Page 87 of The Duke of Desire
Ivy stalked away from him, heedless of where she was going. Once she was outside the cardroom, in the octagon room, she turned to the left and went into a doorway. It was the stairwell up to the musicians’ galleries. She didn’t go up but stood in the darkened shadows to regain her composure.
West wanted to marry her. Was it because of the risk of a child? She didn’t want his pity. But was that all it was? Could it be possible he wanted to marry her for her?
If she was with child, she’d be a fool to say no. The difference between raising a bastard in God knows what kind of circumstances and the child of a duke was cavernous. She’d do what was best for the child, even if it meant suffering his libertine lifestyle.
Her heart clenched in anguish as she leaned back against the wall.
“There you are.” The masculine voice startled her.
Ivy focused in the dim light and sucked in a breath. It wasn’t West, but Peter. Apprehension swept through her. “What are you doing here?”
Peter stepped farther into the stairwell. “I saw you leave the cardroom. What were you doing talking with the Duke of Clare? I thought you said he wasn’t courting you.”
She flattened herself against the wall, growing alarmed that she was trapped. “He’s not.” Though it wasn’t for his lack of trying.
Peter moved toward her. “Perhaps he’s just trying to get what you gave me all those years ago. I wouldn’t blame him. You’re incredibly beautiful, much more alluring than you were in your youth. I daresay you’re more experienced now too. I’d like to find out.” He stepped close enough that he filled her vision.
Ivy pushed at his chest. “You’re vile.” She tried to get past him, but he clasped her waist and pressed her into the wall.
“I’m not finished yet. I think I’d like a sample right here. Right now.”
She shoved him harder, digging the heels of her hands into his ribs. “Don’t touch me!”
He stumbled back but quickly rebounded with a snarl. He advanced on her again. “Don’t forget that I can make your life miserable. I’ve been paying attention tonight. I know who your employer is. What would Lady Dunn say if she knew the truth about you?”
Ivy’s shoulders drooped. She didn’t want to bring shame upon the viscountess. She couldn’t. “What do you want?”
“A kiss to start. You’ll be my mistress. I’ll get you a house here in Bath and then move you to London for the Season.” He smiled encouragingly. “It won’t be taxing for you. Indeed, it will be a vast improvement on your current situation. I don’t wish to be a boor—we were good together all those years ago. It will be good again. You’ll see.”
Ivy stared at him, wondering how he could possibly believe she’d want him after the way he’d abandoned her. “I was terribly foolish then.”
“Yes, but now you’ll have me to take care of you.”
Rage and hurt swelled inside her and burst free. Without thinking, without care, she swung her hand up and hit him in the eye. He jumped back, giving her the opening she needed.
And she ran.
After watching Ivy leave the cardroom, West had gone directly into the tearoom next door, which, like the last assembly, was being used as a room for only gentlemen to drink and wager. He waved for a footman and sat down at an empty table.
“Whiskey.”
The footman nodded.
West scowled. She was being stubborn, he told himself. Except he knew it wasn’t that simple, not when she brought up his reputation. That, unfortunately, was a valid argument against marrying him. He’d never demonstrated an interest in taking a duchess or a desire to remain faithful to one woman for a long period of time.
How in the hell was he supposed to convince her that he’d changed, that for the first time in his life, he wanted one woman—for as long as he could imagine. Forever.
He tossed back the whiskey and signaled the footman for another. As he brought it to the table, West saw Bothwick enter. Fury nearly pushed him from the chair, but he didn’t rise. He couldn’t just go over and hit him, as much as he wanted to.
Instead, he drank the second whiskey.
Then Bothwick’s gaze landed on him. His brows drew down, and he moved purposefully toward West’s table.
West tensed, ready—and eager—to strike.
A footman arrived at the table just as Bothwick did. The viscount requested a whiskey, and the footman took himself off.
Bothwick pulled a chair out and flounced onto it, grimacing. “I saw you talking to that woman—Miss Breckenridge? She’s not who you think she is. Though maybe that doesn’t matter if you’re just looking for a shag.”
