What I Did for a Duke (Pennyroyal Green, #5)

by Julie Anne Long

Oh, there would come a day when she would do more than tolerate him, he’d decided.

Marriages were mysteries, and well he knew. And tension could not set in where closeness hadn’t once been.

“But you like me,” she accused slowly. “Nonsense. For one thing, you are far too clever. Which is not at all restful. I could never relax a single moment knowing you’ll see right through me at all times.”

My esteemed Venus— These reminded me of you. In my dreams, your lips are just this soft. —Your devoted servant, Mars

“So the duke isn’t courting you?” “Such a preoccupation with the duke! To my knowledge, the duke isn’t courting me. His conversation is hardly loverlike. Though he did seem to take an inordinate interest in legal matters. Matters of inheritance, specifically.” “Legal matters?” “Yes.” She darted up the stairs and called over her shoulder. “. . . Specifically he was curious whether or not you’d made a will.”

“I thought I’d settle in for a read of this later.” And when Moncrieffe had left the room, Ian took a few steps into the library and read the title: Poisonous Plants Native to Sussex.

He would ask nothing else from life if he would be allowed to protect and cherish her for the rest of his.

Because he’d known the sort of loss that sent a man spiraling into nothingness as surely as if he’d been dropped out of the sky. He’d felt the wind of the abyss whistling behind him. And so of course he was afraid. Because he was staring down yet another loss. But that didn’t mean he was a coward. When he returned to his room he still didn’t sleep. For he knew what he would do next, and soon. And no man slept the night before that sort of thing.

“Are you unwell?” she tried. “Un—” This for some reason seemed to astonish him. He blinked. “No.” He frowned. “But . . . is something amiss?” “No.” “But you look so—” “Hush,” he said. She was startled to be shushed by him, and not a little affronted. Confused, she obediently pressed her lips closed and folded her hands in a parody of schoolgirl obedience and waited. Glowering. But it was a few seconds more before he finally spoke. He seemed to be listening to a rush of thoughts in his head. “We could marry,” were the words he finally produced. Oh. The breath went out of her in a gust. “Each other,” he clarified, when it seemed she would never say anything. Would just stare.

He reached a finger beneath a chin, where a bead of sweat traveled, and drew his fingertip up her throat. She slapped his hand away. He froze. His eyes flared. A warning. She doubted anyone ever slapped him. And lived very long thereafter. She didn’t regret it. Her hand stung. It was worth death to her in that moment to slap him. And then she watched as he leisurely touched his fingertip to his tongue and sucked her sweat from it.