While the Duke Was Sleeping (The Rogue Files #1)(59)

They kissed until there was nothing but the combined frenzy of their lips and tongues.

She brought her hands up to his face, holding him and reveling in the sensation of his strong jaw as she explored the taste of him.

Suddenly she was falling. She grabbed onto his shoulders with a soft yelp as they fell back onto the bed.

The sensation of the brocade counterpane beneath woke her. She curled her hands into his shoulders and pushed. “No, stop!”

He froze, his chest panting with sawing breaths as he looked down at her with eyes gone dark and heavy. She felt an answering pull in her belly.

“You don’t want me to stop,” he growled, his brogue thicker than usual.

She moistened her lips. She knew she should probably be afraid. She was alone with him. He was big and strong, capable of overpowering her. He could easily do that.

“I’m in love with Marcus,” she blurted.

A shutter slammed over his gaze. He sat back, lifting off her. “Of course you are. He’s rich and powerful and titled. How could I forget?”

She flinched as his hand came down suddenly toward her. His eyes flashed, clearly aware that for a moment she thought he might strike her.

“You think I would strike you?”

She shook her head. Shame coursed through her. He lowered his hand the rest of the way to her. His fingers traced her kiss-swollen lips slowly. He merely wanted to touch her face. Not strike her. Never that. It wasn’t in him to do that. Somehow she knew that much about him. The flinch had been a thoughtless instinct.

“Is lying so second nature to this mouth? I know you better than yourself.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” she asked against the brush of his fingertips. “I’m not frightened of you. I know you wouldn’t hit me.”

“That’s not what I’m talking about.”

“I don’t understand, then.”

“Whatever you feel for the duke, it isn’t love.”

She laughed weakly. “You know so much of love?”

He ignored the question. She was perhaps glad he did not answer her. She wasn’t sure how she would feel to hear that he had loved someone else. The notion of it gave her an odd sensation in her chest. Almost as though a weight were there, pushing down. Which was ludicrous. He was close to thirty. Of course he could have loved a woman in the course of his life. She had no claim to him. On the contrary.

Instead he said, “You couldn’t kiss me the way you do and love someone else. That isn’t who you are, Poppy. You’ve more character than that. You look out for others . . . your sister, your father before you. You put yourself last.”

“So?” She had to fight the urge to squirm beneath his praise.

“So you wouldn’t hurt anyone. Least of all the man you love. You risk hurting the duke every time you’ve kissed me back. Every time you’ve let me touch you. You’re not built that way.”

She opened her mouth to deny the charge, but realized how foolish that would be. Who refused such an allegation? Everyone wanted others to believe that they were good and altruistic. She could not argue the point.

Without giving her time to respond, he climbed off her. She heard the lock click on her door as he opened it and stepped out into the hall.

He was gone.

She lay on her back, staring unseeingly at the ceiling. She brought her fingers to her puffy lips, still feeling him there . . . tasting him.

He was right. Whatever it was she felt for the duke, it wasn’t love. She couldn’t be in love with a man and crave Struan so desperately. She’d known this for a while but she hadn’t acknowledged it until Struan said the words.

Groaning, she covered her face with her hands. She was vastly tempted to grab her sister and flee back to London. If it wouldn’t raise so many eyebrows, if she couldn’t be convinced that Struan wouldn’t follow her, she would. He had proven exceptionally persistent in his pursuit of her.

Of course, you could tell him the truth. Admit who you are—or rather, who you’re not.

And then he would hate her for the lie.

Or worse. He might not be interested in her at all anymore. Perhaps he was only interested in her out of a misplaced competition with his brother.

There was no easy way out of this. Perhaps she could approach Lord Strickland tomorrow, explain how untenable the situation was becoming. She would leave out the part about falling in love with Struan Mackenzie—

She swallowed hard and shook her head against the mattress. Groaning, she covered her face with both hands. She was not falling in love with Struan Mackenzie. That would be madness. She didn’t love the man. She wasn’t that foolish. No, it was far safer falling in love with an impossible fantasy. A fantasy couldn’t come true.

A fantasy couldn’t hurt you.





Chapter 22




Struan reminded himself that there was a reason he only ever pursued women who clearly wanted his attentions. There was no confusion in those instances. None of this maddening rejection.

I’m in love with Marcus.

Even if she didn’t mean it, even if he didn’t believe her, she had said it. It was reason enough to leave her alone. He swallowed back an epithet. He should tumble the maid that changed the linens on his bed. She kept giving him inviting smiles and accidentally happening upon him while he was at his bath.