Page 81 of Along Came a Rogue

“Again?” His eyes narrowed, piercing accusation flaring in their depths. “Again? Is that why you’re refusing, because you think I’ll be the same kind of husband to you as Crenshaw?”

Closing her eyes, she shook her head. “Grey, please—”

He grabbed her shoulders. “I am not Andrew Crenshaw! I am not that bastard,” he ground out, his jaw clenched so fiercely that the muscles jumped in his neck. “I would never use you the way he did, and I will never abandon you.”

With a soft cry of anguish, she shook her head. “You can’t promise that…You don’t know…”

“Emily, my love—” The grief-stricken words tore from him. He cupped her cheeks in his hands and gently tilted her face to kiss her, a sympathetic touch of his lips that left her aching and anguished. He murmured the promise against her mouth, “I would never hurt you nor abandon you—I would give my life for you.”

Her body flashed numb from the wave of pain and grief that swept over her. “Then give it,” she whispered, so softly that her words were silent on her lips. But she knew from the subtle stiffening of his body against hers that he heard, that they shivered through him to his soul. “Give up the life we could have had together and go to Spain.” A single tear trailed down her cheek. “If you love me, Grey, you’ll let me go.”

Chapter Fifteen

Again,” Grey ordered the bartender for another glass of whiskey. He wasn’t drunk enough to push thoughts of Emily from his mind, yet that was exactly where he planned on getting. And soon.

Damned stubborn woman! In his life, he’d never encountered a woman so frustrating and challenging yet so undeniably alluring, so gut-achingly lovely—it was enough to call himself a bedlamite for continuing to chase after her all these weeks when he could have simply given up, believed her lie, and headed for Spain. He might have done just that, too, if he hadn’t realized after the first fortnight of courting her in absentia that whenever he sent her a dozen roses, only eleven returned.

Then, two nights ago after making love to her, he discovered the true reason why she’d lied to him—the little minx did love him…loved him so much, in fact, that she was convinced he’d be better off without her. That she’d foolishly believed he wanted adventure and the War Office more than he wanted her.

He clenched his hands against the bar to fight back the frustration rising inside him again. Damnation! He would never hurt her, never use her or resent her the way that bastard Crenshaw had done. And if forced into making a choice, he would gladly give up his career if it meant having a life with Emily. How could the frustrating chit not realize that? Dear God, he would never leave her.

But she wouldn’t listen, wouldn’t believe him. She loved him, all right…loved him straight into hell.

And now, he found himself in some filthy tavern near Drury Lane in the bright morning well before noon, attempting to drink himself into oblivion and wondering what on earth to do to make her believe him.

The bartender placed the whiskey in front of him, and he tossed it back in a single, gasping swallow. As the burn slid down his throat, he signaled for the man’s attention and rasped out, “Again.”

“Two,” a deep voice ordered from beside him.

Christ. Of all people…“Go away, Colonel,” he growled.

“Not after I spent all night looking for you.”

He slid his gaze sideways at Edward Westover. Even here, in a smoke-filled hell surrounded by thieves, drunks, and whores, he looked regal, every inch a duke, right down to the irritated look of disdain on his imperial brow. No one would ever mistake him for not being a blue blood, nor a battle-hardened army officer. “Then say your piece and leave.”

“All right. Kate sent me after you with a message.”

“The duchess?” That bit of unexpected information pierced through his drink-fogged brain. What message would the duchess have for—

Edward slapped his hand against the back of his head.

“What the hell?” He glared at his old colonel, who stood there staring evenly at him, his arms folded calmly over his chest.

“She wanted me to be delicate with the delivery,” Edward confessed dryly.

Grey rubbed the back of his head. “That was delicate?”

“I took a liberal interpretation.”

Edward sat next to him and mumbled his thanks as the bartender set two glasses of whiskey in front of them.

“What did I do to offend the duchess?” he grumbled. Good Lord, wasn’t it enough to have one woman upset at him?

“I don’t know exactly. Something about being too much of a nodcock to see the truth. But you’ve concerned my wife, Grey, which concerns me.” He took a sip of the rotgut whiskey, too well trained to make a face at its disgusting taste. He paused, his voice lowering grimly. “She’s worried about Lady Emily.”

So was he. But Grey said nothing and instead gulped down half the whiskey.

“She’s been in tears for the past two days.”