Page 54 of The Duke's Accidental Wallflower
Minerva didn’t know what possessed her, but before she could second-guess herself, she rose onto the balls of her feet and pressed a soft, sweet kiss to his lips. It was quick, barely more than a whisper of contact, but it held all the emotions she had been too afraid to voice.
When she pulled back, her heart was pounding, and she was terrified of what she might see in his eyes. But she needed him to know, needed him to understand that she had chosen to believe in him.
Evan’s eyes widened, his body momentarily tensed in surprise. But as she pulled back, he remained still, his gaze locked onto hers.
Minerva felt her cheeks flame, a rush of heat coursing through her at her own daring.
It took him a few seconds to recover, but eyes were wide and frank when he cupped her face, his hands gentle yet sure. Minerva barely had time to register the warmth of his touch before he leaned in and kissed her properly. This wasn’t a brief, fleeting kiss of gratitude; this was something deeper, something that sent a rush of heat from her lips all the way to her toes.
The feeling of his lips against hers made her stomach flutter and stole her breath away. In that moment, she admitted to herself she had longed for this moment. She had long desired Evan, and had even lied to herself about it.
His lips moved softly against hers, but there was nothing hesitant about the way he held her, as if he were anchoring them both to the moment. Minerva’s heart pounded so fiercely she thought he must surely feel it. The world around them seemed to melt away, leaving only the warmth of his embrace and the exhilarating awareness that she didn’t want him to let go.
When they finally broke apart, Minerva’s breath came in short, unsteady gasps. Her hands had somehow found their way to his coat, clutching the fabric as if to keep him there. Evan’s gaze felt intense, his usual playful facade stripped away to reveal something raw and earnest.
“Evan,” she whispered, her voice hoarse.
But then, he pulled away. His hands dropped from her face, and the look in his eyes shifted from warmth to horror. He stepped back as if he had committed some unforgivable sin, running a hand through his hair, clearly rattled.
“I never should have done that,” he said, his voice tight and strained. He looked at her, regret carving deep lines in his face. “I never wanted…” His words trailed off, his expression awash with guilt and anguish. Without finishing, he turned abruptly and left, his footsteps echoing down the corridor, leaving Minerva standing there, stunned and heart aching.
She stood frozen, the warmth of his kiss still lingering on her lips, but his sudden departure had replaced any joy with a cold, empty feeling. Minerva knew what he had been about to say, what he couldn’t bring himself to voice.
He never wanted her. It was always the same. No one did.
Only a rake would try to romance a woman like her. Minerva had always known that. Evan Pembroke, the infamous Duke of Colburn, was a man whose exploits were the favorite subject of every drawing room in the ton. She should have seen the danger the moment he turned his attention to her. Men like him didn’t pursue women like her with honorable intentions.
Good men—the kind she hoped she would marry—never seemed to look her way. They wanted women who were soft-spoken, delicate, and agreeable, not women who carried the weight of responsibility on their shoulders or refused to be anything less than themselves. Men might compliment her wit or hercleverness, but when it came to choosing a wife, they always turned to women who were easier, safer, and less likely to challenge them. Minerva was useful, even respected, but never desired.
Evan, and men like him, never cared for society’s expectations, but that was precisely why she should have kept her guard up. He thrived on bending rules and taking what he wanted, yet she had let herself believe she was different—that there was something more between them. She had imagined that his smiles and his words held some sincerity, that he might have seen something in her no one else had. Now, she wondered if she had been nothing more than a diversion for a man who thrived on the thrill of the chase.
Twenty-Two
Evan stormed through the front doors of White’s, the echo of his boots on the marble floor reverberating through the empty hall. He barely acknowledged the patrons as he passed; their curious glances were of no consequence to him now. His mind was consumed by what he had just done. He needed to drown the storm in his chest, if only for a moment.
He called for a drink and downed it quickly before motioning the bartender to leave the bottle. The brandy burned down his throat, but it wasn’t nearly enough to quell the turmoil inside him. He set the glass down with more force than intended, the sharpclinkagainst the tabletop reverberating in the silent room.
The dim midday sunlight filtered through the club’s tall windows, casting shadows over the polished mahogany table. After filling his glass again, he rolled his untouched glass of brandy between his fingers, watching the amber liquid swirl, but not really seeing it.
His mind was elsewhere—still caught in the memory of Minerva, of her lips pressed to his, and the raw, unguarded emotion he had felt in that fleeting moment. Guilt burned in his stomach, but his desire to kiss her again dared to compete for the stronger emotion.
Cedric settled into the chair across from him with a casual air, though his sharp eyes took in Evan’s haggard expression. “You look like hell,” Cedric remarked, his voice light but laced with genuine concern. “One would think you lost a fortune at cards.”
Evan let out a humorless laugh, setting his glass down with a soft clink. “Sometimes I think the latter is far more dangerous,” he said dryly. “And in this case, certainly more foolish.”
Cedric leaned forward, folding his arms over the table. “Ah, so it finally happened?” He arched an eyebrow, a small, knowing smile playing at his lips. “You have breached Fortress Bellington.”
Evan’s jaw tightened, and he ran a hand through his already disheveled hair.
“I did,” he admitted, his voice barely more than a whisper. “And I should not have. Everything my father ever said about me is true, Cedric. I am nothing but a bastard son of my mother’s lover, a man whose only legacy is acting on impulse and hurting the people I care about.”
The humor faded from Cedric’s expression, replaced by something far more serious.
“Evan,” he said quietly, “you are not your father, and you are not the man who raised you. Nor are you the sum of his sins.”
Evan’s heart twisted painfully at his friend’s words.
“Am I not?” he challenged, his voice rough. “My mother sought love elsewhere because my father was a cruel and unloving man. She fell for a man who treated her kindly—her lover, my real father. And yet, even knowing that, I still grew up under my father’s shadow, hearing him call me a disgrace, a stain on his name.”
