Page 22 of The Duke's Wicked Widow
He wasn’t. He couldn’t.
Heshould.
But instead he reached out and grabbed her hand, yanking her toward him. After he pulled her into the flat he glanced down the corridor, assuring himself that no one had seen her come to his home.
“Why are ye here?” he hissed, latching the chain once more before turning to her.
She stood in the center of the parlor looking so bloody…lost. “Please,” she whispered again, wrapping her arms around her middle. “I was scared.”
Scared? Fawkes lurched toward her before he remembered himself and pulled up short. “Of what? Who?” His hand tightened on the knife’s handle.
He’d killed men before, aye, and he’d do it again to protect someone as gentle and soft as Ellie.
Yer cousin’s wicked widow.
But she was shaking her head. “Nay, I am scared…that we failed last night. I am scared it was not enough, that I am not pregnant.”
Fawkes felt the band around his chest ease, even as his shoulders slumped and he felt…deflated.
Deflated and angry.
“Fooking shite,” he muttered under his breath, turning away to replace the dagger where it belonged. “That’swhy ye came back? Because ye want me to fook ye again?”
Her voice was quiet when she asked, “Do you want me to beg?”
Groaning, he scrubbed a hand over his face.
This was his worst nightmare. And his best daydream. He’d only met her twenty-four hours ago and she’d been impossible to exorcise from his thoughts.
He wanted her again.
But he hated how she was using him.
“Please, Fawkes.” When her hand landed on his forearm, he started. “Was it not enjoyable for you?”
With a growl, he whirled on her. “Do ye realize how spoiled ye sound,milady? Ye stand here in yer simple clothes, chosen so ye can pretend to be someone ye’re no’, forgetting yer dead husband and yebeg another man to fook ye?” He stalked past her in disgust, knowing he was going to give in. “Ye’re so desperate to hang onto yer title, ye’re going to whore for a nobody like me.”
Except she wasn’t the whore in this scenario. He was. Wasn’t he?
“The title means nothing to me, Fawkes. I am just…I have nothing.”
He snorted as he poured himself a whisky from his grandfather’s decanter, the one Mother had gifted him on his twenty-first birthday.Nothing. “Ye’re a viscountess,” he muttered.
“Your aunt and uncle—”
“Dinnae dragmeinto this,” he snarled, glaring. “They’ve never acknowledged meormy mother.”
Lady Estella MacMillan might be the older sister of an earl, but they didn’t share a father. All it had taken was one indiscretion, one unmarried affair which had resulted in Fawkes…and her half-brother had turned his back on her.
Ellie’s dark eyes flicked across his face, then she dipped her chin once in agreement.
“The Earl and Countess approved of my marriage to Rufus to cover certain…rumors. Of his tendencies. We convinced Society this was a love match, and I was fond of him. Certainly, I was proud to be marrying a viscount.”
“Ye’re proving my point,” Fawkes growled, before taking a gulp of the whisky, enjoying the harsh burn.
She slowly removed the shawl, folding it and then refolding it, as if not certain what to do with her hands. Or anxious for an excuse not to meet his glare?
“The Earl is an exacting man, and my house—myhusband’shousehold is loyal to him, not me. Your cousin Jasper—”
