Page 67 of The Truth About Love and Dukes

“You mustn’t think I blame you in any way.”

“That’s a change from twelve days ago.”

“Yes.”

“I’ve failed in the task you set me on.” She looked down at her desk, making a show of straightening her blotter, then looked up, squaring her shoulders. “Are you going to take my paper?”

The question shocked him, though he knew it should not have done. He’d set these stakes, and he certainly hadn’t given her any reason to believe him too much of a gentleman to follow through. He could never take from her something she loved. “I never would have taken it, Irene,” he said. “I know you probably don’t believe that, but I was angry, and desperate, and—I am not ashamed to admit it—afraid for my mother’s future. In hindsight, I see that my expectation that you might be able to persuade her against her course was unrealistic, not to mention unreasonable. And I am sorry for it.”

“You were only trying to protect her. I see that now.”

“Yes, but one can’t protect everyone all the time. Not even me.” He managed a laugh. “Especially not me. Which brings me to what I really came here to say.”

She frowned, looking understandably bewildered.

He crossed the room, moving to stand before her, glad there was the barrier of a desk between them. “As I said, we go on Friday. Angela wondered if your sister might come, too, if that would be acceptable? I do not think,” he added before she could answer, “it would be appropriate for you to accompany her.”

The hurt that shimmered across her face hurt him, too, like a knife in his chest. “Right,” she mumbled and looked away. “Of course not.”

“Irene, you mustn’t misunderstand—”

“I couldn’t anyway,” she said, her voice overly bright. “I’ve been away from the paper far too much as it is. And there’s my father to consider. He’s not well, as you know, and . . .”

Her voice trailed off, and for the life of him, he could not mask what he felt. “I can’t have you there, Irene,” he said, throwing his own pride to the winds, his voice a harsh and desperate rasp. “I can’t. Not under these circumstances. My past conduct makes it clear I cannot be trusted in your company.”

She ducked her chin. “Because of last night,” she whispered, pink tinting her cheeks.

“Yes. And because of that night in the library, and the images of you with me that plague my imagination, images you would find even more shocking than my deeds thus far have been.”

“Oh.” The sound was faint, hushed, and it was a long moment before she spoke again. “And yet,” she whispered, looking up, “all I can think about right now is throwing my pride out the window, coming around this desk, and flinging myself at you in the most immodest way.”

Henry froze, riveted, staring at her. The floor felt if it was slipping out from beneath him, along with all his honorable resolutions. “Irene, you have no idea what you’re saying. My . . . desire for you remains unabated.”

The blush in her cheeks deepened. “Yes. I . . . after last night, that fact is rather self-evident.”

“When you are near, I forget that I am a gentleman, and if distance is not put between us, I fear that I will continue to impose my attentions upon you. What do you think will happen to you if that continues?”

“I . . .” She paused, licking her lips as if they were dry, a gesture that drew him like a moth to flame. “I’m not exactly sure.”

“Forgive me, then, for I must be blunt. You are a virgin. You’ve never lain with a man. I’m right in assuming that, aren’t I?”

Her cheeks were scarlet now. “Of course I haven’t! Heavens, do you think I could ever let any other man touch me the way you—”

“Just so,” he cut in. “I must get clear of you, for if I do not, I will continue to seduce you. It is a galling thing for me to admit,” he rushed on before she could reply, “but I doubt I would be able to stop myself, and I fear I will bring all the advantages of my superior experience to bear. If you do not succumb, I will continue to be in torment, and if you do, the consequences for you—for both of us—would be dire.”

“Sometimes, I think you think too much about consequences, Henry.”

“Yes, well, I have good reason to do so, given my past.”

“What do you mean?”

He looked down at his hat, crushing the brim in his fists. He did not want to tell her, but he knew he had to. He had to make her understand what, precisely, he was capable of. He looked up and met her gaze. “I was married once.”

“What?” Her pretty hazel eyes went wide. “But—”

“No one knows. Well, Mama knows, but no one else. Not even my brother and sisters. It was a long time ago. I was at university. I was only nineteen, she was seventeen. She wasn’t my sort. I persuaded her to elope, and we kept the marriage dark. It was not—” He paused, drawing a deep breath. “It was not a happy union. We separated completely within a year, and we did not see each other again after that. She died the following year. Cholera.”

“I see.” She bit her lip. “I’m so sorry.”

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