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“We’ll have to postpone our appointment at the bank. I’m going after Alexandra.” Barrow replaced his hat on the hook. “Finally.” “She won’t want to see me.” Chase wrestled into his topcoat. “How can I convince her to hear me out? What do I say?” “You’re the one with the silver tongue. I’m not certain what you want from me here.” “You’re right. I don’t know why I’m asking advice from a man who proposed to his wife in a haberdashery.” “At least my proposal was accepted.” “That’s cold, Barrow.” “But true.”
“If you love her,” Barrow repeated with strained patience, “Alexandra just might forgive you. Think of how many of your flaws I overlook daily.”
“You don’t overlook my flaws. You like them. They make you feel superior, attached as you are to all those smug principles.” “I’m attached to you, you idiot.
Chase planted his hand on Ashbury’s face. By pushing the duke’s head into the carpet pile, he lifted himself just enough to call out. “Alex!” he shouted. “I need to speak with y—” A set of duke-ish, entitled teeth sank into the heel of his hand. “Fuck.” Chase jerked his hand away, and Ashbury made use of the momentary confusion to reverse the power once more. Scrabbling with knees and elbows, they rolled across the carpet no fewer than three times before colliding with a table.
Somewhere upstairs, a thin wail pierced the silence. Ashbury closed his eyes. “I hate you.”

