The Day of the Duchess (Scandal & Scoundrel #3)(80)

He was down from the saddle before the horse even stopped, not caring as his hat toppled from his head and he closed the distance between them, wanting to reach her and touch her and—dammit—love her.

He was a hound after a fox, and he fully expected her to go to ground.

Except she did not. Instead, she let him come for her. And it occurred that he might, in fact, be the fox.

Because when he reached her, his fingers reaching for her, curling around the back of her head, she tilted her face up to his, her own hand reaching. Her own fingers curling. And, God in heaven, his lips were on hers and she was his—all breath and touch and long, glorious kiss.

He could not stop it, not even when he knew that he should. Because he should. Because this was neither the time nor the place to kiss her—not when she’d run from him and he’d run to her and they needed nothing more than to talk.

It was time they had this out.

She pulled away, just enough to whisper his name, and that small, soft Mal, was enough to slay him and tempt him and bring him to her again. Just for a moment. Just until he’d tasted her and touched her. Just until he was made strong again by her presence.

It had been too long since he’d been strong.

And then she was pushing him away, color high on her cheeks, lips stung red with his kiss, and she was putting distance between them. She shook her head, and he opened his mouth to say the words—once, just once, alone with her. Here.

Sera did not give him a chance to have the first word. Nor did she intend for him to have the last. She lifted her chin. “What then, I was to have dropped to my knees and thanked you for condescending to offer me your love?”

He froze, his mouth open, words lost. He never seemed to have the right ones with her. Too often they were lies, and when they were truth—they were never enough.

“Or, what?” she prodded. “To profess my own feelings?”

“That would not have been unwelcome. And I might remind you that seconds ago, your kiss made a profession of its own.”

“Kisses have never been our failing.”

“What then?” he pushed her. Knowing he shouldn’t. Knowing he must. “What has been our failing?”

“What hasn’t?” She spread her arms wide. “Honesty? Trust?” The words were a cold burn, landing with proper sting. And still she came at him. “When did you invite them here?” His hesitation was enough for her to know the truth, and still she pushed him. “When, Malcolm?”

“The day you came to Parliament.”

She looked away, toward the manor house, rising like a lie in the distance. “You never intended to give me my divorce, did you?”

Of course he hadn’t. He’d chased her across the world. He’d never in his life been so thrilled as when she stormed into Parliament and fairly set the place aflame. She was his. “No.”

“Why lie? To me? To these women? To their families?” Before he could reply, she continued. “Was it punishment?”

“No.”

“Of course it was,” she said. “You remain the cat and I the mouse. And all you can do is toy with me.”

“No,” he said, coming toward her, one arm outstretched as though he could catch her.

She did step back then, recoiling from his touch, wrapping her arms about her waist as though she could protect herself from him—as though she had to protect herself from him—and Mal dropped his hand as though he had been singed, never wanting to give her anything that she did not wish. He cast about for the right words—the ones that would change everything. Simply. Perfectly.

Of course, nothing between them was ever simple.

“Shall I tell you how I feel, Malcolm?” He waited, and she continued. “I feel angry. I feel betrayed. I feel lied to and tricked. You remember those emotions keenly, do you not? You certainly hurled them at me enough.”

He stepped toward her. “Not any longer.”

She held up a hand, staying his defense. “I suppose it is ironic, is it not? Here we are, in the precise situation where we began—one of us trapped in a marriage we do not wish.” It wasn’t true. Not really. It couldn’t be. Except she went on, their past coming like arrows. “Except this time, it’s not you who questions my honesty, but the other way around.”

“How much more honest can I be?” he asked, frustration edging into his tone. “I love you.”

She closed her eyes and looked away. “I suppose you loved me then, too.”

“I did,” he confessed. “I’ve loved you from the start, and you never believed it.”

“When is that? When you stole kisses and threatened my reputation feet from the rest of London?”

A fist knotted in his gut. “Yes,” he said.

“And when you made love to me here? At Highley?”

“Yes—Sera—”

“And when I forced your hand?”

He’d been so furious then. But it hadn’t changed anything. Not really. “Yes.”

“You didn’t believe me then. That I loved you. That I was afraid for my sisters and myself. Everything you and I had ever done had been so clandestine. And I’d loved it. But what would happen in the light?” She shook her head. “I regretted it all the moment I did it. I once told you that I would do it again if I had the chance. I wouldn’t. If I could take one day of my life back, it would be that day, here. At Highley.” She looked away, to the horses, the meadow, the estate in late-summer perfection. “I regret it.”