Page 21 of To Defend a Damaged Duke (Regency Rossingley #2)

The duke’s hand was already outstretched.

Both men knocked back a tot of brandy, and then Tommy took the duke’s glass and refilled it.

The oil lamps in the study had long run dry, so he lit a couple of candles, lending the room a dark, secretive air.

The little moonlight not hidden behind clouds landed on the duke’s pinched, white face.

“Lord Lyndon is clearly unaware that we have unearthed the identity of your list sender,” Tommy said. “I suggest we keep it that way for as long as possible. We cannot best him until we discover precisely what it is that he wants and how to dispense with it.”

Ashington swallowed, wiping the back of his hand against moist lips. “We?”

Tommy busied himself with the decanter. “Regardless of…of what has passed between us, I am a part of this.”

A man less distraught than the duke would counter that Tommy’s involvement had reached an end.

“Be that as it may, but I am at a loss to understand why you would offer your assistance further.” Running his hands through his hair, the duke paced towards the window to look out over the street. “After everything I’ve done to you?”

Tommy regarded the duke, his strong frame hunched in on itself, his white knuckles fisted against the glass.

He heard the abject fear in his voice, the bewilderment.

The pain and the hopelessness. Damn the man for needing Tommy.

Damn him for how Tommy had loved him. And how he should still hate him now for abandoning Tommy to his fate.

The bald facts grated against one another like an out-of-tune violin.

Damn Tommy’s own damned bleeding heart.

“That night at the Hart claimed enough innocent lives,” he said at last. “God knows it is not deserving of another.”

Tommy’s head hesitated to reveal more; his blasted heart and tongue paid no attention.

“Because you were young. And because I, too, have known terror. And I would not wish that desperate, bleak helplessness on anyone. Neither a duke nor a pauper nor my worst enemy.” A choke rose in his throat. “And you…you are far from that.”

“Youth is a pitiful excuse,” the duke spat. “I will not hear it. It was the behaviour of a coward.”

“No. It was the behaviour of a boy. A boy who, in the heat of the moment, saw his entire world crumbling.” Tommy laughed harshly. “And he’d have not been wrong. A natural human instinct for self-preservation took over your conscious thought. You did not wish to be captured or die.”

Wretchedly, the duke clawed at his hair. “Oh, Tommy,” he answered barely above a whisper. “Would you believe me if I told you I have died a thousand times since?”

“Only a thousand?” Tommy’s voice was brittle. “I wished you dead more often than that.”

“You do not still?” The duke twisted from the window in surprise.

“I…no.” Wearily, Tommy shook his head. “I grew into a man. I discovered that hatred is a heavy burden.” Especially when counterbalanced against love . He permitted himself the smallest of smiles. “I channelled that fire into survival. Frankly, I did not have time for it.”

The duke blew out a long breath. “Your capacity for forgiveness does you credit, sir.”

Covering the floor of the small study in three long strides, he returned his empty goblet to Tommy.

Uncertainly, they faced each other. Cheeks pasted with high colour, the duke was sadder, older, and wiser than the boy Tommy had once loved.

But the boy was still there; a glimmer of him stared back at Tommy now, out of two dark eyes, bright with unshed tears. More than a glimmer.

“You don’t hate me,” the duke stated thickly. “Not anymore”

Tommy’s tongue dried. He couldn’t recall his heart ever pounding so fast. Very slowly, he shook his head. “No. I do not. But, by God, it is not for lack of trying.”

The duke’s cologne filled Tommy’s senses—bergamot, woodsmoke, musk, the scent of a narrow bed in a tiny garret.

He inhaled again, to be quite sure. He counted the lashes framing those oh-so-dark eyes, now hazy and restless.

A small scar, only visible this close, marred the smooth bridge of the duke’s nose.

And then a warm tongue pressed into Tommy’s mouth. Tommy wasn’t certain if he’d reached up or the duke had tipped his head down. But it mattered for naught because he knew that when he kissed this man back, when he melded his mouth to the other’s, his mind would never hold a rational thought again.

The duke’s shy reserve did not extend to his tongue. Tommy leaned into the heated urgency of the thing, into the wall of solid man kissing him as if the world would stop turning if he didn’t. The duke groaned, a rumbling from deep in his belly, like a roll of thunder chasing a lightning bolt.

“You should be biting me, not kissing me after all I’ve done, Tommy.”

“You mean like this?” On a husky laugh, Tommy nipped at his lower lip, pulling on the plump meat of it before deepening the kiss. Another needy sound escaped the duke’s throat.

“How sweet you taste, as sweet as I remembered.” The duke’s breath hit Tommy’s cheek in hot, shallow gusts. “Your lips…” In disbelief, he swiped a finger against his own wet ones. “They are like sugar. Nightly, I have dreamed of them.”

Tommy shook his head. Perhaps his poetic raven was not so very changed after all. “I see you are still a foolish romantic.”

“Yes!” The duke laughed hoarsely, sounding incredulous. “I do believe I am. Now the seal of the last decade has been broken, I’m only getting into my stride.”

He plundered Tommy’s mouth once more as if, in the space of a few minutes, he would make up the lost time. His arms came up, crushing Tommy against him, and for the sweetest of moments and on weakened knees, Tommy surrendered to it. To all of it.

“Lord Francis will be wondering what has become of you,” he panted as Benedict finally put him down.

“He’ll be imagining you’ve followed your other brother down the back steps.

” Somewhere along the way, the duke’s damp hair had separated from its neat part and now stuck up in delightful black clumps like ruffled feathers.

“Or I’ve slain you with a blunt cudgel.”

The duke’s reply was a gentle smile. “You’ve slain me, it’s true,” he whispered. A fingertip stroked across Tommy’s lips. “But with this deadly weapon.”

He pressed a tender kiss against Tommy’s temple. His hand cupped Tommy’s face, and like an unloved damned alley cat, Tommy rubbed his cheek against the warm palm. His poor guarded heart had never stood a chance.

Long after the man bid him farewell and long after his footsteps disappeared down the corridor, the taste of the duke’s kisses still lingered on Tommy’s tongue. He still fancied they were there with him when he awoke the next day.