Page 83 of The Duke of Desire
“It died.”
He tried to take her into his arms, but she backed away.
“Don’t.” She heard her voice crack and summoned her anger. Not at him, at herself. She’d foolishly given in to her desires again, and she had no one to blame but herself. Guilt and shame scratched up her throat and turned her insides to pulp. “Let me go.”
She stumbled from his bedchamber into a short corridor that led to a sitting room.
He came up behind her, barely touching her back. “I’ll take you out. Let’s get your gloves and bonnet first.”
He led her back down the servant stairs and into the drawing room. Her hat was on the settee and her gloves were on the floor. He fetched the items and brought them to her.
She snatched the bonnet from him and went to a mirror on the wall. Her hair was a fright, but she slapped the hat over the top of it, effectively disguising the mess. She swiftly tied the ribbons beneath her chin, then turned to take her gloves, since he’d followed her.
“I understand you need to leave, but we aren’t finished.”
She drew on her gloves sharply, causing pain between her fingers. “We are. I enjoy my life. You’ve done nothing but tempt me down a path I’ve already traveled and have no wish to revisit.”
He pinned her with a dark stare. “I am not the same as him.”
No, he wasn’t. But that didn’t mean he was better.
“I’m leaving now, and you can’t walk me out looking like that.” She didn’t dare lower her gaze to where his shirt gapped open, revealing a delicious glimpse of his chest and throat. Too late.
She stepped around him, careful not to get too close, even though she was drawn to him like a magnet.
“I’ll call on you,” he said.
She wanted to tell him not to bother, but not as much as she wanted to leave. Before she changed her mind. Taking a deep breath, she opened the door and left without looking back.
West nearly went after her. Until he remembered that he was only half-dressed.
Bloody hell.
He retreated to his study, his booted feet thundering across the floor as he went straight for the whiskey bottle. He poured and froze.
He’d just done this a short time ago when he’d fetched a glass for Ivy. Everything she’d told him rioted through his mind.
Whiskey sloshed onto his hand. Swearing, he replaced the decanter and promptly tossed what he’d poured down his gullet. Setting the glass on the sideboard, he licked the liquid from his hand. He smelled and tasted like her.
He’d never imagined she’d been through so much. Now her association with workhouses made sense. When he thought of her as an inmate… He wanted to kill Bothwick.
And a baby…
White-hot fury gathered inside him, and he had to take deep breaths to calm his suddenly racing heart.He was going to kill Bothwick.
Yes, he’d call him out. But he couldn’t wait for Axbridge. He thought of Sutton and Dartford. They’d help, especially when they learned why he was doing it.
Hell.
He sank into a chair by the fireplace and stretched his legs out in front of him, his shoulders drooping. He couldn’t call Bothwick out. The reason would become public—or some twisted version of it—and he wouldn’t put Ivy through that.
When he thought of the anguish in Ivy’s eyes, the way she’d broken down in his arms, he shuddered. He would go to any length to protect her, even if it meantnotcalling Bothwick out.
Goddamn Bothwick to hell.
Maybe West could just kill him outright. A duke could get away with murder, couldn’t he?
He let out an ugly laugh that was completely devoid of humor.
