The Duke (Victorian Rebels, #4)

by Kerrigan Byrne

“You haven’t any idea the strength it takes to be a woman. In my experience, it is men who are the weaker sex. Either too undisciplined to control their baser, primal instincts or, conversely, they are too fragile to endure the discomfort of honesty or integrity. Yet women endure and survive by whatever means we are able. And still we are either property or playthings. We have as much use in the eyes of the law as a cow or a fertile plot of land. It is not wrong to mistreat us. To objectify us. To shame and demand things of us and bend us to your will. That is your right as a man and our duty as a woman. Is it any wonder the world is in chaos?”

“Forgive me, Your Grace, I must still be overwrought. Surely you didn’t come here to watch me weep like a silly schoolgirl. Somehow, I can’t seem to help myself. It’s not at all like me. I’ve never—” Before he realized what he was doing, Cole caught her bare hand in his, and brought it to his lips. His eyes didn’t stray from her face as he kissed the moisture from her fingers, tasting the salt of her sorrow. Her breath quickened behind her stays, and her gaze darted about the crowded park as though only just realizing what an exhibition they made. “Please don’t be kind to me,” she begged in a husky whisper. “I’ll fall apart in front of everyone. I’ll humiliate us both.” Reluctantly, he released her hand, wishing more than anything that they were alone, that he could pull her against him. That he could shield her tender feelings from all danger with his body, and hold her wounded heart encased in the empty cage of his own chest.

A brittle and bedeviled emotion coursed through him, and he had to gather his composure in order to meet her gentle gaze. She couldn’t possibly know, could she? The maelstrom of angst and rage he grappled with just to pry himself out of his restless bed. The despair that seemed heavier than any load that had previously tested the strength of his shoulders. The alarming and imaginary pain in his missing hand. The endless stretch of lonely days. He was a man who had everything. Money, power, influence, charm, and almost unparalleled physical prowess, despite his injury. And still he was filled with emptiness. Alone in a crowded room. A soldier without a war. A spy without a mark. Except here. Now. On this bench with this woman. The beast within him was still and perhaps for the first time since he’d returned from Constantinople he was … himself.

Pulling his horse to a stop, he reached into his pocket and extracted her glove from where it rested against his heart. He marveled at the size of it, only fitting the width of four fingers where her wrist would go. Giving in to a rash and impulsive urge, he brought the glove to his nose, letting the silk brush against his lips. He hunted for her scent, lilacs and lavender, and filled his chest when he found it.

Their eyes locked, his blazing with an amber fire, hers, no doubt, gathering a defiant storm. She knew what he was thinking, and she hadn’t a single defense against it. His jaw clenched and released and his lips thinned, edged with white. All Imogen could do as they squared off with each other like duelists was wish he didn’t look so blasted magnificent. Framed by the gentle opulence of her home, his aristocratic features sharpened into something savage. Something not altogether human. He was stained with the blood of her enemies. He’d just killed to protect her. Five men. This changed … everything.