why did you become The Gentle Rogue? Or even, why did you seduce me as the highwayman, even knowing you’d never go to bed with me as Thornecliff?”

If he thought that, he hadn’t been paying attention. “I know why you became The Gentle Rogue, and I’m fairly certain I know why he came to my window rather than Thornecliff. Answer the question, please. Truthfully.”

His jaw worked. “I was bored.”

Lucy shook her head. “Lie. Try again.”

“I wanted you to leave before you got hurt.”

Lucy’s heart thrummed. “Closer. But not quite. Once more?”

He shot to his feet and paced a few steps, one hand raking through his golden hair. “I wanted you to leave before I got hurt, damn you. Are you satisfied?”

Melting, Lucy took a step toward him, only to freeze when he put up his hands to hold her off. His eyes were wild now, his color high, his chest heaving. No trace of the enigmatic, supercilious duke lingered.

“The last thing I want to do is hurt you,” Lucy told him, her throat tight. “You’ve been hurt enough.”