Page 12 of The Duke's Auctioned Virgin
She was in a man’s bedroom, staring at the wall, and he waslaughingat her.
“You came early,” he noted.
“I did not come because you told me to,” she said to the wall. “I came because I have something to say.”
“Then say it. You can turn around. I won’t bite.”
She turned. Fixed her eyes on his face. Only his face. She was not going to look at his chest. Not the scar from his collarbone to his ribs. Not the dark hair below his navel.
She looked at all of it, then back at his face. He was smirking.
“I will not allow any man to order me around again,” she asserted in a steady voice. A miracle. Truly a miracle. “If that is your plan, then leave. The cruelest man in London could not win what I have planned.”
“The cruelest man in London,” he repeated. “Is that what they call me?”
“Among other things,” she managed.
“And yet ye’re standing in my chambers. Alone. At night.” He did not move toward her. “If ye truly believed that, Duchess, ye would not be here.”
She opened her mouth and closed it. “Perhaps I am tired of being afraid.”
The smirk left his face.
“If you’re suggesting I leave after an open invitation,” he said quietly, “that’s rejection. And not wise. Not with the ton watching.”
“I am not suggesting you leave. I am suggesting you understand who you are dealing with.”
“A woman who has survived three years with a man who did not deserve her. I understand that perfectly.”
She went still. That was not what she had expected him to say. She had expected him to talk about himself, about his reputation, about the things he had done. Instead, he had talked about her. About what she had survived. And the fact that he had called it survival instead of marriage told her something about him that all the rumors could not.
“How do you know that?” she asked. “About Gordon?”
“I know things, Duchess. It’s what I do.”
“That is not an answer.”
“It’s the only one I have right now. But I will tell you this: any man who starves his wife to control her is not a man at all. He’s a coward. And cowards bore me.”
Her jaw tightened. She did not know if she wanted to slap him or thank him. Probably both.
“But ye’re not ready for my proposal yet, so go back to yer room, Duchess. The games start tomorrow.”
“You’re dismissing me?”
“I’madvisingye,” he corrected, his voice softening.
“And if I do not take your advice?”
“Then ye’ll still be standing in my bedroom at midnight, which I don’t think is what ye planned.”
“You have no idea what I planned.”
“I think ye planned to come in here and put me in my place and walk away feeling like ye’d won something. Am I wrong?”
She opened her mouth to retort, but her voice failed her. He was not wrong.
“Goodnight, Duchess.”
