Page 50 of The Duke
He was not cut out for shuffling papers and making weighty assessments. He’d been born a man of action, more comfortable with decisions made in the moment and acted upon decisively.
Besides, he couldn’t focus on something so pedestrian as paperwork. Not with a cockstand that seemed to appear every other minute. Incidentally, the precise rate that the memory of last night’s encounter with Lady Anstruther forced its way into his mind
Perhaps now was a good time to call upon Argent and schedule a sparring session. Restless aggression simmered beneath his skin, and his neighbor was the only man who didn’t take his rank or deformity into account. To the cold, logical bastard, Trenwyth’s impediment was all the more reason to train. To become stronger. Faster.
Harder.
On this, they both agreed.
In a world that preyed upon the weak, one must turn his encumbrance into power, or be consumed by it.
Consummation. Now there was a concept upon which he’d rather not dwell. Though, he had been. For three years past he’d been obsessed by the memory of a very specific consummation.
Except for last night. A new and unsettling beauty had diverted his thoughts, abducted his dreams. For so long he’d been the devotee of nostalgia. But now a lovely, outspoken idealist had absconded with his closely guarded reminiscence and replaced it with new and distressing interactions upon which to reflect.
Lady Anstruther.Imogen.
Cole took many liberties with her in his thoughts, the very least of which was her name.
Why was it that he couldn’t seem to conjure Ginny’s face, no matter how hard he attempted it? But the intrepid countess’s features inserted themselves into every moment since they’d parted, waking or otherwise.
He knew the answer, of course. Not only because she’d kissed him, but becauseshe’dseenhim. There in her garden, she’d used the moonlight to illuminate him, and she’d asked him if he was all right. Not like most posed the question, as though they’d queried a thousand people a thousand times. But as though she wanted the answer. Like it meant something to her.
Like he’d meant something to her.
And he’d wanted to tell her, hadn’t he? That he, in fact, resembled nothing close to all right. That he seethed one moment, and was completely numb the next. He wanted to confess that he hated the entire world. That he hated himself, most of all. That he remembered how tosurvive,but not at all how tolive.
He’d wanted to give voice to his greatest fear, that he’d be this… this shadow of a man until he finally decided to end his own life. Because there were no fresh wonders left. Nothing to conquer. Nothing worth protecting. Nothing to fight for.
Nothing to live for.
That the night would only ever be too dark and full of remembered suffering. That the day would only ever be too bright and too loud. That all his moments would bleed into the next and time would steal his memories, just like it did that of Ginny’s face. And he’d forever yearn for what he’d never again attain. Because not only was he not worthy. He was not capable.
He’d wanted to say all of that. To confess his weaknesses to her. Because weakness didn’t seem to be something that concerned Lady Anstruther in the least. While she wasn’t as delicate as some, she was a small woman. He’d felt her fragility beneath his hand, her susceptibility to be easily broken. It had stirred in him something he’d thought lost to the world. Some strange and disquieting instinct he was loath to name. Something possessive. Protective.
In a base world where people were easy to read and even easier to predict, a woman like her was a rare find, indeed. She was truly an enigma. Someone who, after amassing a fortune, seemed intent upon giving it away and asking others to do the same.
But for what purpose? There was no such thing as an altruist, everyone knew that. So why couldn’t he figure her out? She was as rare and puzzling as the mighty Grecian Sphinx.
He’d told her all the reasons he didn’t want her to procede with this charitable scheme of hers.
All but one.
That being the risk to her own safety.
Because while he had no love for the woman, he was starting to think he had less contempt for her than he initially determined. She’d been kind. Until he’d pushed her past the level of her own tolerance. Which, if he was honest, had always been a particular talent of his.
Then she’d been shockingly impetuous. Incredibly carnal.
Cole didn’t think himself capable of shock anymore. He’d been a rake in his younger days, and even worse since his tragedies.
He’d sought to drown his emptiness in pleasure, and found that the more he tried to fill it, the more fathomless the void became.
Propelled by a sense of shame, Cole stalked to the sideboard and reached for the Scotch, something he’d been doing with alarming frequency these days.
Argent’s familiar voice reached him through the open window.
Herwindow. The portal to the Anstruther garden.
