Her Reformed Rake (Wicked Husbands #3)(59)

“Leave us,” he told the servants dancing attendance upon them without ever taking his eyes from her.

They remained silent until they were blessedly alone.

“Buttercup,” he said then, his throat going embarrassingly thick. He would have said something else, but he didn’t wish to further embarrass himself by wearing his heart on his bloody sleeve.

His heart on his sleeve?

Christ.

From what hell had that rogue thought emerged?

The answering smile she gave him was so blinding that it robbed him of his breath. For a moment, he stared, basking in her beauty, forgetting all about the untenable mire in which he currently found himself. Submarines, dynamite, and the Fenian menace—not to mention the goddamn League itself and his unwanted mission—dissipated like a storm chased away by the sun.

“Is the dinner to your liking?” she asked him, repeating his earlier question to her.

Jesus. He devoured her with his gaze, from her golden hair carefully plaited and styled high atop her head to her high forehead, the dainty slashes of her brows, her elegant nose, and those wide, luscious lips he loved to bite and lick and crush beneath his, then lower for just a beat, over her full, creamy breasts. Suddenly, he was no longer hungry for dinner.

“You arranged this.” If his voice sounded rusty and deep, it couldn’t be helped any more than his reaction to her could. He hadn’t bloody well wanted to marry her. He hadn’t wanted the all-consuming attraction he felt for her. He hadn’t meant to burn whenever he looked upon her. To want—nay, need—her so much that he was willing to do damn near anything to keep her at his side, as his duchess.

But he did.

She tilted her head, considering him and—he feared—seeing far too much. “With the aid of Mrs. Robbins, of course. You’ve been unfailingly kind to me, and I wished to convey my gratitude in some small way.”

The beast in him instantly thought of other ways she might convey her gratitude as well. None of them involved mutton or potatoes à la Lyonnaise. Fighting a groan, he shifted in his chair as discomfort settled in the vicinity of his trousers. A familiar affliction whenever he was in her presence.

And then he thought of how she didn’t owe him her gratitude at all. She didn’t owe him a bloody thing, and if she knew the half of it, she’d never speak to him again. Over the past fortnight, he’d done his best to compartmentalize his duty and the way he’d begun to feel for Daisy. But eventually, the twain would meet, and his meeting with Griffin earlier had made that stark fact all the more real.

He had a duty. Even if he’d fallen in love with the woman he was duty-bound to distrust. Even if he was still trapped in the emerald depths of said woman’s eyes. He couldn’t tell her the truth. Not yet. Perhaps not ever.

Guilt sliced through him with the precision of a bayonet. “You needn’t feel beholden. I’m not the Galahad you think me.”

It was as much of a warning as he could issue to her without giving himself away and putting his mission and the League at risk. The reminder of what he was expected to do—lure in her bastard of a father, pretend as though he’d married Daisy for her fortune, bring him close enough to hurt her once more—made a swift stab of nausea ride through his gut. The mutton was delicious, and it was his favorite dish, but he couldn’t stomach another bite of food.

“You’re a good man, Sebastian,” Daisy said, her cheekbones flushing a charming pink beneath his scrutiny. “It’s futile to try to convince me otherwise.”

“A good man wouldn’t have ruined you in the moonlight without a care for your reputation.”

Bitterness unfurled. How could she be so innocent and good, so blind in her trust of him, she who had been only mistreated and used for her entire life? He had kissed her, ripped her bodice, in the gardens of a ball where they could have been seen by anyone. He had shamed her, used her, all in the name of duty, and without a care. From the beginning, he had deceived her. Knowing that she was suspected of treason, he had still lusted after her, had taken her bloody maidenhead while he was meant to annul their marriage. And he had done all this as he knew there remained a chance she could be cast into prison.

He hated himself. Hated lying to her. Even now, he couldn’t tell her what he so desperately longed to tell her. He had sworn an oath to the League before he’d ever sworn an oath to her. But now the two were hopelessly at war with each other.

Daisy held up her hands, palms facing the ceiling, a teasing smile flirting with the lips he longed to claim. “Ruined and yet here I sit, perfectly well. Your conscience may feel otherwise, but believe me when I say that my ruination was my saving grace. I don’t regret that night, Sebastian. I wanted it, and not just because I wanted to be free of Lord Breckly, but because I wanted you.”

Her words sank straight through him, leaving a path of fire in their wake. By God, he wished he were free. For the first time in his life, he was no longer content to be a part of the League. For the first fucking time, he wanted to be… Sebastian. Simply himself. With no secrets, no lies, no danger, no worry, no allegiance to anyone other than the woman facing him across the expanse of snowy linens and gleaming cutlery and delicious-smelling mutton.

And that was when he recognized it in full, this restless feeling sliding around within him, this sense of incompletion and confusion. The life he led—secrecy, collusion, danger—had ceased to fulfill him long ago. He wanted something more, something real.