Duke of Desire (Maiden Lane #12)(75)

Indeed, had he been of the correct faith he would have made an exemplary initiate to the priesthood.

But then, in his sixteenth year, things slowly had begun to change. He’d seen a girl and his eyes lingered on her breasts. He no longer ignored the erections he got at night—and, more and more often, during the day.

He’d grown to his full height in the next several years.

He’d mastered horseback riding to the point that he needed neither saddle nor stirrup and could guide the animal by his thighs and heels alone.

He’d learned to fight and once, when roaming alone on a deserted part of the island, knocked to the ground a man who had meant to rob him.

He’d learned Italian, Corsican, Latin, Greek, and French.

He had became a man.

And in his twenty-first year he lay with the widow who did the laundry in his house. Her hands were rough, but she was a gentle soul, ten years older than he, and not a promiscuous woman by any means. He met with her thrice more and gave her a cottage and enough money to buy an oven and begin selling bread.

He’d had two other women since.

None had been lovers.

And he had not penetrated them. He had not penetrated any woman.

Until Iris.

God. What had he done? He’d made a vow to himself that he’d never have children. That he wouldn’t continue his father’s cursed line.

He’d forsworn himself because of her.

She’d destroyed all his defenses.

“Raphael?”

He stiffened at her voice and then turned.

She hesitated in the doorway. She’d undressed and wore only a chemise and wrapper, her hair down about her shoulders.

She shone.

Her light hurt his eyes and he shut them against her radiance. “Leave.”

“No.”

Her simple word made him look up.

Her lips trembled, but she stood brave and tall in the doorway, refusing to go. Refusing to leave him in his broken ruin.

“Raphael,” she said, “what is the matter?”

He stared at her. Could she truly be so unaware?

“I … I’ve made a mistake,” he said, trying to keep his voice level. Trying to keep from shouting. This wasn’t her fault.

The fault—the weakness—lay with him.

“What …” She licked her lips. “What do you mean?”

He shook his head. “You know what I mean. I told you innumerable times.”

He heard her quiet inhalation. “You didn’t want a child. Yes, you said that to me, but would it really be so awful if—”

“Yes!” He’d lost the battle not to shout. “Dear God, yes. My father was a monster. I cannot risk having a child like him. Can’t you see—”

“I see that you aren’t your father.” She took a step toward him. “If—”

“How do you know?” He gripped his own hair. He felt as if his sanity were leaking out of his pores. “How the hell can you tell? I have his blood in my veins. I have his words and actions in my brain. He raised me to be his. Don’t you see—can’t you understand—that I am just as much monster as he?”

“No!” She rushed to him and wound her arms around his neck, holding him when he tried to pull away.

He couldn’t injure her. Not even now.

“No,” she said again, her face inches from his. He could see the storm in her eyes, the desperation in her face. “You are not him, Raphael. You will never be him.”

“I cannot risk it,” he said, his voice low. “It’s too much. I cannot.”

Her arms fell from him and she stepped back, swallowing. “And if it’s too late?”

He shook his head, turning away. “I don’t know.”

He looked at her, so beautiful with her golden hair around her. With her light shining bright from within her.

He’d never deserved her. It’d been folly to tell himself otherwise.

He inhaled and said it, severing whatever might have been. “I only know that this can never happen again.”

Her lips parted and she simply stared at him a moment. He had the odd hope for a second that she would argue further. That she would somehow convince him otherwise.

But in the end she simply left him there.

Alone, cold, and in utter darkness.

He couldn’t stand it. He’d been in her light too long.

Raphael slammed out of the dressing room and into the hall. He passed a startled Ubertino, standing guard outside the ducal bedroom, and kept walking.

“Your Grace!” the Corsican called behind him.

Raphael ignored the shout and ran down the stairs.

Valente and Ivo were at the front door. He held up a hand as Valente stood and opened his mouth.

Both servants stood aside as he made the door.

Raphael walked out into the night.

Leaving everything light behind him.

The Dionysus sat in front of a roaring fire that evening, drinking a very good brandy. He held up his glass and watched the amber glow of the firelight behind it.

“Dyemore is getting close,” the Mole said from a chair nearby. “And the attempt on his duchess’s life will make him even more determined.”

The Dionysus ignored him. Other than for the very fine brandy, the Mole was of little use to him.