Page 69 of The English Duke
She didn’t think he was damaged.
She had a quick wit, was loyal and kind.
He could do worse for a wife. In fact, considering that she was an heiress, he couldn’t think of another candidate for the position who would be so ideal.
She had, even virginal, been eager to explore passion. He’d been caught up by her, enchanted, and nearly overwhelmed.
Would she want him? He had a suspicion she didn’t give a flying farthing if he was a duke or a footman. Would she be miserable if her grandmother forced her to marry him?
The next few minutes would tell, wouldn’t they?
He made his way down the corridor to the guest chamber and knocked on the door. The Yorks’ maid opened it and stood aside for him to enter.
Mrs. York sat up in bed, commanding the room with the aristocracy of the queen. Josephine sat on the chair beside the bed.
Martha was nowhere in sight.
He nodded to Mrs. York.
“Are you feeling well?” he asked.
“No, Your Grace, I find I’m not. In fact, I’m feeling disturbed and disappointed.”
That comment put to rest any thought that this meeting might be for an innocuous reason. No doubt the tension in the room was natural, given the circumstances.
“I’ve been forced to ask you to attend me because of your behavior and that of my granddaughter.”
Was that why Martha wasn’t in the room? To shield her from any humiliation? If such was the case, why was Josephine here? As an unmarried woman, it was hardly proper for her to be present at this meeting.
“Josephine has confessed all,” she said.
He stared at the woman.
He was having trouble marshaling his thoughts, no doubt a residual effect of the elixir.
“What?” It was, in his defense, the only word he could think of to say.
“My granddaughter has told me you’ve taken her virginity, Your Grace. Do you deny it?”
He looked at Josephine, trying to reconcile her image with the one he’d already formed in his mind. His waking dream had been Martha. Hadn’t it been her?
He’d threaded his fingers through her hair, marveling at how it had curled around his hand. He’d kissed her lips, lips that were fuller than Josephine’s. Her breasts had filled his palms. He’d heard her soft, throaty voice in his ear.
Or had it all been wrong, his mind’s wish to make less of a disaster of the circumstances? Because that’s what this was, a bloody, undeniable catastrophe.
“Do you deny it, Your Grace?”
Josephine suddenly gave out a sob, then dabbed at the corners of her eyes. He’d never before caused a woman to weep. Or if he had he was unaware of it.
Words were impossible. They would simply not make the journey from his brain to his lips. He felt as if he was still under the effects of the elixir, the room hazy and not entirely in focus. Sunlight streamed in through the window and it was too bright, almost glaring. His thoughts were chaotic, unformed: the only word making itself known was simple and declarative.No. No. No.
He looked at Mrs. York, caught by her sharp gaze, held aloft by the strength of her will.
When he’d first surfaced after his accident, he’d been told he’d broken his leg and pelvis. He’d never be the same. He would never walk again. He would be in constant pain. His life, as he’d always known it, was over. He’d heard those words with the same disbelief he now heard Mrs. York’s.
His concept of himself, whole and unbroken, had had to endure a new birth, one taking place over months of learning to walk again, pushing himself from one milestone to another.
This transition—a new birth as well—took only minutes, but instead of hope he felt something in him die. An excitement, an enthusiasm, a need he’d not even known was there.
