“So you’ve said. You seem to believe that everyone dances to your tune. But you can’t simply force me to marry. I can’t be one of them—the beautiful carefree society ladies who’ve never had to navigate a problem more vexing than finding the perfect gown, or the perfect match. You’re asking me to attend balls, and fetes, as if I haven’t spent the last years of my life fending for myself. I tell you it won’t work. They’ll sense that I’m not one of them.”
He’d often had the same thought. He wasn’t one of them. The carefree, beautiful people. On the rare occasions when he appeared at social events, he felt like an outsider, a cloud of gloom that made everyone around him uneasy. He had no intention of marrying. At least not yet. He’d put off the begetting of an heir until the last possible moment.
“Your life should have been free from harsh realities. Your father, if he had lived, would have collected you from finishing school and launched you in society. The eligible bachelors would have vied for you.”
“Vied for me—are you mad? I’m a redheaded spitfire with freckles and crooked teeth. You heard your aunt. I’m hardly a diamond of the first water.”
His heart ached at the quiver in her voice. She didn’t feel good enough, beautiful enough. Everything had been taken from her and she’d been left with nothing but her clever mind and her optimistic nature. He wanted to hold her in his arms, stroke her soft hair, and whisper that she was beautiful and that from here on out her life would be all silk and rose petals. He would give her the best of everything. Kiss her troubles away.
Hold her in his arms? Kiss her? Was he stark, raving mad? He took a step backward, away from the sight of her lush lips and startlingly green eyes.
“You have your whole life ahead of you,” he said gruffly. “Trust me. This is for the best.”
“You don’t know what’s best for me,” she repeated.
“But your father did, and he tasked me with seeing you married.”
“And what about you? Why aren’t you married, if you’re so keen on the idea?”
“I’ve no intention of marrying for quite some time. Perhaps never, though I’m expected to produce an heir. My brother, Roland, has several male offspring.”
“You’re not one of those grumpy dukes who don’t believe in love, are you?”
“I believe in love.” He swiped a hand angrily through the air. “I believe it squeezes every last drop of blood from your heart and leaves you hollow. Love isn’t for the likes of me.” Not for men who had spent so much time with Death that it was practically a member of the family. Not for those who bore deep scars, both inside and out.
All of his limbs were intact. He was luckier than many. It wasn’t his arm or his leg that was missing. He didn’t wake up in the middle of the night from a dream of running through a field and realize that his legs had been amputated.
“I thought I was in love once. Never again.”
“What happened?”
“Never mind.”
“Never mind.Two of the most infuriating words in the English language when used together. You never want to talk about your past, even if it might explain why you persist in interfering with my present.”
“You’re free with your words.”
“And you keep yours locked so tightly it’s a wonder your lips know how to part. You are all the g-r words. Grumpy, gruff, grim, grave, grunting, growling...” She counted them off on her fingers.
“And you don’t appear to be that most appropriate of g-r words: grateful. You will attend the Season. That’s an order.”
“We’ll see about that. May I be dismissed, Your Grace?” she asked with a decidedly sarcastic emphasis.
“You may. We’ll speak of this again tomorrow.”
She left, taking the light from the room with her. Suddenly it was quiet and gloomy again. He sat down at his desk, shaken to the core by his reaction to her. This longing to comfort her, to hold her and kiss away her tears must never happen again.
They were in close physical proximity, that was all. He was a man. She was a pretty woman. And... he admired her for standing up to him, for not being intimidated by his scars and his bluster. He couldn’t blame her for defying him. Her life had been overturned and shattered, like an upended tea cart spilling its contents on a hard parquet floor, and she was scrambling tofind some order in the chaos, attempting to salvage some control amongst the shards.
This wouldn’t be easy. But it would be exponentially more difficult if he didn’t control himself. He must never have a thought of that nature again.
She was his ward. Completely and utterly forbidden.
Restlessly, he paced the study, reliving their conversation. The vulnerability when she’d spoken of searching for her father. The mad hope that she would somehow find him.
In his nightmares, Dex saw dead men rise from the grave. Skeletons chatted with him, sitting at his bedside, talking heaps of bones and tattered clothing that once were men. Once were friends.
Lieutenant Crewe was dead. No amount of searching would bring him back.