His Grace, The Duke: Second Sons Book Two
His Grace, The Duke: Chapter 45

Rosalie followed at James’ side as he led her down a back hallway of the house. It was clear he wanted to get as far from the dining room as possible. “Where are we going?”

“In here,” he replied.

She gasped as he turned sharply to the right and opened a door, leading her into a small, unused parlor. It was dark inside, the curtains shut tight, and the furniture covered with white sheets. James walked over to the window and tugged back one of the curtains enough to let autumn moonlight filter into the room. It gave all the white sheets an odd, silvery sheen.

Rosalie suppressed a shiver that raised gooseflesh down her arms. She wasn’t dressed for autumn without a fire. She wore only a red satin evening gown. The cut was such that she wore no chemise, only half stays and a pair of silk drawers over her stockings.

James stepped past her over to the fireplace. After a moment, a little pop of yellow flame danced to life on the tip of a taper, and he lit a few candles. The mirror hanging above the fireplace reflected the light, making the room glow a little brighter.

“Could we light a proper fire?” she murmured, giving her evening gloves a little tug at each elbow.

“It’s not set for a blaze,” he replied. Instead, he shrugged out of his evening coat, handing it out to her.

She kept her arms crossed. “I’ll be fine.”

“Don’t be stubborn,” he growled.

“If I’m about to be excoriated for something, I’d rather not be wrapped in the comfort of your coat.”

He tossed the coat on the back of one of the sheet-wrapped chairs. “I don’t want to fight. I just need us to talk with no prying eyes or ears.”

“Then talk,” she pleaded. “I can’t stand this. Are you angry, are you not? Am I sorry, am I not? Are we fighting, are we not? I’m exhausted. Please, just talk to me.”

He reached into the “V” of his waistcoat and pulled out a stack of letters. He set the stack down on the edge of the side table.

She glanced down at them, a shiver of warning racing down her spine. She recognized the blue ribbon tying the offensive little bundle together. Her heart thundered in her ears as she gripped the back of the closest chair. “Did you—”

“No, Rosalie. I did not rifle through your things.” He pointed at the stack. “This was all George.”

Relief was quickly replaced by annoyance. “Why would he go through my things?”

“Because he has no understanding of the laws that protect for things like personal property.” He raised his eyes to her, his gaze sharp as glass. “And because, like me, he knows there are things you are keeping from us.”

“James—”

He took a step closer. “Why did my mother pay all your family’s debts? She spent seventeen thousand pounds without asking me. I need to understand why.”

Seventeen thousand? Heavens, the duchess never told her the actual figure, and Rosalie had been too much of a coward to look. She gripped tighter to the chair in front of her as hot tears of shame burned in her eyes. “James…I’m so sorry.”

“I don’t want apologies, I want an explanation,” he growled, taking another step closer. “On my watch, my family estate hemorrhaged seventeen thousand pounds. I have to understand why. Please, Rosalie…tell me something.”

“I didn’t know the full figure,” she whispered. “I couldn’t bear to know.” She paused, desperately trying not to break. “You’ve read them?”

“Not all of them.”

“But you read enough…”

He gave a slow nod.

Shame burned through her. “Then you know what he was. You know how we lived.”

“The bills paint a picture, yes.”

She took a deep breath, pulling her eyes away from the stack and back to his face. “Your mother never knew Francis Harrow. Her generosity is all for the sake of my mother…and me.”

James was close enough now that she could touch him. She felt the way her body ached to lean in. His cold gaze held her at bay.

“My mother does not understand the meaning of the word generosity. This is a gesture of apology or guilt. Both. What did she do that you are owed seventeen thousand pounds?”

She closed her eyes, unable to look at him.

“George has a theory,” he said.

She blinked her eyes open. The trio of flickering candles on the mantle cast a shadowy light over both their faces. “A theory?”

James narrowed his beautiful green eyes, now so hard and unfeeling. “Aye…George believes you’re a secret love child. You came here to extort your position, claim an inheritance. But are you the child of my womanizing father? Or my frigid mother?”

Rosalie gasped. “That is preposterous,” she cried. “I am my mother’s mirror. Ask anyone who knew Elinor Greene. Ask my aunt. Heavens, ask your own mother! I am a Greene—”

“But are you a Harrow?” he pressed.

She wrapped her arms tightly around her middle. This was more than humiliating. “I would give anything to say Francis Harrow was not my father…but I have no reason to doubt my mother’s fidelity. She was once your father’s sweetheart, it’s true. But that was many years before I was born. Their affair ended when he married your mother.”

