Romancing the Duke (Castles Ever After #1)(27)

“Cock.” She blurted it out. “There. I said it. Aloud. Here, I’ll say it again. Cock. Cock, cock, cock. And not just any cock.” She glanced at the paper and dropped her voice to a throaty purr. “ ‘Your magnificent cock, which I long to feel deep inside me again.’ ”

He went quiet now.

She released her grip, letting the paper drop from her hand. “Satisfied?”

“Actually, Goodnight . . .” He sat up on the sofa, shifting awkwardly. “I am the furthest thing from satisfied. And heartily sorry I pressed the matter.”

“Good.”

Izzy huffed a breath, dislodging a stray curl from her forehead. Her whole body was hot and achy, and a low throb had settled between her thighs.

Worst of all, her mind was a buzzing hive of curiosity. When it came to a man’s organ, just what constituted “magnificence” anyhow? There were clues in the letter, she supposed. Something about precious inches and the ability to reach depths.

She propped her elbows on the table and extended one index finger into the air. How long was that, she mused? Perhaps four inches, at the most? Four inches didn’t strike her as a measurement one associated with magnificence.

She extended both index fingers toward one another, letting them touch at the tips. Their combined length was more impressive. But also a little bit frightening.

“Goodnight.”

Oh, Lord.

Her elbow slipped, sending a sheaf of papers cascading to the floor. Thank heaven he couldn’t see her. “Yes?”

“Do you intend to carry on with your work?”

“Yes. Yes, Your Grace. Of course. Yes.”

Enough with these missives from his former lovers.

Izzy searched through the letters, hoping to choose something dry and boring. A report on the state of his tenants’ barley crop. Something with absolutely no evidence of his career as a virile, unapologetic, magnificent libertine.

“Here’s something that was sent as an express,” she said, plucking a battered envelope from the bottom of the heap. “It was addressed to you in London, but your people must have forwarded it here.”

He sat up, giving her his full attention. “Read it.”

“ ‘Your Grace,’ ” she began.

But before she could read further, she lowered the letter. “So strange. I must have opened twenty of these now. Not one of them has begun with a warm salutation. Not a ‘My dear duke’ or ‘Dearest Rothbury’ in the bunch.”

“It’s not surprising,” he said flatly. “It’s the way things are.”

She laughed a little. “But not always, surely. Somewhere in these hundreds upon hundreds of letters, there’s got to be one that’s mildly affectionate.”

“Feel free to think so. I wouldn’t advise holding your breath.”

Truly? Not one?

Izzy bit her lip, feeling like a heel for bringing it up. But if no one dared to address him with warmth, it could only be because he forbade it with that stern demeanor. Surely someone, somewhere found him lovable—or least admirable. Hopefully, for a reason that had nothing to do with his financial or physical endowments.

She went back to the letter at hand. Within a few lines, she realized that this was a very different letter than any of the ones she’d read before.

“ ‘Your Grace. By now, you will know I have gone. Do not think I will have regrets. I am sorry—most heartily sorry—for only one thing, and that is that I lacked the courage to tell you directly.’ ”

The duke’s boots hit the floor with a thud. He rose to his feet. His expression was forbidding. But he didn’t tell her not to continue.

“ ‘I realize,’ ” Izzy read on, clearing her throat, “ ‘forgiveness will be beyond you in this moment, but I feel I must offer some explanation for my actions. The plain truth of it is, I could never lov—’ ”

The paper was ripped from her hands.

Rothbury crumpled it in one hand and tossed it in the grate. “Insignificant.”

Insignificant?

Balderdash.

Izzy knew the contents of that letter had been significant. So significant, he couldn’t even bear to confront them, so he’d snatched them from her grip and destroyed the truth.

But there was another significant fact to be dealt with, and it had nothing to do with correspondence at all.

She stared at him. “You deceitful rogue. You’re not blind.”

Chapter Nine

You’re not blind,” she repeated.

The statement took him by surprise, but not in an unwelcome way. He would discuss his wretched eyesight all day long if she forgot ever opening that damned letter. The foolish chit who’d penned it should have saved her ink. If forgiveness had been beyond him then, it was utterly hopeless now.

“I am blind,” he informed Miss Goodnight. “Why would I pretend it if I weren’t?”

“But you just crossed those five paces and ripped a page directly from my hand, with no hesitation. No fumbling.” She paused. “And every so often, the way you look at me . . . I’ve wondered. Sometimes it seems you’re completely blind, and at other times it doesn’t.”

“That’s because sometimes I am completely blind, and other times I’m not.”

“I don’t understand.”