Page 22 of The Duke's Forbidden Bride
Spencer expelled a breath, clenching his fist as if that would chase away the memory.
He could not let Lady Eleanor return to that hell of a place. He would not let her suffer the same fate Anna had.
“You two are identical,”his aunt had cooed when they were younger, cupping his face and then Anna’s.“Down to the freckles on your jaws. It is remarkable. Are you going to raise your sister well, little Spencer? Make sure to always be there for her like a good big brother.”
“Your Grace?”
Spencer snapped himself out of the painful memories and looked at Lady Eleanor.
He would save her. Hewould—her and Charlotte both.
“You are not going back to that place,” he declared. “I will hear no more of it.”
“Charlotte’s safety is more important!”
“It isjust asimportant. You are a lady, just as much as she is.”
Her features softened with surprise, as though it was the first time she had ever heard such a thing.
His anger flared once again, and he moved closer to her, to where she sat on the edge of her bed.
“I need you around as a proper witness, Lady Eleanor. If you become my wife, nobody will touch you. But if you return to the convent, Belgrave and Folletwillhave you killed. I need you here. I need your testimony to bring them to justice.”
“They will not have me killed,” she insisted.
“Belgrave came to see you, did he not?”
Spencer prowled closer to her, watching how those mahogany eyes searched his face.
“If you return to that convent, he will come again, and he will not use his words to break you,” he warned. “He will…” He trailed off, stopping before her. “Let me protect you, Lady Eleanor. I give you my word that I will keep you safe, as you always should have been.”
Her breath caught, and he itched to lift a hand to her face, to the smattering of freckles on the bridge of her nose and high cheekbones.
Her skin was more tanned than he had realized—from manual labor, he guessed. He wanted to chase it down the length of her body. To find out where her tan ended, to kiss her and taste her tongue when it was not spitting venom at him.
He was overwhelmed by the urge to kiss her, as he had been in the library the night before.
Her eyes slid over his face. She did not move back. Part of him wanted to tell her to step away, for he was too swept up, too overwhelmed by his desire for her. His hand rose to her cheek.
Suddenly, a knock sounded at the door, and he stepped back swiftly, putting a wide distance between them.
He nodded at the maid who entered with a bundle of fabrics.
“I’m here to bathe and prepare Lady Eleanor for dinner, Your Grace.” She curtsied.
“Of course,” Spencer said, then turned to Eleanor. “I’ll see you at dinner, My Lady.”
He walked out of her chambers, forcing himself not to look back.
Chapter Seven
“Enter,” the Duke called when Eleanor knocked on the door to the dining room.
She pushed her way in and found him sitting at the head of the table.
She had not noticed it in the haze of pain and the darkness the night before, but now, even in the dim light of candles that were peppered around the dining hall, the scar was unmistakable. It cut a pale path from his brow to the line of his jaw, tugging slightly at the skin, long since healed but impossible to ignore.
Eleanor quickly averted her gaze. For all his autumn-warmed features—and the estate itself, with its burnished woods and golden light—he dressed all in black. The only hint of color was the golden buttons on his coat and the deep, wine-red of his cravat.
