Duke of Desire (Maiden Lane #12)(37)

Hades was a man other men were wary of—and with good reason, it seemed.

He turned at that moment and his crystal gaze met hers. He arched a brow. “What do you smile at?”

She shrugged. “I was just remembering how swiftly our guests left the abbey.”

“I’ve no doubt they went running straight to report to the Dionysus that you still live.” He glared at her. “And that we’re married.”

“I thought his identity was secret?” That much she’d learned from Hugh.

“It is.” For a moment she thought he’d stop there; then he seemed to come to a decision, his eyes intent on her. “Apparently the Dionysus has been communicating via notes with the Grant brothers. They didn’t tell me, but I have no doubt that they have a way of sending a message to him in return. He probably knows you’re alive right now.”

She couldn’t help her muscles’ sudden tightening, an instinctive reaction like that of a rabbit freezing before a fox.

Then she drew a breath. “That’s why you insisted we decamp for London so precipitously, isn’t it?”

He nodded. “The sooner London society knows we are married, the sooner you’ll be safe.” He gazed out the window, tapping his forefinger against his lips as if thinking. “And, too, they were no doubt headed for London, as the Dionysus will be. That’s where I’ll catch him. That’s where I’ll destroy them.” He shook his head. “I’d thought that I’d be given more time before the Dionysus discovered that you were alive so that my wound would entirely heal, but it seems that hope is not to be.”

Iris cleared her throat, feeling vaguely guilty that the Grant brothers and Mr. Leland had seen her. “At least in London you can call upon the Duke of Kyle for help with the Lords of Chaos.”

He glanced at her, black brows drawn. “Why would I need Kyle’s help?”

She felt her jaw sag. “You can’t take down the Lords of Chaos alone.”

“I can and I will.”

Was he that arrogant—or merely mad? Hugh had thought he’d destroyed the Lords of Chaos this last winter, and yet like the many-headed Hydra they’d lived. How could Raphael prevail against such a powerful enemy—especially if he refused help?

He sighed. “I’m truly sorry you were thrown into the midst of this war, but my plans remain the same: I will find the heart of the Lords of Chaos, I’ll tear it out, and I’ll burn them all to the ground.”

“But why must you do it yourself?” She leaned toward him urgently. “And all alone?”

His lips pressed together and he looked out the window. “Because my father was their Dionysus. Because I knew all these years what the Lords of Chaos did and I never moved against them.” He looked back at her and his crystal eyes had iced over. “This is my battle, my penance for what I let happen.”

“But …” Iris shook her head. “Your father’s actions aren’t your fault.”

“Aren’t they?” His lips curled in a sneer, but she thought it was aimed at himself. “I could have stopped him. I could have killed him and destroyed the Lords of Chaos years ago.”

“You would have been hanged for murder if you’d done that,” she whispered. “It would’ve been suicide.”

He held her gaze. “A principled man would’ve done it and damned the cost.”

She stared at him, sitting so calmly—so still—as he spoke of violence and turmoil. He was dressed all in black like Death himself, his glossy ebony hair left unbound about his shoulders, his cold gray eyes watching her without emotion.

But were they entirely without emotion? Or was it a mask like the one he’d worn on the night she’d shot him? Because the thing was, she was at a crossroads. She could let him dictate the terms of this marriage. Could let herself be set gently aside while he went on his destructive way—alone, furious, and suicidal—or … or she could try to break through all that ice and pain and find out what lay beneath.

She could try to make this a real marriage, with or without sex. Only a tiny percentage of a marriage was spent in the bedroom, after all.

How a husband and wife got along all the time they weren’t in bed was perhaps, in the end, much more important to their happiness.

Iris bit her lip. “And after?”

His eyes narrowed. “I’m sorry?”

“After you burn the towns and salt the earth of your enemy,” she said. “What will you do then?”

“What do you mean?” His brows knit. “I will be done.”

“Done with your mission, certainly, but with the rest of your life? I hardly think so. You can’t be more than five and thirty—”

“I’m one and thirty,” he interrupted, his tone as dry as dust.

“Are you?” she said brightly. “I’m eight and twenty. But the point is that you have years yet to live.”

He cocked his head, watching her a moment, then said, “It doesn’t matter what I do afterwards. All that matters is the downfall of the Lords.”

He means to die. She knew it suddenly and completely. He wasn’t thinking beyond the defeat of the Lords because he didn’t think he would live past the conflict. Why was he doing this? What was driving him to destroy the Lords and himself at the same time?