Page 23 of Taken By the Broken Duke
“How dare you…”
“I dare because I must!” Juliet shot back. “Because I must take control of my own life. Especially if you will forever hold over me the debt I owe to you for taking me in, and then treating me like a burden. Perhaps I would have allowed myself to be married off to the Duke, had I been asked. But I wasn’t! He gave his orders and you made your plans and no one thought to consult me. No! I will not marry him! I will not stay here!”
Juliet turned and fled from the terrace, down the moss-covered steps, and into the wild, untamed forest below the gardens. Aunt Margaret’s shrill voice followed her, demanding her return. But Juliet ignored her. She kept on running.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Three days.
Horatio felt as though he were waging a war with himself. For three days, he had tried to avoid his house guests—avoid her.Juliet.
The task should have been simple enough, given that two of the three largely kept to themselves. And yet, even despite her cousin’s constant interference in his day, Juliet was impossible to ignore.
He reminded himself she had entrapped him, that her family had schemed to use his prestige for their gain. This was the child who had been persuaded to lie in order to disgrace him. A child whose words had led to Horatio being stripped of his title and exiled.
But then she had been just that, a child. Impressionable and vulnerable. Could he truly hold it against her? He exhaledheavily, book in hand, sinking deeper into the armchair in the Red Study, a secluded room in the south wing of Ravenscourt Castle.
Its mahogany flooring was burnished red, as were the cedar beams that supported its vaulted ceiling. A single chair stood before a stone fireplace with a table at its side. That table was piled with Horatio’s favorite books, the ones to which he returned time and again. Tall, narrow windows set high in the wall let shafts of sunlight fall into a room otherwise devoid of natural light.
It was his den, his lair from which he could escape company. Not that he hosted much company. But the room always made him feel safe. Now, he tried to read but his mind kept returning to the girl with the burnished red hair and bright green eyes.
Just then, a sharp thud interrupted his musings.
The door to the study flew open, and before he could bark a question,Frances Godwinstumbled in, clutching her skirts. A small, satisfied smile lit her face when she saw him.
“Ah! Your Grace,” she exclaimed, breathless. “I knew I would find you here.”
Horatio arched a brow. “And you have. For the third time today.”
“Oh, hardly.” She swept into the room with an air of practiced ease, brushing off invisible lint from her sleeve. “I have beensearching for you everywhere! You are rather difficult to get a hold of.”
Not difficult enough, it seems.
Horatio crossed his arms, leaning against the edge of the desk. “For what purpose, pray?”
She held up a folded scrap of paper. “I lost my embroidery pattern. I thought I might have left it here. Mother says you spend most of your time brooding in this chamber, so I thought…” She trailed off with an artful shrug.
“Your mother is well-informed, though I can’t say I have seen any embroidery patterns lying about.” He gestured around the room. “You are welcome to search, however.”
Frances tilted her head, a playful glint in her eye. “You would not mind, then? If I disturbed your solitude?”
“So long as you don’t mind disappointment.”
She gave a light laugh, stepping closer under the guise of inspecting the desk. “I never mind disappointment. It is the anticipation I enjoy.”
Horatio resisted the urge to groan. “And what precisely do you anticipate finding here, Miss Godwin?”
She leaned closer, her perfume—a cloying mix of roses and vanilla—invading his senses. “Perhaps a deeper understanding of my host.”
“Then I am afraid your pattern is not the only thing you have misplaced.”
She laughed again, soft and melodic, and stepped back just enough to toy with the edge of a book on his desk. “You have quite the collection here. A man of letters and wit. How charming!”
“I don’t think anyone has ever accused me of being charming,” he replied dryly, plucking the book from her hand and returning it to its proper place.
“Oh, but you are,” she insisted. “In a dark and brooding way. Ladies find that irresistible, you know.”
“Do they?” He moved past her to the window, hoping the conversation would end itself if he became sufficiently uninteresting.