James stared her down for a few more seconds before he broke. His shoulders sagged, and he dropped his hands to his knees, almost doubling over. “Thank fucking Christ.”

Her anger overflowed. “James Corbin, did you honestly believe I pushed my way into your life knowing I was some kind of secret half-sister? Did you…oh god…did you think I would kiss you if I knew?” she shrieked, shoving at his shoulder. “That I would want—” She stopped herself, not needing to go into more detail of the time they nearly ravaged each other in the library.

“No,” he said, reaching for her.

She took two steps back.

“I swear to you, Rosalie, I didn’t believe George when he said it…but to have you confirm it…” He pressed a hand to his chest. “Christ, it’s like I couldn’t breathe.”

“Well, it’s a ridiculous falsehood, and I’ll be thrashing him for it!”

“Not if I get to him first,” James muttered. “But something must account for all this madness. Rosalie, I need the truth. We cannot move on from this otherwise.”

She raised her chin in defiance. “Are you saying I tell you, or I lose my place here?”

“Rosalie, please—just—can’t you understand why I need to know?”

“I understand you think you’re entitled to another’s secrets, but you’re not—”

“I am if—”

“You are not. And before you keep pushing me, I will say this: I have no secret I will keep from you regarding my own life. You demand honesty, and you will have it. Ask me anything—anything except to reveal the secrets of another person.”

“So, you will not tell me why she paid all your family’s debts?”

She wanted to tell him everything. She wanted to be so deep inside his walls she became like the princess Ariadne, lost in a maze of her own design. But she gave her word to the duchess. “I’m sorry, James, but your quarrel is with your mother.”

He grimaced, his eyes flashing in anger.

“I am not lying to you, and I am not withholding,” she added. “I am simply keeping my word. Hate me if it helps. Kick me out. But all I have in this world is my word and my pride. In keeping one, I safeguard the other.”

“Fine,” he muttered at last.

She let out a little breath. “Fine? What does that—”

“I said it’s fine,” he repeated. “I will just have to try and pull the truth straight from the source.” He said this as if he were suddenly Heracles preparing to descend into the Underworld to capture Cerberus.

“But it’s not fine,” she murmured. “You can’t even look at me.”

Without looking up, he tucked the letters back inside his waistcoat.

Fresh tears stung her eyes. “You told me you require honesty, but you’ve picked the one thing I’m not at liberty to tell you. And now you can’t look at me—”

His head shot up, his face a mask of frustration. “I’m looking at you. Alright? I’m always looking at you. I can’t look away.”

On instinct she reached out, her hand curling around his arm. To feel him stiffen made her heart ache. “Please, James. You said it yourself, we must move past this. My walls are down, I swear it to you.” He tried to pull away but she tightened her hold on him. “Head and heart, James. I will tell you anything you want to know. Please, just ask me. Please—”

His eyes darted as he took in the features of her face. “How many men?”

She blinked, dropping her hand away from him. “What?”

“How many men have you been with? You want to play the truth game? Well, that’s what I want to know.”

No walls. No lies. She closed her eyes for a moment, praying she was doing right. “By choice?”

It was his turn to blink in confusion. He quickly recovered. “God damn it,” he cursed, dragging both hands through his hair instead.

“Well…which number do you want? You must be more specific.”

“Choice,” he muttered, not looking at her.

“Five,” she whispered. “Burke and Tom you already know.”

He swallowed. “And did you love them? The other three?”

She sniffed, crossing her arms again. It was the smallest kind of comfort, even if all she could do was hold herself. “I thought I did…with two of them, at least. But I was young and foolish…and very alone. It never lasted long.” She blinked back the memories, letting warmer ones fill her mind. Slowly, she let herself smile. “There is no comparing what I had then to what I have now. It’s like having droplets of fresh rain land in your palm and then claiming to hold the ocean.”

“Burke is your ocean then?”

“He is part of it…yes,” she replied, willing him to look at her.

“And…the other number?”

“Two.”

He made a noise in his throat. “How old were you when…”

“Fifteen,” she whispered. “It was in the months just before my father died. That’s when he got the most creative…the most desperate in how to buy time with his creditors and try to cancel debts.”

James cursed again.

“I couldn’t read the bills,” she admitted, gesturing to the bulge in his waistcoat. “I was afraid I might replace one from…I didn’t want to replace any proof of a canceled debt.”

