While the Duke Was Sleeping (The Rogue Files #1)(49)

It was this man. Struan Mackenzie. Edmond possessed a nice enough face, but he did not look like Struan Mackenzie. Nor did he talk like him. Or kiss like him. Or infuriate her like him.

“I am certain of what I want. Leave. Me. Alone.”

He gazed at her and a ghost of a smile curved his mouth, taunting her. She could still taste him on her lips. Still feel his expert touch. Angling his head, Struan looked so insufferably enticing right then, and she knew she was in serious trouble.

He was correct. She was ever a liar. Because she wasn’t certain what she wanted anymore. To curl right back up in his lap or strike him squarely in the nose?

Autenberry had been her dream. Mackenzie was a brute. She shouldn’t be feeling this way.

“You don’t want me to do that.” That brogue of his only stoked the flames higher inside her.

She scowled and pressed back into the carriage squabs, shrinking like a wilting bloom against a frigid wind. Frustration rose up and squeezed inside of her. “Very well. My body is a treacherous and weak thing and isn’t repulsed by you.” She sniffed. “Is that what you want me to admit?”

He nodded. “It is a start.” He leaned forward as though he would join her on her side of the carriage. She held up a hand to ward him off.

“That admission is the end.” She inhaled through her nose thinly. “The end of me.” She flattened a hand against her chest. “If I were to let this happen between us, I could not like myself.” Silly as it sounded, she had always liked herself. She had always been able to look at herself with pride in the mirror each day. Thanks to Papa. Not a day passed where he had not told her how clever she was, how lovely and special. How loved.

“I cannot engage in a strictly physical tryst—”

“Oh, you could,” he said with maddening surety. “People do it all the time. It’s the giving and receiving of pleasure. There is nothing wrong about that, lass.”

Preposterous. He was a sinful, debauched creature who would drag her down to the very brink of depravity if she let him.

“I could do that,” she allowed. “And then I would despise myself. I can’t have this—” she motioned between them “—without affection. Without . . .” Her voice faded and heat slapped her face.

“Love?” He snorted. “Don’t tell me you’re one of those?”

“One of what?”

“An idealist. A romantic.” He made it sound like a dirty thing. “Don’t tell me you love Autenberry?” The scorn in his voice cut like a knife.

She nodded even if her conviction wasn’t nearly as strong as it once was. “Of course I love him,” she whispered, telling herself it was the necessary falsehood. “I’m going to marry him.” Never since she started this charade had the lie felt more necessary than in this moment. “I love him. I’ve loved him since the first time we met.”

“Bollocks.”

She pulled back, a hard breath escaping her. “I beg your pardon?”

Did he know? Had he seen through her ruse?

“Love at first sight? Bollocks!” A muscle in his jaw twitched. “I don’t know if you’re lying to yourself or me, but you’re a liar nonetheless.”

Oh, he simply refused to believe the sentiment was genuine. “You arrogant—”

“You couldn’t kiss me like that and open yourself to me and be in love with him. That much I know about you, Miss Fairchurch, foolish romantic as you just professed yourself to be.”

The carriage seemed to be slowing. Either that or it was wishful thinking on her part. She slipped a hand between the curtains and peered out. They were definitely slowing. The landscape no longer whipped past as quickly.

She patted her hair and straightened her garments, hoping the damage not too great and no one would make anything of her untidy appearance. Hopefully, they would just chalk it up to the rigors of travel.

“You, sir, are a blackguard and I demand you keep your distance from me henceforth.” He stared at her for a long moment and she could not help but notice no such promise was forthcoming. “I’m waiting, Mr. Mackenzie.”

“Then you’ll have to wait forever, kitten, because I’m not in the habit of telling lies.”

Not precisely what she wanted to hear from him.

The carriage rolled to a stop. “We’re here. Time to get out.”

He opened the door and climbed down. She followed, hovering in the open doorway and peering out. He waited for her, one hand proffered, ready to assist her down. Beyond him loomed Autenberry Manor, the grandest residence she had ever seen, a vast gray edifice of stone that was home to the Duke of Autenberry and a countless line of dukes before him. A steady stream of liveried servants spilled out of the house to form a receiving line, ready to greet the dowager duchess and her family. And Poppy—the fraud.

Instantly, she knew. She would never belong here. She had thought she loved Autenberry—or rather, she could love him. As handsome and kind and charming as he was, it would not be difficult to fall for him. She had thought that perhaps he could love her, too. Perhaps. If he only knew her. Now she knew that would never be.

Life wasn’t some fairy tale. She loved the idea of the Duke of Autenberry. The myth. Confronted with this mausoleum, she knew that the reality was far, far removed from her.