Page 20 of While the Duke Was Sleeping (England’s Sweethearts #1)
Adelaide lay on her bed, staring up at the canopy, turning Rhett’s penis over and over in her hands. She would have to return it, obviously. One couldn’t hold on to a man’s member forever, regardless of how perfectly shaped it was and how the feel of it reminded her of the lustful boiling beneath her skin whenever he touched her. But how, exactly, to hand it back? Should she sneak back into his room and tuck it beneath the shirt under which she’d found it? Or should she attempt to return it to him in person? Should she hand it over across the dinner table and then ask him to pass the salt?
The truth was, she didn’t really want to give it back. It was a highly, highly unusual memento of a person, but in a day or two, it would be all she had of him. A marble penis and the memory of their kisses. She couldn’t stay. She was falling in love with Rhett, and Rhett was falling in love with a woman who didn’t exist.
No. She needed to avoid him as much as humanly possible. Once the duke woke, Adelaide would sneak out of the house, collect her money from Cordelia, and find an equally hidden town to escape to.
There was a knock at the door. Rhett. She should have known he would not have gone quietly. He would want an explanation. She might as well get it over and done with. She hefted the penis in her hand. Time to hand you back too.
She padded over to the door, setting her shoulders in anticipation of what would follow. He would want to know why she had rushed out of the room as though the hounds of hell were on her tail. One moment she’d been throwing herself at him, and the next she was running. That behavior deserved an apology and an explanation. What a pity she couldn’t tell him the truth.
“Rhett,” she said, opening the door.
“Neither of my nephews, I’m afraid.” Frank’s smile was more of a leer, and immediately the wrong sort of shudder ran down her spine.
“I’m afraid you have the wrong room,” she said calmly, ignoring the clattering of panic in her chest. She swung the door shut, but he put out a hand and entered before she could stop him.
Della’s throat tightened. Her gaze went straight to her bed, underneath which an emergency bag was concealed. It was a small pack that carried a change of clothes, her few valuables, a medical kit, and enough hard cheese to feed her for three days. It was her “go-fast” bag, ready to be deployed the moment she felt her safety was in question. Like right fucking now, Adelaide.
The only problem was that Frank stood between her and it. The only weapon she had in her reach was the heavy piece of marble in her hands. That would be formidable, assuming she could get a full swing in. But she didn’t want to fight if she could avoid it. Frank was bigger than her, by fifty pounds at least, and he had that semi-wild-eyed look of a man who was running on more than a good night’s sleep. Cocaine, perhaps, or the wildest mushrooms.
She had two options: turn around and flee, which would get her out of any immediate danger but would still leave her at the mercy of his machinations, or negotiate, assuming he was a man who could be negotiated with.
“What do you want?” she asked with confidence she didn’t feel. She knew men like this. They preyed on the weak. They searched for women who kept their heads down and eyes averted. She shot him a piercing stare. His reptilian grin widened.
“I’ve known Cordelia Highwater since she was born. Her father and I are old friends. You are not her.”
That figured. The Duke of Thirwhestle was an unpleasant man. It made sense that his friends were equally unpleasant. “I’m her lady’s maid. So again, what do you want?”
Frank walked to the desk by the window and poked around the few items Adelaide had stored there. “Where is Lady Cordelia?”
“Safe.” It would take less than ten minutes for him to discover the cottage—too many people had been there after the duke fell—but those ten minutes would give Adelaide time to reach her, protect her.
He looked back at her. “Does your mistress know you are dressing up in her clothing?”
“It was her idea.” A bloody stupid one.
Frank narrowed his eyes. “Lady Cordelia barely deigns to speak to those she thinks beneath her—second sons included. She would not tolerate a maid standing in her place.”
“Self-preservation convinces us to do plenty of things we otherwise wouldn’t.” Like you going along with this idiotic farce, Adelaide.
He settled himself in her chair and picked up a pencil from her desk, twirling it between his fingers. “Did she hurt the duke?”
