Page 63 of How to Tempt a Duke

“I find you immeasurably desirable.” He brushed his thumb over her lower lip. “I believe I have proved as much.”

Her intake of breath whispered against his thumb. “Why will you not marry me?”

“Because I would make a terrible husband.”

Confessing as much out loud made something in his chest give an unexpected wince. He shifted his thumb to stroke the softness of her cheek.

“Worse than Devonington?” she asked with obvious skepticism.

“I intend to travel, Eleanor, the same as our fathers did. First to find the ruby, and then to explore, once I’ve seen to the duties required of me as Duke. I have never considered myself a man to sacrifice the world for a family.”

“You will have to marry eventually,” she said softly. “As part of your duty. Why not let it be me?”

Her question squeezed at his chest. Why not, indeed? Perhaps because she was too intelligent. Possibly even too dear to him. Because, as much as he did not wish to admit it to himself, he did care.

More than he would like to.

“And why would you have to sacrifice your adventures?” Eleanor pressed.

He shook his head, though he knew she couldn’t see it. He had lived a life without love for so long he did not know if he could ever create it, if he could ever give it. On so many accounts he would be a terrible husband and father.

“I wouldn’t be able to live with myself if I abandoned you while I sought my own way in life. What sort of a husband would I be to leave you constantly? I refuse to do to my family what our fathers did to us.” He spoke with quiet sincerity.

“I’m not a woman easily broken or swayed.” Her voice was strong, with her usual show of tenacity. “And I can quite well take care of myself.”

He chuckled. “Don’t I know it?” He hated this darkness, and his inability to witness the determined flash he knew must be in those green eyes. “But I fear you would eventually hate me.”

“I believe I would hate you less than my other option.”

Her other option. Devonington.

A spike of discomfort shot through Charles.

Damnation, was that jealousy?

If he wed her he would have the rest of the journals. He would have her. Wholly and completely. His wife. In his bed.

It was then that he knew he could never truly have allowed her to marry Rawley.

“Hate me less, you say?” He couldn’t help but grin. “Such flattery from an Ice Queen.”

He couldn’t stop touching her, letting his hands play over her cheeks, her neck, the graceful line of her collarbone. And she did not move to stop him.

“Your mother will be unhappy.” He traced the edge of her collarbone. “And if we wed we ought to do so quickly. I could have a license in two days.”

He stroked her neck and felt her pulse quicken under his fingertips.

“Then you agree?” Her question was breathless with anxious hope.

He would have her in his bed, the journals would be at his disposal, and part of his ducal agreement fulfilled. How could he say no?

“Yes.” He drew her to him, unable to stop himself.

“Will you be attending Lady Canterbury’s ball this evening?”

“I have an invitation, but have not yet accepted it.”

This earned him a playful tap on the arm. “You ought to respond to your invitations. Preparations must be made for intended guests.”