Page 112 of How Not to Marry a Duke

“What do you mean?”

“In his mind, the two may mean the same.”

Her sister’s words struck her. The intellectual Warwick had never known love as a child from his own parents, only from his godmother. Did he not know what love was? Had he confused it with what he understood and what he could comprehend—a like-minded intellectualism? In other words, a logical choice?

What did it matter anyway? Time had run out and whatever had existed between her and Warwick was at an end. She could think only of the future, a true future, and not one based on falsehoods or arrangements.

If she couldn’t save herself, then she was determined to save Mary from a life of misery.

…

Warwick tossed down the hammer on the worktable. His breathing was labored, as if he’d spent an afternoon in the ring, boxing. He wanted to punch the wall. He counted slowly to ten, let out his breath, and hoped the sickening feeling in the pit of his stomach would ease.

Instead, it grew worse.

He’d believed returning to London would help the despair in the center of his chest. He’d been wrong. The high-pressure engine in the center of his ballroom workshop failed to hold his attention. His usual mental escape into the world of mathematics, physics, and heat transfer failed. His numerous inventions felt meaningless. His distracted mind held only one thought. Or one woman.

Adeline.

He went to his desk and idly opened his notebook and turned a few pages, thumbing through sketches of future inventions. He heard the ballroom doors open. His butler’s voice was an echo in the recesses of his mind.

“Warwick.”

Warwick blinked and focused to see his friend, the Earl of Drake, standing before him. Drake shook his shoulder. “I’d ask if you need a whisky, but I suspect you won’t drink. How about a bout in the ring?”

Warwick scowled. “Boxing would be unwise. I’m unfocused. You’d beat me.”

“That’s the point.”

Warwick wanted to be left alone. “Why are you here? You should be home with your wife and new babe.”

“That’s precisely why I’m here. My wife has heard the news.”

“What news?”

“That Lady Adeline is betrothed, and it’s not to you.”

“Go away.” Warwick’s voice was gruff.

“Why didn’t you propose to her?” Drake asked.

“I did!” Frustration bubbled in his chest, and he pushed back his chair. He banged his fist on the desk.

“Hmm. I see. I can only assume your proposal lacked finesse. Or is she marrying another man for different reasons?”

Warwick closed his eyes and let out a slow breath. “Perhaps it’s both.”

Drake slapped him on the shoulder. “Then do something about it.”

Before Warwick could answer, the ballroom doors opened once more. This time, his godmother entered. Shoulders squared, chin high, she had the demeanor of a drill sergeant.

“If you would excuse us, Lord Drake. I’d like a word alone with the duke.”

Drake bowed. “I am pleased to see you, my lady. Perhaps you can talk some sense into him.”

Lady Heywood waited until they were alone. She walked to his closest workshop table, and her fingers grazed the wrenches, hammers, and screwdrivers. She picked up a wrench and turned to face him; her lips pursed in thought. “Life is too short to spend it alone with tools and a good amount of grease.”

“Say what you mean to say and leave. I have work to do,” Warwick said.