James looked down slowly at his chest. In a flash, he reached inside his waistcoat and pulled out the stack of letters. He turned and dropped to one knee in front of the hearth, placing the stack on the grate.

“What are you doing?”

He stood and snatched a candle off its stand.

“James, don’t—” She watched James touch the flaming tip of the candle to the edge of the stack. In seconds, the top letter caught fire. Smoke billowed up the chimney as all the evidence of Francis Harrow’s wasted life burned to ash.

James stood and replaced the candle. Giving his waistcoat a little tug, he watched the letters curl and burn.

“That was evidence,” she chastised.

“I don’t give a damn. The debts have all been paid. You’re free of him. He and all his creditors can burn in hell.” Slowly, he turned, reaching out for her.

“Don’t—touch me,” she rasped, backing away.

He lowered his hand, his features now impossibly soft. “Rosalie…”

“Don’t ever touch me out of pity, James. I can’t bear it. Not from you.”

A muscle ticked in his jaw. “Tell me their names, and I will purge them from this earth.”

“I will never tell you. They’re already dead to me. You asked for my truth, and I said I will not lie. Please don’t hate me for my past—”

“Hate you?” He looked horrified at the idea.

“Don’t judge me then,” she corrected.

“Rosalie, you were a child! You deserved protection, a safe home, a guardian worthy of the name. If he was not already dead, I’d kill him myself. Tell me where he is buried, so I may spit on his fucking grave.”

“No,” she whispered. “The ghosts of my past shall not claim any part of my present. Let it go, James. For your own sake, if not for mine.”

A quiet moment stretched between them as she watched an array of emotions flash over his face. He was angry, confused, disgusted. At her? At her past? At their current confusing present?

Suddenly, he stepped forward. “I need to touch you,” he admitted, his voice pained.

She backed away. “Not so long as I can still see pity in your eyes.”

“Then look again,” he growled.

She sucked in a breath, noting the heat in his gaze. The longing. The aching need. Why must this man spin her up so completely? “James, I must know…in the library you said—am I still just a passing infatuation? Do I hold any interest for you other than your need to protect people?”

“Damn it, Rosalie, you are the only thing that holds interest for me!”

His words sent a jolt of desire straight through her. She wanted to feel bold, to put the pain of the last few minutes behind them both. “And…what it is about me that interests you? My eyes, perhaps?”

“Yes.”

“What color are they?” she whispered.

He let out a slow breath. “Brown…in the right light, they have flecks of gold. In this light, they are dark as night. Pools of blackness I want to swim inside. A starless sky.”

“And what about my arms?” She smoothed her hands up the length of her silky white gloves. “Do they interest you as well?”

“Yes.”

She held out her left hand, turning it over to expose the buttons at her wrist. “Why don’t you come get a closer look?”

He closed the space between them in two steps, his hands going straight for the delicate pearl buttons. He popped each button and glanced up at her with hooded eyes, waiting for her permission to act. She dragged the glove down her arm. His eyes were fixed on the movement, watching as she exposed her skin.

“What about my hands?” she whispered. “Do you replace those interesting?”

He nodded, reaching out with the lightest of touches, his bare palm skimming along her gloved one. Even through the fabric, she felt the heat of that touch burn straight through her.

He glanced up at her again and she gave a little nod. That was all the direction he needed. Using both hands, he peeled her glove off, tossing it aside. He pulled her in by the wrist, raising her hand to his lips. He kissed her palm, his lips soft.

She leaned in, letting a whimper escape as he kissed down her thumb, nipping the tip. Her gloved hand went to his shoulder as she stepped into him. He pulled her closer, sucking her finger into his mouth.

“Oh god.” She watched her fingers disappear. First one, then two. She pulled them out and gripped his face, tipping up on her toes with her chest pressed against him. “What about my lips—”

He claimed her with a kiss and then they were in a fight for dominance. He held nothing back, driving into her mouth with his tongue. She met his passion with her own, loving the feel of his hands on her, his hard cock pressed against her stomach. But she wanted more. “James, please—”

“What do you need?” His lips traced the arc of her neck. “Tell me what you need.”

“I need you to make me forget everything outside this room. Make me believe there is only you. Worship me until I beg you to stop—”

She gasped as he spun her around. His fingers feverishly worked the back of her gown. In moments he had it open, shoving the red satin off her shoulders to the floor. She turned as she stepped out of it, still wearing her stays and silk drawers. Her white stockings were tied with pink garter ribbons above the knee. Giving him a devilish smile, she raised her naked hand and brushed her fingers over the strands of pearls at her neck.

