Page 56 of The Duke that I Lost

But now he could look at her.

She lay sprawled, sated, her skin glowing a delicate pink.

One foot lifted to hook against the table’s edge, baring a sweep of creamy thigh and the delicate curve of her calf. This woman…

She was the very embodiment of allure without even trying.

But then her arm rose, covering her forehead, hiding her eyes, her throat working as she swallowed hard.

Retreat.

He felt it as surely as if she’d taken a step back.

Unwilling to let her vanish into doubts, Dash lifted himself, climbing onto the table beside her.

At the movement, she turned her head.

“Will it hold us both?” Her voice came out husky, a little trembly.

Dash nodded, stretching out and propping himself on one elbow so he could study her face. “I hadn’t foreseen this use,” he admitted with a crooked smile. “But yes, I’ve become quite the craftsman this spring.”

This spring…

For a time, neither of them spoke. The hothouse was filled only with the rhythm of their breathing, the creak of wood beneath their weight, and the distant hum of the carriages traveling on Audley Street.

He wished he could suspend the moment, this cocoon where reality could not intrude.

She turned at last, catching his gaze. Then, with a small, surprising tenderness, she lifted her hand and touched his lips. Her fingertip lingered there.

“I haven’t,” she whispered, closing her eyes.

“Haven’t?” he asked softly.

“With Lord Grimstead.” Her throat worked as she swallowed. “With anyone.”

The words echoed in his skull.

All this time, she had kept herself apart—kept herself for…him? Relief struck first, but it was followed at once by the familiar ache of doubt.

“And you won’t,” he said hoarsely. But then he searched her face. “You have decided then, have you not? You will let me court you? You will come with me?”

She would give them a second chance.

What they had just done should have been answer enough—her body’s surrender, the way she had clung to him, the way she had shattered beneath his touch. Yet still he needed to hear it, needed the words spoken.

But she closed her eyes, lashes trembling, and gave him only silence.

What. The. Hell.

His heart splintered, that she could still hesitate, even now.

“This, you and I, we are once in a lifetime.” He barely recognized his own voice for its urgency. “ Une fois dans la vie . Do you not see it? Do you not feel it?”

She nodded, though her lashes lowered, hiding her eyes.

“You are not in love with him,” he insisted. “You cannot be. You would not have given yourself to me if you were.”

Again, she nodded—yet squeezed her eyes shut, as though bracing for pain. “I do not want to hurt him. I know… what that feels like. He is a good man. He was good to me when you were not here…”

Dash watched her swallow hard, his heart pounding so loud, surely she heard it too.

“So you have not decided?” The question scraped raw in his throat, uttered for the second time.

“I need to speak with him.”

Was she punishing him? Did she want him on hands and knees?

“Damn it!” His curse split the silence, shattering the fragile peace between them.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered, pushing herself upright. A single tear slipped free, catching on her cheek. “I cannot simply change my entire life in the space of a few months without considering everything that’s happened.”

“I know,” he ground out. “Damn it, I know.” He had been so patient—but she had been patient too, and then suffered for it.

He sat up beside her, shoulders tight, stiff, then jerked his legs to the floor. Rising, he tugged his trousers into place and began fastening his falls. His fingers fumbled over the buttons, clumsy where they had once been deft.

She slid from the table after him, skirts falling askew about her ankles, her bodice slack and gaping. For a moment she tried to hold the fabric together with both hands, her arms crossed over her chest, but the effort only emphasized her helplessness.

Merde . Dash stepped forward. “ Tenez-vous tranquille, princesse ,” he muttered, rough with frustration but unable to stop the endearment. “Hold still.”

His tone was sharp, but his touch was not. His fingers, though hurried, were gentle as they drew the stays into line and fastened each hook. The intimacy of dressing her again cut deeper than undressing her had. Every tug a reminder of what he was losing.

Her lashes lowered as he worked, and he thought he felt the faintest tremor in her shoulders, whether from sorrow or regret, he could not tell. When he finished, he smoothed the fabric once before letting his hands fall away.

She lifted her chin then, but when she searched his face, he could not meet her eyes.

He had nothing left to give.

“If I don’t hear from you in three days’ time, I’ll leave for Dasborough Park without you.” His voice was flat.

Her hand drifted to his arm, light, tentative.

He flinched at the touch.

“I’m sorry, Dash. I’m so sorry.”

Her words, steeped in anguish yet empty of promise, hung in the air.

He did not move. He only stood there, listening. The door opened. Her footsteps receded—each one a dull hammer striking the silence, striking him.

He waited until even the faintest echo was gone.

And then he erupted.

With a savage kick, he sent the table crashing onto its side, the splintering crack ricocheting through the hothouse like the echo of his breaking heart.

Three days.

A sharp bark came from the doorway. Lancelot waddled in, disapproving of the noise.

The dog trotted to the overturned table, lifted his leg, and relieved himself upon it.

If that wasn’t indicative of the entire damned situation, Dash didn’t know what was.

He bent to rub the hound’s head. “Not sure I can fix this, old man.”

Lancelot barked once.

“I know,” Dash muttered. “I know.”