Page 53 of Mad Duke March

He would be a terrible father; he knew it.

He was an undependable drunkard and a reprobate. Raising a child with him would be hell.

He almost wanted to fall to his knees before his wife and beg her for forgiveness in advance for what a terrible father he’d be.

But it was too late. Whether he wanted it or not, a child was coming.

And his pregnant wife sat in the room just behind the adjoining room’s door, probably frightened and alone.

He stepped toward the door, an invisible cord tugging him to her.

She lied to me.

He turned away and stalked back to the hearth. His heart breaking, he knew that only she would be able to mend it. He glanced back at the door. He’d come to rely on her more than he'd thought.

If before, his first instinct was to reach for the bottle, now it was to look for her. Her gentle voice, that spark in her eyes, and the scent of her skin lured him to her side.

She made everything better with her simple presence.

His legs carried him toward her room. His hand landed on the doorknob—

She lied to me. On purpose. She tricked me.

He let go of the doorknob as if it scalded him and took two steps away when a knock sounded, causing him to whirl around.

He stared at the door in bewilderment as the knocking continued.

For all his struggle to stay away from her, he’d never imagined that she would come to him. Why would she? If she was a coldhearted manipulator who’d tricked him into legitimizing her bastard child, her goal had been achieved. She didn’t need him any longer.

And if she wasn’t, she would be frightened.

There was no in-between in his mind. She was either scared of him or she didn’t care for him at all.

And neither of those options would cause her to come to him in the middle of the night.

He slowly approached the door and opened it just as she raised her hand to knock once more.

“Oh,” she said and lowered her arm.

She was wearing a billowing, silk dressing gown. A new dressing gown. The one he had urged the modiste to make for her only this morning. How she had managed it so quickly, he couldn’t guess. Why was he fixating on a dressing gown?

Tyrone closed his eyes, yet he could still see his wife in his mind.

That’s why. Because if he wasn’t thinking about the inconsequential things, he’d have to think about her betrayal and trickery. Or about her welcoming heat, her soft, rosy lips, her inviting scent.

“Why are you here?” he asked roughly.

She stepped into the room, crowding him. “To apologize.”

He scoffed and stalked away from her, suddenly cold and uncomfortable within his own skin.

“To explain.”

“You don’t need to explain,” he said into the hearth. His fingers bit into the mantelpiece. “I understand perfectly. You were enjoying the wonders of the flesh before securing yourself a husband. You became with child, then took advantage of the scandal to rope me in as a husband.” He turned to her, his eyes narrowed. “Or perhaps you orchestrated the entire thing. Created a scandal to trap me into marriage.”

Her hands curled into fists by her side, and her chest rose with a deep breath, her nipples pressing against the thin fabric of her dressing gown. “Do you truly believe I would jump in front of a steam carriage in the hopes that you would be the one to catch me?”

He shrugged, crossing his arms over his chest. “Perhaps you didn’t care exactly who was your savior.”