Page 78 of The Duke of Desire
“Yes, but I think people might believe me if you’re the one telling the story to begin with.” She sneered at him, her body quivering with rage and hurt. “Perhaps it’s best if you just keep your mouth shut.”
He released her, giving her a little shove as he let go. “Watch yourself. I can find plenty of ways to make your life miserable.”
He turned and walked off.
Ivy stood there a moment, shaking, her bravado faltering. Fear crowded into the other dark emotions. What would he do? Whatcouldhe do?
She turned slowly, trudging along the street, her mind churning with disastrous scenarios in which he could ruin her life again.Again.
No.She wouldn’t let that happen. She couldn’t.
Her throat felt raw with unshed tears, and her head began to throb. With each step, she felt more wounded, more defeated. A stiff breeze blew over her, whipping her skirt against her legs and dislodging her bonnet from her head. It fell back, but the ties kept it from tumbling to the ground. A raindrop hit her forehead, and she looked up at the angry sky. She’d been too distracted to notice the coming storm.
She looked at her surroundings and saw the number on the town house: twelve.
Another drop hit her nose. Without thinking, she picked up her hem and dashed up the steps, where she lifted the knocker and rapped sharply.
The butler opened the door and looked at her with a shred of surprise. “May I help you?”
“I need to see His Grace.” She pushed inside without waiting for him to invite her. “Tell him—” Reason came back to her; she couldn’t give him her name.
“Good afternoon,” West’s voice boomed down from the top of the stairs. Ivy swung her head up and nearly collapsed at the sight of him. He started down. “This is my colleague regarding the workhouse,” he said to the butler. “I neglected to inform you that I had a meeting.” He smiled warmly at Ivy. “We’ll just meet upstairs.” He continued to descend, but Ivy rushed forward and met him halfway up the staircase.
He turned and walked with her but didn’t touch her. “Wait until we’re in the drawing room,” he whispered.
She focused straight ahead, her body feeling as if it didn’t belong to her. She felt disjointed and detached.
As soon as they reached the drawing room, he closed the door and turned to her. “What’s the matter? You’re incredibly pale.”
She heard the concern in his tone, saw the consideration in his gaze, and simply lost all control.
Her knees gave way, and she slid nearly to the floor. Only nearly because West swept her into his arms and carried her to a settee, where he gently set her down.
Tears spilled down her cheeks, and her body shook with the most horrendous, racking sobs. She fought to take in air as he removed her bonnet and stroked her temples, her cheeks, her forehead.
He sat next to her and whispered soothing words that she couldn’t understand. She was too far gone, too lost in emotion. She clutched at his lapels and let her head fall to his shoulder. His arms came around her, and he held her close, his hands massaging her back.
Gradually, the storm inside her began to ebb. She sniffed.
He pulled back, his eyes still unflinchingly kind.Please don’t lie,she silently begged them.
“I’ll be right back,” he said, waiting until she gave him the slightest nod before standing and walking across the room.
A few moments later, he returned with a handkerchief and a glass of amber liquid. He sat back down on the settee as she wiped her eyes and blew her nose. He took the cloth and tossed it on a table, then handed her the drink. “It’s whiskey. You need it.”
She wasn’t going to question his logic or his caregiving. Taking a tentative sip, she nearly coughed as the harsh brew worked its way down her throat. Soon it heated her from the inside, and she took another, more substantial drink.
“That’s right. One more.”
She drank again until it was nearly gone. He took the glass from her fingers and set it on the table.
“Now, do you want to tell me why you’re here, or would you rather I take you home?”
His generosity and integrity in offering to take her home showed her just how starkly different he was from Peter.
“I want to tell you why I’m here.” She didn’t even recognize her own voice. It was dark and raspy and very small. She tugged off her gloves and set them in her lap, then she offered him her hand. “My name is Mary Snowden.”
Her hand was like ice, but still soft and lovely. He resisted the urge to kiss the knuckles and then turn it over and press his lips and tongue to her palm.
