Page 35 of The Duke Meets His Match

He reached across the bed. Empty. His eyes flew open. She’d gone. He knew not to be surprised or disappointed, but nonetheless, his chest tightened with an unknown emotion.

What did he expect? She couldn’t stay. She’d be ruined.

She already was.

Christ. She’d been a virgin. Never in his wildest dreams had he believed she was sexually innocent. He would have bet all the fortune of the dukedom that she was experienced, and he would have lost. She possessed an innate sensuality that made a man think of tangled sheets and earthy sex. He’d been determined to bed her, to make her his mistress, only to learn that she was innocent and pure.

He was a rogue, a blackguard. He didn’t go around seducing innocents or seeking to make them his lovers. He should feel remorseful, but the truth was he was more shaken than regretful. Now that he’d tasted her passion, would he ever be satisfied by another? He screwed his eyes shut as heated memories returned in a rush.

God…the silken softness of her skin, her golden hair spread across his pillow, and her throaty moans of pleasure had driven him over the edge, until he’d lost all control and had thrust inside her wet, welcoming body. He reached for the pillow beside him and inhaled. Her unique scent—lemongrass and lavender—lingered. He rubbed a hand down his face. Another scent—female arousal—clung to his hands.

He wanted her again. Badly.

But he couldn’t bind her to his side. She’d been a virgin, and he grudgingly admitted that she was right to demand marriage. Had he been a cruel bastard to keep her from the likes of men like Henry when he couldn’t offer her what she deserved?

No, Henry wasn’t for her. Of that he was certain. But he wasn’t for her, either. The all too familiar feelings of anger and frustration roiled in his gut.

He’d been in bad shape after the fireworks. He owed Chloe a debt of gratitude for helping him get home unnoticed. He’d still been suffering the effects of his latest episode when she’d showed up in his bedchamber over twelve hours afterward.

He’d braced himself for her pity—even her disgust—when he’d told her about the death of his best friend in battle, but to his amazement it hadn’t come. In its place had been an instant of connection…of understanding…as if she’d experienced an emotional wound herself—a harrowing event that had caused her great pain.

Could it be true?

He knew so little about her past. Yes, he’d seen her pickpocket with startling ease. But why had she done it? He’d always assumed that she needed money—like many of the struggling lower classes in the city—but that explanation didn’t entirely make sense, because her sisters had owned a print shop. They hadn’t been wealthy, but neither had they been impoverished. So why had she done it? What was the reason behind her thievery?

Chloe Somerton was as complex as she was fascinating.

His opinions about her were changing. She wasn’t just a cold-blooded woman, a former pickpocket who was after Henry for his title and fortune. Most shockingly, she hadn’t feared his madness last night, but she’d taken care to see him home and had returned the next day to check on him.

He could have hurt her last night during the fireworks. He could have hurt her when she caught him unawares today and woke him. It would have been easy to break the delicate bones in her wrist, or heaven forbid, to snap her neck. His jaw clamped tight. Thank goodness he’d recognized her before his battle-hardened instincts had kicked in.

She’d ended up beneath him instead. Soft, sweet, and oh so tempting.

He couldn’t marry anyone, not when he was suffering this war sickness. Not when anything could trigger his slow descent to insanity, whether it be a former French tyrant’s carriage in a museum or fireworks at Vauxhall Gardens.

Humiliation and anger raged within him, and he clenched his jaw until it ached. He was damaged. A broken man. He refused to subject a wife and children to his darkest demons. But he believed, more than ever before, that Henry was no match for Chloe. After what they shared in his bed, she must know this as well.

She had to know.

But there would be other men. Could he do it? Could he let Chloe go and watch her marry another?

Chapter Thirteen

Chloe was careful to return through the servants’ entrance of Huntingdon’s town house. Muscles she hadn’t known existed were sore and she moved slowly. She’d always been impetuous, but she didn’t regret a moment of the afternoon. As long as she lived, the memory of the pleasure she’d found in Michael’s arms would remain vivid in her mind. She knew she’d always compare other men to him and they’d fall short.

Michael had been right. She’d known what would happen between them as soon as she’d dared step foot inside his bedchamber. From the beginning, the attraction between them had simmered and grown until neither of them could resist the pull. She recognized it now. Deep down, she’d desired him as much as he’d wanted her.

There could be serious consequences if the truth became known. Eliza and Huntingdon would demand the Duke of Cameron propose marriage. And for that reason, Chloe would take the secret to her grave.

She didn’t want to marry a man who had to be forced to the altar. She wanted to marry, yes, but she wanted a man who wanted her. The duke had made his intentions clear—whether it was because he thought himself ill or he truly didn’t want a wife—the result was the same.

Chloe would be no man’s mistress.

She breathed a sigh of relief as she made her way through the kitchen and connecting hallways unnoticed. She desperately wanted a bath and planned to ring for her maid, Alice, as soon as she reached her bedchamber. Her footsteps were silent on the carpet runner as she walked to the main part of the house and the stairs leading up to the second floor. Her slipper touched the first step when she heard her name.

“Miss Chloe?”

Chloe whirled, her hand clutching the ornate banister. “Alice? You scared me half to death.”