Page 21 of The Duke's Wicked Widow
Exhaling, he stoppered the vial and slid it into the box with the others.The Duke of Death, eh? That’s what his clients—what Blackrose and Bonkinbone, and shite, even Effinghell, his friend—called him. But with this batch, he’d ensure someone’s life was a little easier.
Unlike Ellie’s.
Fook. He’d been doing so wellnotthinking about last night’s encounter!
Cursing himself, he yanked the leather apron over his head and hung it on its hook. How in the shite was he supposed tokeepfrom thinking of Ellie?
Thinking of the way she’d wrapped those lips around his cock? Thinking of the way she’d looked at him as if he was her goddamnhero?
Thinking of the way she felt when he sank into her warm wetness.
Christ, lad, ye’re going to need another hand-frigging.
Fawkes glanced down at himself.
But first, wash yer hands, eh?
He was careful to lock the door as he stepped out of the laboratory. It was likely unnecessary, and if someone were to break into his flat, they’d find it extra difficult to get at his poisons. But still. Safety first.
In the washroom he braced his palms and stared at his reflection in the mirror. Last night, he’d fooked his cousin’s wife—widow—while staring at her reflection, just like this. But unlike the working girls of the East End, shewantedto conceive.
Fawkes’s child.
His cousin’s heir.
Fooking hell.
It wasn’t until he turned off the water that he heard the knocking at the front door and his breath froze in his chest.
He was already moving for the front room before he’d fully thought through his actions, scooping up the knife from the table beside the door.
This wasn’t the first time someone had come to him so long after dark. Blackrose knew where he lived and the bastard was bound to return from Canada at some point. Or perhaps it was a messenger from Auld Gus, the barkeep who took orders for the Duke of Death.
Or maybe it’s Ellie.
He knew which one hewantedit to be.
Nay. Ye dinnae want to see her again.
Did he?
For the first time since he’d heard the knock on the door, Fawkes allowed himself to inhale. What if itwasher, returning?
Christ, dinnae let it be her.
Please, let it be her.
His fingers made short work of the locks, then he was yanking open the door.
Ellie.
Ellie.
She was standing there, this time with her shawl wrapped around her shoulders, that same nervous expression on her beautiful face. One of her hands made as if to reach for him.
“Nay,” he rasped, uncertain if he was talking to her or himself.
“Please do not send me away, Fawkes.”
