While the Duke Was Sleeping (The Rogue Files #1)(25)

Struan’s mother had filled his ears with fanciful stories of the life that awaited him when his father came to claim him. It had taken him years to realize that would never happen. Ignorance would have been far sweeter than the truth. His father could have eased their suffering and saved his mother from an early grave, but the bastard hadn’t lifted a finger for either one of them.

Unfortunately, he couldn’t unlearn that knowledge. Or erase the memories of going to bed with an aching belly, his body sore from a beating he’d endured on the streets. The world was full of predators and he’d had to fight his way from becoming their prey.

He crossed his arms, gazing at the face so similar to his own. Autenberry might never wake. Maybe he had wanted this on some deep level? No. He wasn’t that broken that he wanted his brother dead.

Her voice whispered through him. You didn’t have to strike him back.

True, he’d spent his entire life never backing down, never giving up an inch, but would it have been so impossible to simply take the hit and walk away? Could he have not found that strength of will within him to turn his cheek?

Gazing at his brother who looked pale and vulnerable in the bed, resentment still bubbled beneath the surface like acid. He couldn’t deny that it had felt damn good to crush his knuckles into his brother’s face.

He moved away from the bed, not particularly liking himself right then. He sank into a chair in the corner in the room, buried deep in shadows where he could watch his half brother.

Sighing, he dragged a hand over his jaw, waiting, watching, searching for some flicker of movement. Something that signified the bastard wasn’t dead. That she wasn’t right about him, that the way she looked at him, like he was some bit of filth beneath her shoe, wasn’t justified.



She couldn’t sleep.

Her thoughts churned. Halfway across Town the duke slumbered in a fairy-tale-like sleep and there was no magical kiss that would wake him. And even if a kiss could wake him it would not be from her—contrary to the fact that his family thought she was the love of his life. She cringed and buried her face in her hands. How on earth had she let Lord Strickland persuade her into continuing this farce?

Perhaps because you want it to be real.

It felt good to be wanted, and the duke’s family made her feel wanted—excluding Struan Mackenzie, of course. But she hadn’t had to see him this morning. No, she and Lord Strickland had been joined by the rest of the duke’s family, all of whom had insisted she take breakfast with them before returning to the flower shop. They had been warm and lovely, plying her with sticky buns and kippers and the most delicious chocolate she had ever consumed. It slid like ambrosia down her throat. In addition to the wonderful fare, they had been genuinely interested in her—asking questions about her life that made her feel human again and not simply a machine that functioned day to day, eking out an existence to keep both she and her sister one step out of the gutter.

Light from the grate cast dancing shadows over the walls and ceiling of their small chamber. The smell of wet leather drifted to her nose. It had rained earlier in the day and she’d been caught out in the deluge on her way home from Barclay’s. Her boots sat near the grate in the hopes that they would dry by morning.

She rolled onto her side with a soft groan. She couldn’t stop wondering if they were giving the duke enough water and broth. Perhaps she had been too soft with Mrs. Wakefield when she stressed that he needed proper sustenance through his convalescence.

Foolish, she knew. Loved ones and a houseful of servants surrounded him. He didn’t need her. Even if his family believed they were affianced, the best thing she could do was keep her distance.

She told herself that for several moments, her laced fingers thrumming over her chest. He was fine. There was nothing she could do. Her presence wouldn’t help him.

Her fingers thrummed faster.

Blast!

She wasn’t going to fall asleep. Giving up, she rose. Flinging back the covers, she left her warm bed where her sister tossed and turned, encroaching onto Poppy’s side of the bed.

She slipped on her garments, dressing warmly for the bitter night. After checking her boots and finding them still damp, she slipped into her sister’s boots. They were only slightly too large, but they would suffice.

With one last glimpse at her sister asleep in the bed, her arms flung above her head and lost in all her lovely auburn hair, Poppy departed the room, closing the door gently behind her. Not that her sister was a light sleeper. It took an avalanche to wake her in the mornings.

The light in Mrs. Gibbons’s downstairs parlor glowed onto the hall floor. She paused outside the cracked double doors, glimpsing the widow inside, sitting before the fire with her knitting.

“Mrs. Gibbons? I’m going out for a bit,” she said as she wrapped her wool kerchief around her throat. “Bryony is asleep. I doubt she will awake.”

Mrs. Gibbons slid her spectacles up the bridge of her nose. “Is anything amiss?” She glanced to the mantel clock. “The hour is late to venture out.”

“No, nothing amiss. Just something I forgot to do that needs to be done before the morning.” She deliberately let her words imply that it was a work-related task. In no way would she explain what she was really about at this late an hour. She wasn’t certain she even could. She could scarcely explain it to herself. To explain what she was about, she’d have to disclose her deception.