His response was immediate—a primal groan as he reached for her.

“You like seeing me in your family jewels, don’t you?” she whispered, rolling the pearls at her collarbone.

“Yes,” he growled, cupping her breasts over her stays.

“What if I was wearing only this? A Corbin at my neck…a Corbin in my cunt…”

That broke him. He worked fast, unfastening her stays as he kissed her senseless. As soon as the stays were loose enough, he shoved his hand between the laces, palming her naked breast for the first time. She arched into his touch, stifling the need to cry out as he pinched her aching nipple.

“Take it off,” she pleaded, tugging on the strings herself. “Off—”

Together they jerked the strings loose and the stays dropped to the floor. She dug her fingers in his hair as he lowered his head, kissing the swell of each breast, licking her nipples. She whimpered, core clenching tight, desperate for more. As he kissed her breasts, she undid the buttons at her hip holding her drawers in place. The silk slipped down her legs, pooling on the floor. She stepped out of it, wearing nothing but stockings and the necklace.

James spun her around, one hand at her throat, holding her still while his other hand smoothed over her hip, pulling her tight against him. His fingers danced across her stomach, inching lower…lower. The anticipation nearly took her breath away. At the first slide of his fingers through her wetness, she moaned.

He dropped his forehead to her shoulder, panting with need. “You’re so wet, angel. It’s dripping down your thighs.”

“For you,” she sighed. “I’m wet for you. James, please—”

He stopped her plea with a hungry kiss, teasing her with his fingers. She felt no shame at her arousal. She wanted him. Any woman would be a fool not to want James Corbin. The sudden intrusive thought of another woman touching him made Rosalie feral. She reached around with one hand, gripping his hair as she opened her mouth to him in another claiming kiss.

She trembled as his fingers passed over the spot that ached, only to dance away. She tried to move her hips to get his hand where she wanted it. But then he curled two fingers inside her, lifting her up on her toes. With the first touch of his thumb on her sensitive bud, she shattered. Release rushed through her, weakening her knees as she sagged against him, clenching around his fingers.

“God, help me,” he muttered in her ear.

They clung to each other, both panting for breath.

“Stop…have to stop…”

She heard his jumbled words and stilled, wrapping her hands around the arm at her waist. “What?”

He groaned, his face pressed against the warm skin of her back. “I’m losing control.”

She turned in his arms, placing her hands gently on either side of his face. One still wore an evening glove. “James…look at me.”

He met her gaze. Emotions warred on his face—desire, pain, guilt. Each one pulled at something different in her, causing her doubts to spiral.

“Let me in,” she whispered.

He let out a slow breath, running his hands down her arms, stopping at her elbows. “I’m not…I don’t do this. I don’t do casual sex.”

She bit her lip, holding back any sound of pain that wanted to escape. Is that what this was for him? Casual sex? Is that what she meant to him?

As if he could read her thoughts, he put a finger under her chin, tipping up her face. His expression was so unguarded. He was in pain, and it made her want to weep. “You mean too much to me,” he said fiercely. “I’m barely holding on.”

His truth pierced her heart, making her feel weak. Her hands dropped from his face to his shoulders.

“If we have sex now, I will lose myself completely,” he went on. “I’ll want more than you can give. I’ll want everything. And when you can’t give it, I will resent you. I will resent my friends their ease that they can be with you without conditions. I will resent myself that I cannot be someone other than who I am. Please, let me stop. Please—” He buried his face in the curve of her neck.

She soothed her hands up and down his back, feeling the tautness of his muscles. “It’s okay,” she murmured. “We can stop.”

“I don’t want to stop,” he rasped, his mouth on her lips, his taste on her tongue.

She pulled away, blinking back her tears. “No, we must stop.” The words tore her apart, but she had to respect his wishes. “Living with your resentment of me would be hard enough,” she murmured. “But watching you resent your friends would kill me.”

“I wish I were different,” he muttered, stroking her face with a gentle hand.

“I don’t,” she whispered. “Not for one moment.”

He closed his eyes tight. “I need to leave before it’s no longer an option.”

She nodded, letting him go. “Then leave.” Doing the bare minimum to protect the fracturing pieces of her heart, she stepped away first.

Snatching up his coat, he left.