Page 22 of The Lady's Guide to Well-Endowed Dukes
“No.” He looked at her with beseeching eyes. “I began this, but I was wrong.”
Despite the warmth of the afternoon, a chill enfolded her.
He wanted her as much as she wanted him.
She knew it to be true.
A man didn’t kiss like that unless he felt something.
“You still plan to wed.” Her voice wasn’t her own.
He looked wretched. “Think of your own marriages. Did you make them because you fell in love?”
Of course she hadn’t. As sister to a viscount, she’d always been assured a level of social acceptance. Coupled with beauty and wit, there had been nothing to stop her from making almost any match. But there was a reason she’d sought out the husbands she had. Love—at least on her side—had not been a prerequisite. In return, she’d enjoyed great wealth and, more importantly, freedom.
Only now was she rethinking what she needed.
Her funds were sufficient that she need not marry again. As for position, there were circles in which she wasn’t welcome, but she couldn’t summon much regret on that count.
“If I break off the engagement, Miss Maitland will be humiliated. I can’t be responsible for that and maintain any sense of self-worth.”
How could she argue? He’d made his feelings plain from the start. Nothing but her own foolishness had led her into thinking it might be otherwise, and she truly did feel a fool. He was set to marry a nice, innocent girl—young enough, almost, to be her daughter.
“You’re right. Forgive me.” She made herself say it. She was the one at fault, tempting him to throw away his self-respect for…what exactly?
Whatever problems Rockley thought he had, he’d overcome them eventually, and sire the heir he deserved. That ship had sailed for Estela. Even were she willing to bear a child for a man she thought she might care for, her age made that highly unlikely to happen.
“We should go down.” Without further appeal, she began the descent. By the time she’d reached the bottom, her mind was made up. The only possible answer was to have nothing more to do with him. The alternative would lead to actions they’d both regret. “Would you be kind enough to return to the restaurant? I wish to sit in the cathedral for a while, but I won’t be long.”
His eyes were anguished, though whether on his own behalf or hers, she couldn’t say. “Let me stay with you. I can sit far off if you prefer.”
“Kind of you, but not necessary.”
She needed to reassert the version of herself with which she was more familiar. Emotions were always a bad idea. She’d had it right from the first. What she needed was a damn good rodgering, and if His Grace didn’t wish to oblige, she’d find someone who would.
Leavinghim at the bottom of the tower, Estela moved into the half-light of the cathedral. It was eerily quiet, compared with earlier in the day. An elderly woman, all in black, knelt nearby, her hands clasped in prayer. In a side chapel, one of the clergy was polishing the crucifixes adorning the small altar.
She was going to do something terrible; something blasphemously wicked—purely to remind herself of what she was capable. This was who she was: a woman without scruples who took what she wanted.
Prissy Lord Rockley, who couldn’t make up his mind, could jump in the harbor for all she cared.
Entering the side chapel, she touched the robed man’s sleeve. He was younger than she’d anticipated. A novice priest? It would explain why he was conducting menial duties. Nevertheless, when she whispered in his ear, he nodded, leading them towards the confessional.
Only once the door on his side was closed did she cast her eyes the length of the nave, assuring herself they were unobserved. The next moment, she was slipping into the gloom of the booth where the young man sat.
He started in surprise but made no sound. Nevertheless, she placed one hand upon his mouth. With her other, she caressed his cheek—as yet untainted by any growth of beard. A brush of her lips across his eyelids brought the quickening of his breath.
She’d barely had time to take to her knees when the door opened behind her. A figure loomed on the threshold, silhouetted against the light.
The figure of Lord Rockley.
CHAPTER 9
She was so angry—withherself, with him, with everything!
Holding her nose, she dipped backward, holding herself beneath the surface of the bathwater, letting it close over her head entirely. When she came up for air, water sloshed over the edge of the tub and across the bathroom floor.
He was an arse; a pompous, self-righteous arse who had no business interfering. He was going to marry his Miss Maitland and, she, Estela, was going to carry on doing whatever the hell suited her.
