While the Duke Was Sleeping (The Rogue Files #1)(28)

That image settled like boiling acid in his stomach. He did not like it. He did not want it. He banished it from his head.

Still, he could not deny the truth of it. If this girl was tangled up with Autenberry, their relationship was definitely in the realm of intimate. She needn’t act so prudish or pretend with him. He knew what Autenberry was.

Consequently, he knew what she was. She was low-hanging fruit, ready to be plucked. So why shouldn’t Struan be the next man to pluck her?

At the mere idea, his blood rushed south, straight for his cock.

“That’s none of your business,” she snapped in answer to his question.

Even in the dimness of the firelit room, he marked the deepening rush of color to her face. “Come now. Does he call you by your Christian name? Or some endearment?”

She released a huff of breath. “You are the only one so bold as to use a nickname.”

“Am I?” The idea pleased him somehow . . . even though it ought not to. He wanted to be different. He wanted to make his mark on her.

“Your brother is far too circumspect for that.”

At that, he chuckled. “Autenberry? Circumspect? That is one adjective I’ve never heard applied to him.” Arrogant. Boorish. Smug bastard.

“Perhaps you don’t know him,” she challenged.

“Perhaps you don’t,” he returned.

Especially if she believed his half brother would actually marry her—a lowly working class girl. Never in this lifetime would he do that. Autenberry was too much of a snob. He was a product of his father and his class.

Struan would be doing her a favor if he convinced her of that. If, by the time Autenberry woke up, she was no longer enamored of him, then all the better. She wouldn’t be crushed when he gave her the boot.

“That is quite enough, sir.” She shot a quick glance to the door. “It isn’t seemly for us to be alone in here at this late hour. You should go.”

He glanced at Autenberry, scratching his chin as though in deep contemplation and ignoring her demand. “He doesn’t strike me as a deep thinker.” Of all the things he’d heard about his brother, no one ever called him clever. “I’d wager he calls you something unoriginal. Is it ‘darling’? Or ‘sweetheart’?”

She stood abruptly, her face still hot with color. Initially, he thought her unremarkable in looks, but now he could see her appeal. She was comely with her ire up. He imagined it would be the same effect in bed—her eyes bright, cheeks flushed, mouth parted with arousing gasps. His cock hardened anew.

“If you won’t leave, then I shall,” she huffed.

He stepped sideways, blocking her retreat. For a moment they brushed, her softness colliding with his body. He heard her breath catch . . . felt his own breathing stop and hold. She need only glance down to see the evidence of his arousal . . . here beside his coma-stricken brother. Then she would really think him perverse.

To little surprise, she took a hasty step back, as though fearful of their contact.

“We’re practically family,” he said. “No need to rush away.”

Her expression turned almost comical. She looked as though she just bit into a tart apple. Her nose wrinkled and her lips worked. “Family? You? And me?” She glanced again to where the duke slept. “That status is built on the fact that you and His Grace are in actuality family.” She laughed a touch sharply. “From all accounts, your relationship is strained.”

True, and the reminder of how precisely unbrotherly their relationship was stung as it shouldn’t.

“Oh? Listening to gossip, Miss Fairchurch?” A sinister thread wove through his voice. “Who has been filling your ears? The staff?”

“I witnessed proof enough of that with my own eyes.”

He shrugged. “A mere spat. Not uncommon among family.”

“Not my family.” Bryony might make Poppy want to pull her hair out at times, but she loved her sister and she had no doubt that her sister loved her back. They would never strike each other.

“Then you’ve led a sheltered existence.”

She narrowed her gaze at his mocking tone and crossed her arms. “Why are you even here, Mr. Mackenzie?” She paused and flicked a glance to the duke’s bed. “You aren’t feeling guilty, are you?”

“Guilty?” He started. Of all things he thought she might say it wasn’t that. “For what?”

“For your role in all of this.” She waved toward where his brother slept.

There it was again, that prick of something in his chest—a tight, twisting pinch. She was closer to the truth than he liked to acknowledge.

“My role? And what of your role?”

Her eyes flared at the charge and her voice escaped in a sharp squeak. “Me?”

“Yes. You.” He took another step forward and she backed away one to match. He followed with another. “You were the one that shoved him out of the way, after all.”

Her breath escaped in a hot rush. “Out of the way of a charging carriage, you mean!”

“Yes, but if you hadn’t attacked me, I would have been there in the street with Autenberry. I could have pulled him safely away without knocking him to the ground . . . where he then struck his head.”

Her mouth parted, lips trembling as she stared at him, as though trying to understand what she was seeing . . . what he was saying.