Page 45 of The Duke of Ruin
He turned his head toward her. “Aren’t I?”
“Oh, stop with that! I’ve no idea what you’re guilty of because you won’t say. But for me, you’re guilty of nothing save trying to help me. Y-You’ve done more for me than anyone I’ve ever known. You are not a m-murderer.”
He propped his head up, mirroring her pose. “You don’t know what I am.”
“Because you won’t say.” She wanted to know. She needed to know. “Did you kill her?”
He stared at her a long moment. Her pulse raced as she both anticipated and dreaded his answer.
He rolled over, presenting his back to her, then got to his feet.
Her stomach fell. He wasn’t going to tell her. She should’ve expected it. She knew him well enough by now—he didn’t discuss what happened to his wife. Not withanyone. Not even with his pretend wife. “Where are you going?” she kept her voice even, without demand.
“I just need to walk. Or something.” He drew his breeches back on, followed by his stockings and boots. “Go to sleep. We need to be up before dawn.”
And with that, he left.
She flopped back onto her back, frustration roiling through her—both because of his attitude and because she was still physically aroused. She could always do what he’d taught her…
Mrs. Woodlawn had said he was a good helpmate. She’d no idea.
If they were so bloody good at playing husband and wife, perhaps they should just go to Gretna Green and make it official. That would solve everything. Her parents might not be thrilled at her choice of duke, but he was still a duke, and Diana would still be a duchess. Moreover, her father’s grandson would be a duke, and that would make everything else that had come before palatable.
For that reason alone, Diana hated the idea. Anything that would make her father that happy was surely a disaster in the making.
Only, shedidn’thate the idea. She liked Simon. She was fairly certain he liked her. They seemed to be attracted to one another. Everyone else believed they were happily wed, so maybe they could be.
She knew he wanted a family. But he was afraid. He might not beableto marry her.
Furthermore, she wasn’t entirely sold on marriage. To live in such a close relationship with another person… She wasn’t sure she was capable of such a thing. Of love.
She was sure of one thing, however. She couldn’t choose what she really wanted—the independent life with a new identify. If she did, Simon would truly be what everyone said: ruined.
The last twodays had been grueling. Simon stifled a yawn as the coach hit a rut, jostling the interior. Diana, who’d been asleep beside him, sucked in a breath, clearly startled. She rubbed at her eyes and slowly pushed herself up.
He didn’t know how much she’d slept in Manchester last night—she’d tossed and turned for quite some time. He knew that because he hadn’t slept much either, not because they’d shared a bed. After a long day of travel from Brereton, they’d found a tiny inn on the outskirts of Manchester. He’d introduced them as Phineas Byrd and his sister Miss Kitty Byrd. Diana had looked at him in surprise but hadn’t said a word.
The innkeeper had given them a room with two beds. Diana had taken her meals there, choosing to remain out of sight as much as possible. Though he’d been careful to lodge away from the main road, he didn’t blame her reticence.
“That’s Beaumont Tower,” she said a bit hoarsely, her voice craggy with the remnants of sleep, as she gestured toward the window.
Simon leaned over her, careful not to get too close—they’d maintained a polite distance since leaving Brereton. Outside the window rose a hill, and atop it sat a large fortress. “It’s a castle.”
“Yes, it dates to the twelfth century and was substantially rebuilt in the sixteenth. Shakespeare stayed here once.”
“Indeed? Will I be given his room?”
Her lips curved into a rare smile—they’d become scarce the past two days. “I’m sure that can be arranged.”
The coach turned from the road onto a narrower track. They gradually began to climb up the hill toward the tower.
“When was the last time you were here?” he asked. Their conversation had been stilted since leaving Brereton. She answered his questions with brevity and a seeming disinterest, never putting in effort to continue an exchange. He kept thinking of the other night and how flustered she’d been. He wanted to ask about the stuttering. She hadn’t done it to that extent since, but he couldn’t believe that had been the first time, not the way she’d behaved. She’d measured her words and tried to speak more slowly but had still struggled. He suspected it was an ongoing battle.
If he were honest with himself, he’d acknowledge that he wasn’t making much of an effort either. She’d rattled him with her questions about Miriam’s death. That, and he knew their time together was coming to an end. Better to keep her at arm’s length. No revealing discussions or sharing of thoughts. And definitely no kissing.
Except that was all he could seem to think about when he closed his eyes. Which would explain his exhaustion. He yawned again and stretched his hand over his mouth, angling his head away from her. He didn’t dare sleep, not when she was so close, and his body could reach for her without conscious thought.
She smoothed her hand over her hair. “Thank goodness for hats,” she murmured.
