The Duke (Victorian Rebels, #4)

by Kerrigan Byrne

Lord, how it irked him. How little he regarded her, but how much he noticed her.

Layer by layer, lash by painful lash, he’d been carved away from himself, from his humanity, until nothing but that primitive savage remained. Once he’d been rescued, the struggle to regain his sense of civility became his only imperative. When nightmares played on the backs of his eyelids every time he closed them. When he had episodes like this one, where his body betrayed his dignity, and the beast threatened to overtake the man, demanding he execute or escape. When paranoia stalked his every interaction, and suspicion became his only companion, he grasped onto the one principle he knew to be true. Every man was an animal.

“You know some big words for such a small woman.” “And you have a small mind for such a big man,” she volleyed back, raking him with a disgusted glare.

“Life, with all its perils and torments, still belongs to the living. We have a responsibility to live it. You should not waste it by giving over to bleak despair.”

“Oh, please don’t laugh,” she begged. “It feels too … delicious. I can barely resist you when you’re an ill-tempered brute, how do I have any chance if you’re laughing?”

“I would fall in love with you if you’d let me.”

“He knows that I was bought once. One night. That you turned a virgin into a prostitute. That you paid twenty pounds. I may have sold myself to you, Your Grace, but I was never cheap.” “You cost me more than you know,” he snarled. “Likewise!”

“You can’t know how sorry I am that you suffered on my account. But just because you bought Ginny for one night, doesn’t mean that you own me. Doesn’t mean that I owe you anything, least of all an explanation.”

The man she loved had been determined to be her foe. That was her tragedy. He’d longed for Ginny, but he’d constantly rejected Imogen.

He’d let the injustice he’d suffered turn him into someone hard and angry. She’d been shown benevolent mercy, and had let it take root within her. She’d protected her newfound life with secrets. And, in doing so, destroyed any chance she had with the man she’d wanted. It seemed fate would have her choose between her two passions. She’d made the choice, because in the end she wanted a man who would let her have both. His love, and his support of her chosen path.

He’d pompously thought the whore he’d fallen for would take him in whatever capacity he offered. That she’d be happy to accept this broken, bitter, barbarous man he’d allowed himself to become. It had never occurred to him she’d want more. Or that he had no right to her secrets. That he had no claim on her heart.