“No.” The word was quick and as sharp as she could manage. “It was an accident. Peter tripped. Cordelia had nothing to do with it.” Della fought the urge to cross her arms; instead she stood with arms akimbo, ignoring how vulnerable it made her feel.
“Pity. I might have had more respect for her if she had.” Frank didn’t seem even remotely affected by his nephew’s current state. He spoke of it as though he were speaking of bad weather, or taxes, or the condition of the road between here and London.
“What do you want?” she repeated. He was toying with her, taking pleasure in her discomfort.
“Trapping my nephews into marriage, was that also Cordelia’s idea, or were you simply taking advantage of the situation? Your resourcefulness is admirable.” He tapped the pencil on the desk three times, hard enough to crush the graphite. “I respect it.”
Della swallowed, still frozen to the spot. “That has never been my intention. I’m not trying to trap anyone.”
Frank cocked his head, clearly skeptical. “Interesting, because Everett seems quite besotted.”
Her heart soared, then Frank leered, and her heart crashed and burned, caught in the tangle of insurmountable problems.
“What do you want?” she asked, surprised she could get the words out without choking.
“I want what you want.” He leaned back in the chair, crossing his legs at the ankle. “I want you and Everett to live a long and happy life together.”
That wasn’t it. It couldn’t be it. It was too easy. It was too kindhearted to come from this man.
“On the continent,” he continued, and the other shoe dropped.
“Why?”
“Why?” he murmured. He traced patterns on the desk, glaring at them, leaving smudges in his wake. “Because I want what my brother was given freely but I was denied simply because of the order of our birth.” He scratched a line into the polish. “Because when Peter dies, the estates will fall to Everett.” Another line. Another deep scratch. “Because with Peter dead, only the boy stands in my way.”
Frank looked up, catching Adelaide’s stare in a viselike one of his own. “He can saddle himself with the title and all that comes with it and be miserable, or he can choose to live life as he pleases.”
“Leaving you with control over the estate, I assume.” It made so much sense—if he could get Rhett out of the way, he’d have the power he so clearly lusted for.
Frank shrugged. “Someone has to do it. It might as well be me.”
Adelaide shook her head and stepped to the side, leaving a path clear. “Rhett will make an excellent duke,” she said firmly. “He’s intelligent and kind and just, and he feels the responsibility of the title deeply. He will not abandon his duty so easily.” She gestured toward the door.
Frank snorted, showing no sign of moving. “Everett Montgomery? The same Everett Montgomery who was expelled from Cambridge for setting a half dozen pigs loose in the dining hall? Who has made a name for himself tupping discontented married women in ballroom alcoves? Who has spent the past five years sunk so deep in debauchery he formed gills to breathe through the booze?”
It was a picture of a man she didn’t recognize. Perhaps that was who he had been, but it’s not him now, and no one can see it but you.
She set her shoulders and straightened her spine. “I won’t do it. I won’t encourage him to go back to that life.”
Frank smirked. “But you will, because when the duke dies, powerful people are going to want to know why. From where I stand, you look pretty culpable. Cordelia will run and hide behind her father’s title, leaving you to take the fall. A life on the continent with the man you’re sleeping with is more appealing than gaol, don’t you think?”
Adelaide’s momentary confidence vanished. He wasn’t wrong. If the duke died, she had only Cordelia’s word that she wasn’t responsible, and Cordelia was a child who could not be relied upon. Adelaide swallowed hard. She could barely force her voice above a whisper. “And if the duke doesn’t die?”
Frank chucked the pencil aside and stood. “If the duke doesn’t die, you have bigger problems than me. I can’t imagine he’ll take well to being assaulted. But rest assured, my nephew will die. He’s had naught to eat nor a proper drink for days. His body won’t hold out much longer.”
He’s right. God damn it. The handful of ice chips they’d managed to feed him would not suffice for long. “Get out,” she whispered. “Get the hell out.”