Page 33 of Every Rogue Has His Charm

And he would know, having been stabbed more than once.

He’d learned to survive in a hard school. Self-preservation was second nature. And yet his selfishness when it came to Caro astonished him. He had brought her to this pass—oh, he’d done nothing to cause this strange, sudden illness, to be sure, though the sight of her pale and lifeless on the strand had nearly driven him mad. But for all the rest—her isolation, her family’s disrespect—the burden of guilt was his. He’d told her he’d set out to punish her father by marrying her.

Instead, he had punished her.

Then again, would it not have been a greater punishment to her if he’d stayed? He was no fit husband for a woman like her. She deserved better than a man whose scars had left him little more than a monster, inside and out.

But with only the minor inconveniences of a flight of stairs or a closed door between them, he couldn’t keep away from her; not six years ago, not now. Her beauty, her liveliness, her quick tongue—even the memory of them—drew him like an enchantment.

If time and distance had not severed his attraction to her, what could?

Perhaps something more official. Something permanent. An annulment? He’d dismissed the notion once, but he was a damned duke now—no longer a powerless little boy. This time, he would leave her with half his fortune at her disposal and the promise that he would never intrude or interfere again. She would be free to seek happiness with a man who was worthy of her. Yes. Yes, that was it. He would go to London and explore the possibility.

As soon as she was fully recovered.

Just a few more days…

She blinked up at him twice and gave a soft gasp. “I didn’t hear you come in.”

“Forgive me. I didn’t mean to wake you.” But he made no move to go.

She pushed herself up on one elbow. “How long have I been asleep? Did you want something?”

Dear God. Had anyone ever asked a more dangerous question? He stepped farther into the room and closed the door behind him. “I was going to offer to read to you.” He gestured with the book in his hand. “If you wish it.”

Her eyes narrowed and her chin drew back, surprised at first, then skeptical. “Oh. More Robin Ratliff, I suppose.” Her tone made it clear that she suspected an intent to torment her.

So, Mrs. Horn had told her about that, had she? The knife in his gut twisted, driving a little deeper. “No. God, no.” He’d wanted to know whether Caro had kept the books he’d bought for her, kept them with her…and perhaps also to torment himself with that nonsensical fantasy of villains who could somehow become heroes. “It’s—” He glanced down at the book. “Mrs. Horn said you brought it back from the bookshop the other day. Poetry, I believe.”

Her expression wary, she considered his answer. “Thompson, yes. The Four Seasons.”

He took a step closer. “May I?”

Shifting onto her back, she levered herself more upright against the mountain of pillows and gave the slightest of nods.

Relief shuddered from him. Before she could think better of her choice, he circled the end of the bed and took up the chair. But what was he doing? This was the opposite of leaving her in peace.

Wasn’t it?

“Where shall I begin?”

She was watching the low gray clouds outside the window, blanketing a stormy sea. “At the end. Autumn.” As she listened, her eyes never left the rough water, the hard set of her jaw never relented, seemingly impervious to the poem’s gentle rhythms.

After a quarter of an hour, he snapped the book shut. “You despise this—despise me.”

She had turned toward the sound of the book closing but did not meet his eyes. “I hardly know you.”

Maxim nodded curtly, stung by her words, though he had no right to be. “And for that, I suppose you must account yourself lucky.”

“Why?” she snapped back. “Why must I do any such thing? Why are you doing this? A few days ago, you walked back into my life, daring me to vent my fury at you, and now you—you’re sitting at my bedside, reading poetry, all but daring me to—to—” She broke off on a strangled cry of frustration and dropped her head into her hands.

“Daring you to what?”

She sent him a sidelong glance. “You must know you have a marvelous voice. The sort of voice that can make a woman’s pulse race, even if you’re only rattling off—oh, I don’t know.” She paused to search for something outlandish. “Mathematical equations.”

In spite of himself, he chuckled, astonished but pleased by her praise. “Pythagoras’s theorem, the square of the hypotenuse, that sort of thing?”

“I daresay simple addition would do the trick. But don’t”—she sat upright again and lifted a peremptory finger—“try it.” Her voice dropped a notch lower, serious again as she repeated her earlier question: “Why are you doing this?”