Page 37 of The Duke's Wicked Widow
Och, aye. He’d been staring atthisparticular page for the last ten minutes, and any passersby—not that there were many, despite the sun’s attempts—would become suspicious.
Turning the page of a flimsy newssheet was harder than it looked when one was wearing winter gloves.
After cursing quietly for a few moments, and having to lick—actually lick!—the finger of his leather gloves, Fawkes managed to get the damned page turned, shook it out, and settled behind it once more.
He’d made certain he didn’t look out of place here in Belgravia. His mother had always insisted he dress as the gentleman he arguably was…except when he wasn’t being a gentleman at all. Society might not accept him, but his fine hat was settled atop appropriately coifed hair, his greatcoat was tailored and warm, and his feet were encased in shiny leather.
He felt like a fraud.
Buta fraud who would fit in here in Belgravia.
The officer assigned to patrol the area and protect the wealthy homeowners had nodded to him once already today, and the day before yesterday, and the day before that.
Fawkes had an invitation, after all.
When he’d received Ellie’s note—the morning after he’d spilled inside his trousers as her pleasure had gushed down his chin—he’d read it a dozen times.
It had included her address—as if he hadn’t known it—and the details of her bedchamber’s location. And a simple request:Come to me, please.
Notgiving into her had been the hardest thing Fawkes had ever done.
Instead of creeping into her house like a criminal, that night he’d drank himself into oblivion, which he’d regretted the following day. He knew what she wanted from him—a bairn—and knew he couldn’t give it to her.
Shouldn’tgive it to her.
He didn’twanthis child being raised by another. He’d grown up without a father’s name and had always promised himself that wouldn’t happen to a child of his.
But…
He’d fooked her, that first night.
He’d fooked her, and she might even now be carrying his bairn.
Besides, she was in his blood now, and he couldn’t seem to get rid of her, of merethoughtsof her.
Every bite of food he took, he compared the taste to her. Every patch of darkness he glanced into reminded him of her eyes, midnight blue shading to black.
And every time he took himself in hand—devastatingly often, damn her—he thought of her curves, her perfect imperfections, her welcoming wetness.
No wonder he hadn’t been able to stay away.
At least pretend to read the paper, eh?
Frowning, Fawkes ignored the brisk breeze, shook the paper out again, and locked his gaze on an article about the declining health of the Duke of Stroken. The man was dying of a “weakness of the heart”, the same thing which had killed his wife years earlier, when Fawkes had been a young man.
The same thing which had killed Bonkinbone.
But unlike the other two, the Duke’s illness was natural. And had nothing to do with him.
Fook. Think of something else.
Like the townhouse across the square. The one he wasreallystaring at while pretending to re-read—yet again—the article.
Cumnock House. His cousin’s house.
Herhouse.
He’d alternated the times of day he’d visited this square during the last week, because he remembered the lessons on surveillance he’d learned from Blackrose. And it had worked; he’d seen Ellie twice.
