Duke of Desire (Maiden Lane #12)(68)

Raphael rose slowly, extending a hand. “It’s been a pleasure to meet you, Your Grace,” he said with patent dishonesty.

Hugh grimaced, stood, and shook his hand. “Think about it, Dyemore.”

He jerked his head at his men and strode from the room.

Iris blew out her breath and looked up at Raphael. “You will accept Hugh’s help, won’t you?”

Her husband held out his hand to her. “No.”

She didn’t take his hand, staring up at him instead. “But if you work together, won’t your chances of bringing the Lords down improve?”

He shrugged. “I don’t care. I work alone.”

“Raphael.” She felt tears of anger and frustration start in her eyes.

It was foolish for him to refuse to work with Hugh. The other man had spent months chasing the Lords of Chaos and had the backing and resources of the Crown.

On his own Raphael stood a far greater chance of failing.

On his own Raphael would die.

She wouldn’t be able to bear it if anything happened to Raphael—anything at all. He might be stoic and grave and nearly stone-like, but she knew now that under that frozen exterior his emotions roiled like molten lava.

She wanted him safe. She wanted him to simply be with her. To learn to be happy.

To learn to laugh.

And all he seemed to care about was his stupid revenge.

She stood, still ignoring his hand. “Please, Raphael. Please, for me. Let Hugh help you. There’s no need for you to risk yourself like this.”

“Come with me, Iris,” he said quietly.

“Don’t you hear me?” She gripped the sides of his coat. If she’d been strong enough, she would’ve shaken him. “I don’t want you to die.”

“You’re making yourself upset for no reason,” he said, and a trace of impatience finally cracked his facade.

“You’ve set a course of suicide,” she said, her voice rising. She no longer cared if she sounded hysterical. “I assure you I’m mad with worry for a very good reason.”

He looked away, his mouth crimped in irritation. “I’ve told you this is my battle—”

“Fine!” She threw her hands up in the air in exasperation. “It’s your battle, the only important thing in your life, but why do you have to die to accomplish it?” Her voice lowered as tears bit at her eyes. “Tell me, Raphael. Please. Why do you have to leave me alone in order to bring down the Lords of Chaos?”

“Iris,” he snarled.

She started at the sound. He’d raised his voice. He never raised his voice.

Raphael inhaled, looking down and then up at her. “Because it’s the only way to lay him to rest.”

Her eyes widened in horror. “Him? You mean your father, don’t you? Raphael, his sins don’t require your death. Is that what you think?”

He stared at her, his brows drawn, and for a moment she thought she had broken through to him. Thought he might answer the question and come back to her.

But then he looked away. “I’m not trying to kill myself, but if I die you won’t be alone. You have your brother, your friends, Kyle.”

She looked down and dashed at the tears with the back of her hand. As if any of those people were the same as he.

“Please,” he said, his voice like drifting smoke. “I don’t want to argue with you. Won’t you come with me?”

She didn’t want to argue with him, either. It made her heart ache and left her weary and sad. She took his arm because she didn’t know what else to do.

He led her out of the sitting room and up the stairs, and she wondered if there was any argument she hadn’t used. Anything she could say to stay him from his course of action.

Raphael stopped suddenly, and she looked up and saw that they’d come to the duchess’s chamber.

She frowned and peered up at him.

His eyebrows were still drawn together, as if he wasn’t sure what her reaction might be. As if their fight had made him sad as well. “Do you remember that I said I had something to show you?”

Back when they were entering the house. Before she’d seen Hugh. Before their argument. “Yes?”

He pushed open the door to her bedroom. “Look.”

She went inside and saw Valente sitting on the floor in front of her fireplace with a basket. He had a silly grin on his face.

She glanced over her shoulder to Raphael. “What—?”

Her husband tilted his chin toward Valente and the basket. “Go and see.”

At the same time she heard an animal whimper.

Her lips parted and she picked up her skirts to hurry to the basket. It was lined with a soft blanket and inside was the sweetest little blond puppy, looking very sorry for itself.

Iris stared, torn. Did Raphael think a puppy would be an adequate substitution for him?

The moment the puppy saw her it began whimpering and yipping, trying to climb from its wicker prison, but its legs were too short to make the attempt and it ended by falling backward, revealing that it was female.

It was hardly the puppy’s fault that she was angry with Raphael.

“Oh,” Iris breathed, sinking to her knees on the carpet opposite Valente. “She’s perfect.”

Somehow the words made tears start in her eyes again.