Page 59 of Never Beguile a Duke
“They should have been.” He flicked his thumb across the guitar strings, wrenching a horrific sound from the instrument.
“Miss Juliette and perhaps her mother, but not mine.”
“Why not yours?” He tightened the bottom string, then strummed the chord again and nodded.
“Because Nora is under the Duke of Roxburghe’s protection, and therefore the issue is his. Besides,” she lowered her voice and leaned in, “after spending several days with my mother, you may be grateful our arrangement is only for a short time.”
“Did we agree on a length of time?” he asked, taking her hand in his.
“Until the end of this week was your suggestion.” A shiver zipped through her body as his one finger traced patterns across her palm.
“I’ve reconsidered my position.” He wove his hand through hers and squeezed. “Why do you believe Juliette knows Mr. Curtis?”
“She revealed the reason she named Mr. Black thus was due to his features; she said she’d never met a man with black eyes before.” Winifred didn’t realize she was trembling until the Duke of Beaufort draped an arm around her shoulders and pulled her against his side.
“Mr. Curtis-Black cannot reach you here,” he murmured, brushing his lips across the top of her head. “Roxburghe and I will ensure your family remains safe, even if that means taking on you and your mother as permanent guests.”
“I cannot ask that of you!” Her head jerked up.
“You didn’t; Roxburghe has.”
Oh. His motivation was loyalty to his friend.
The Duke of Beaufort’s grip tightened on her, preventing her from pulling away. “You’ve misunderstood my revelation.”
“Is there something else you haven’t shared with me?” she whispered, her body quaking.
“Regarding Mr. Curtis, no.” He chuckled. “You’ve managed to draw the information from me with just one kiss. Roxburghe’s request was merely to allow an opportunity to repair a previous error of mine.”
Winifred’s eyes narrowed. “How does housing my mother fix a mistake?”
“After we rescued Mr. Hollingsworth from prison, I extended an invitation to him to visit in a day or two.” Discomfort flashed across the Duke of Beaufort’s face, and he glanced down at their entwined hands. “I assumed with his appearance that your attention would be diverted and my interest in you would fade.”
“Mr. Hollingsworth hasn’t arrived yet,” she said, her eyebrows pulling together. “How have you determined this decision to be a miscalculation?”
“Because nothing I’ve done to this point has decreased my affections, and, as Roxburghe concluded, the addition of a rival will only serve to increase that desire.” The Duke of Beaufort’s eyes blazed a deep emerald. “If Mr. Hollingsworth remains in your heart, tell me before I’m forever lost.”
“I have no desire to marry Mr. Hollingsworth,” she replied, after a long minute of silence. “Despite his request for forgiveness and declaration of love, he set out to ruin me, by my mother’s instruction. With his cruelty motivated by money, I fear, if faced with a similar situation, Mr. Hollingsworth’s actions would be repeated.”
“You don’t think a man can change into a better person?” The Duke of Beaufort withdrew his arm from her shoulders.
“I believe any person can improve themselves if they desire.” She issued a heavy sigh. “However, I’ve known my mother the whole of my life, and she has maintained the same conniving personality during that entire time.”
“Mr. Hollingsworth isn’t your mother.”
Winifred chuckled, tilting her head. “Are you arguing in favor of the other man?”
The Duke of Beaufort’s eyes darkened. “I’m attempting to understand the reason for your refusal of his proposal.”
“The connection between Mr. Hollingsworth and my mother is enough to give me pause.” Winifred exhaled a shaky breath, then revealed the decision that had plagued her since her arrest. “And I have no intention to marry.”
“This season?”
“Ever.” She shifted her gaze to the opposite side of the room, her eyes sliding over a small wooden desk hidden beneath a mound of papers. “You work in your bedchamber?”
When the Duke of Beaufort didn’t respond, she glanced back at him, catching a light red color creeping up from beneath his cravat.
“I write music,” he said, not quite meeting her eyes. “And I request that you do not share that information; none of my friends are aware of the preoccupation.”
