Page 45 of A Tale of Two Dukes

“Robert,” he growls, putting himself between this man and me. “You will keep a civil tongue in your body. What right have you to speak to her thusly?”

“The same right as if I were in The Rose and Thorne and found her before you did.”

Desperate to make amends, I slide to the side, giving the angry Alpha a curtsy. “I do suppose that’s an accurate assessment, Your Grace; however, you are forgetting one important detail.”

“And what, pray tell, is that?”

My insides quake as I command my features to remain placid. “Who’s to say your cock would have unlocked the magic of this…” I pause, rolling the distasteful word around in my mouth. “Cunt.”

His mouth drops as Birchleigh roars with laughter. Though not my intention to alienate the family of my master, part of me feels the need to show myself as something other than a little kitten running away at every turn. I do that enough on a daily basis.

Besides, if he had known me before my life went topsy-turvy, this would be a far different interaction. Glancing over at Birchleigh, my insides loosen a touch as he continues to laugh so hard he cannot catch his breath. Blackport, however, affixes me with a stern glare.

“You dare to speak to me in such a manner.” He takes a step forward, his hand twitching.

Fear sours the air as I retreat, intermingling with the acrid stench of his wrath. I knew I shouldn’t have prodded him so, and yet, I cannot take it back. A loud roar splits the air as Birchleigh once more steps between us.

I’m unable to stop as my body drops to the floor in supplication, terror making my limbs tremble.

“Touch her and you’ll deal with me.”

“You choose a whore over your family?”

“Get off your sanctimonious high horse. No. I would never choose someone else over family.”

“And yet, here you are, standing between me and the punishment her wicked mouth so thoroughly deserves.”

Both voices are strident, full of anger as they stand toe-to-toe. “She deserves nothing of the sort. You egged her on, drove her to react. Come now, you of all people should know how words affect the gentler sex. Especially one as acquiescent as her.”

Blackport frowns, his glare never leaving me. “For one that is so trained by you in the art of submission, she has a strange way of showing it.” With a nod of his head, he turns about, his Hessian boots clacking along the floor in his wake. “I trust you will find some way to punish her wayward tongue,” he calls out over his shoulder.

Smiling down at me, Birchleigh rubs his hand along the front of his breeches. “No doubt, brother. She will be wet with tears by the time I’m done.”

From the heat of his gaze, I don’t doubt the validity of his words. However, when he drops to the floor and gathers me in his arms, all thoughts scatter. I feel safe in his embrace.

He murmurs nonsensical words as he rocks me back and forth, pouring affection over me. Though it is a balm to my worry, it does nothing for the guilt eating me from the inside out.

How much longer will I have to endure? I curl up into his arms, allowing his purr to wash over me, driving away the dredges of fear that gripped me hard. This time, when tears dot my lashes, I allow him to think of it as remorse for the words that passed between his brother and me. However, the truth is far more sinister.

CHAPTER 19

Kitty

Another week later

I crack my eyelids open, squinting at the bright sun filtering through the room. Has it always been so ghastly in this room? For some reason, it feels more blinding than normal, driving up the desire to hide under the covers and go back to sleep.

This time, I don’t even reach out to stroke the cool spot where the duke should be. By now, I know he’ll be gone, off to do God knows what. Will he be in the house? Will he be away doing whatever it is that dukes do? One never knows.

Each day, however, is a new chance to remind myself that I’m just the mistress. I hold no sway over him. Then again, even as a wife, I wouldn’t presume to control him. I much prefer him to be the one in command.

Rolling my shoulders, I groan, peeling the sheets away from my body. They’re damp, wet with my sweat. The stench nearly chokes me as I force myself out of bed and over to a basin to splash cool water on my face.

But I don’t want to move. Sodden or not, they still feel more inviting than the air that slams into me, causing my skin to itch. Could I be sick? My hand creeps up my throat, closing around as I remember the handkerchief.

Could it be that I’ve somehow contracted consumption by clinging to the one part of my sister I’m allowed to have? With trembling fingers, I open a drawer and pull out the bit of fabric. The blood is still there, bright red splotches.

Tears dot my eyes as I run the pads of my thumbs across the bits of vermillion. My poor Josephine. The first time she was sick, it nearly tore at my heart. Scarlet fever is what the doctor said. My only saving grace was that I, too, had it as a child and was thus immune.