Page 39 of The Duke's Wicked Widow
He saw the exact moment Ellie recognized him. Her expression flickered from surprise at seeing a stranger, to recognition, to…
Fook me, that’sjoyon her face.
Aye, for a split moment her dark eyes lit with something like joy, her lips parted on a smile, even as she lifted her fingertips to rest against them.
“Fawkes,” she breathed happily, the word puffing out of her on a burst of steam.
But then she seemed to remember where they were andwhothey were. As her daughter whooped in the background, stomping happily through the fresh scattering of snow, Ellie stepped closer.
“What are you doing here?”
He studied her expression, wondering how much to admit. “Watching you.”
“There was no need for you to lurk in the square.” Of course she’d figured out what he was doing! “You have an invitation.”
Was it his imagination, or did she sound a little hurt he hadn’t come to her rooms?
“If the butler gave ye shite about stepping out and getting snow on yer mourning duds, how do ye think he’d react if the family’s bastard son knocked on the door and asked to swive ye?”
Her gaze jerked sideways, searching for her stepdaughter as a flush climbed her cheeks. Fawkes knew it had nothing to do with the cold, and everything to do with his coarseness.
“Sorry,” he muttered, jamming awkward hands in his pockets.
That was the second time he’d apologized to her for something he wasn’t quite apologetic about. Last week as she’d fallen into his lap, breathing hard, eyes wide from her orgasm, he’d apologized for not fooking her.
For not getting her with child.
But she’d kissed him and offered him another chance, inviting him to her home.
This apology was for not taking her up on it, and he only half-meant it.
“Well, how have you been?” she asked smartly, cheeks still pink, attention still on the child.
“Well.” He’d made two more deliveries in the week since he’d seen her, and pocketed enough in payment—and favors owed—to see himself well into the new year. “And ye?”
“Wonderful, thank you.”
Her tone was too bright, her blush too harsh, for him to believe her. “Wonderful, eh?” he repeated under his breath. “Things dinnae sound wonderful.”
Across the square, the child—Merida, her name is Merida—had jumped to grab a branch from one of the young trees and was now swinging on it, her booted feet kicking at the dusting of snow beneath her. Ellie’s gaze was locked on her, as if the spectacle was the most interesting thing in the world.
“What would you have me say, Mr. MacMillan?” she finally ground out. “Things are terrible. Just as terrible as they were when I…met you.”
“Ye called meFawkes, then.”
Her dark gaze flicked to him, then away. “Fawkes,” she repeated softly.
It shouldn’t have felt like a victory, but it did.
Perhaps that soft gaze encouraged him, because he unconsciously stepped closer and lowered his voice. “Are ye…”
When he trailed off, she inhaled sharply, gloved hands clutched tightly before her. “I do not know.” Her voice was barely above a whisper, her gaze locked firmly across the square. Any observers would merely think them making polite conversation. “It is still too early.”
A burst of wind picked up the newspaper from the bench behind them, sending it swirling across the square. Merida dropped down and shrieked in laughter, chasing after one of the pages.
And the two adults didn’t move.
“When will ye ken?” he asked.
