Page 28 of King of Rogues
They were teetering on the edge, one step away from a bright future together. If he confessed his love, she would gladly give him her all. Her complete surrender. He could take her here and now. She would be his to claim.
Please Monsale. You can speak to Papa tonight. You just have to fall with me.
She was a hair’s breadth away from begging when a sly grin appeared on his face.
“Put your name on the list Naomi.”
Bloody. Stubborn. Intractable male. Oh!
She shoved a hand hard in his chest. Cocksure dukes were the worst. Why did he have to be the one she had lost her heart to?
If I put my name on the list, then it makes me no more special than those other girls. Women who you don’t give a damn about.
If he wasn’t prepared to compromise, then neither was she.
“No. I can’t put my name on that list. And if you don’t understand why, then you don’t care enough about me to make any of this worthwhile.”
His smile disappeared. “You will be the death of me, Naomi. But so be it. There is still one other lady on the list. With luck, she will agree to be my duchess. To yield. And if I do marry her, you will only have yourself to blame.”
Her hands turned to fists. “That’s all that matters to you, isn’t it? Finding a woman who will submit to your whims. One who will meekly stand by and let you run roughshod over her heart and emotions. Well, I am not that woman.”
“No, you are not, but what you are asking for is impossible. Love has never been a part of this for me. I won’t change. You cannot remake a man like me. My soul was plunged into the fiery heat of a furnace, then beaten into shape long before I met you.”
Disappointment stabbed at her heart. He had just declared he could never love her. The most he was prepared to offer was the role of his duchess, and the mother of his children.
“You are right Monsale, it is impossible.”
She was still staring at the door long after Monsale had taken his leave.
Chapter Eleven
Nine Days to go.
* * *
There was something about the smell of a newborn baby that had always delighted Naomi. The fresh alluring scent that made her want to inhale deep and drink in all that innocence. Babies held an endless fascination. The promise that one day she too might be a mother.
Her close friend, Lady Bridget Moore had recently given birth to a little girl, Elizabeth Rose. Naomi spent as much time as she could at the Moore family home in Berkeley Square. It was her place of refuge.
She and Bridget were seated in the upstairs drawing room which overlooked the gardens of the square, the morning after Gus and Evangeline’s wedding ball. Bridget had left the gathering early, but the dark circles under her eyes spoke of a new mother who hadn’t got much sleep.
While Naomi held the baby in her arms, Bridget rested her head against the sofa, and closed her eyes.
“How is the whole Monsale looking for a wife saga going? I didn’t get a chance to speak to you last night before I left, but Stephen says Monsale was very grumpy later in the evening,” said Bridget.
Naomi glanced down and addressed the baby. “The Duke of Monsale is a silly man who can’t see past the end of his long handsome nose. I am sorry Elizabeth Rose, but you will no doubt soon discover that the male of the species can be a right royal pain in the ass.”
The chubby faced infant blew a spit bubble in response.
Exactly my sentiments too.
“Monsale fooled me into thinking he was about to ask me to dance. When I wouldn’t play his game and left the room, he followed me. He dragged me into one of the downstairs sitting rooms and then had the effrontery to accuse me of being stubborn. Me? Talk about the pot calling the kettle black. He demanded I put my name on the list, then marched off in a huff when I said no.”
She didn’t want to reveal to anyone what else had transpired between her and Monsale. Of the fact that she was certain he had almost broken and kissed her. Nor did she want to talk about the cold, hard words they had exchanged. The wounds of disappointment were still too raw.
“So, how many ladies are left?” replied Bridget.
“One. Lady Euphemia Marshall. I don’t know a great deal about her; she doesn’t spend much time in London.”
