While the Duke Was Sleeping (The Rogue Files #1)(62)

She hesitated, and he knew she was considering breaking her resolve. He glanced around the darkened closet. He hadn’t brought her in here for a quick romp. He’d wanted to make her feel better, to give her something with no expectations for himself.

“Go,” he barked.

She vaulted from the closet. The door clicked shut after her. He stayed in the closet for several moments after she left, taking bracing breaths, fighting to compose himself and willing his raging erection away.

He clenched his hands into fists. Since when was he in the habit of giving and not taking? Especially when it came to a woman he wanted. Especially since he’d never wanted a woman as much as he wanted Poppy Fairchurch.

For the first time, he entertained the notion of leaving her alone—even if her responses to him had been ardent and welcoming and seemed in direct opposition of wanting such a thing.

He had not lifted himself from the dregs of poverty by turning away from every challenge.

Giving her a wide berth seemed like a sound plan. For her. For him. He couldn’t promise her forever. He needed to kill this hunger for her once and for all. Forget it before they reached a point in which neither one of them could return.





Chapter 23




It was a perfect evening.

The kind of Christmas she had when Papa was alive and they would sit in front of the fire and sing carols. Just the three of them—Poppy and Bryony and Papa. They’d eat oranges and mint scones and read from the Bible, a tradition Mama had started and they maintained even after her passing. Her present reality felt like an echo of those times and made her feel warm and fuzzy inside.

Those were good times. They were by no means well-off then, but she didn’t have to worry about money. She didn’t have to worry about how she and her sister were going to survive. She didn’t have to worry about any of those things at all. Just as she did not have to worry about them right now, sitting with this wonderful family. True, it would all come to an end, but for however long it lasted, she would enjoy her time here and evenings like this.

This was the kind of evening Poppy had imagined for herself when she was a girl weaving fantasies of a life with Edmond and a gaggle of children gathered before the fire at Christmastime. It hadn’t taken long for her to replace that fantasy with another image—one of her with the Duke of Autenberry. Only that image was so embedded in fantasy it embarrassed her now.

Sitting in the drawing room and listening as Lady Enid played carols on the pianoforte, she wasn’t sure what perfect was anymore. She rather suspected that perfection did not exist. She only knew that in Struan Mackenzie’s arms, she had felt something far more real than anything she ever had with Edmond or the Duke of Autenberry.

Lady Enid’s performance came to an end. The dowager duchess, resplendent in an emerald green gown that set off her dark hair, clapped happily. “Beautifully done. You’ve improved so much, Enid. A shame your brother is not present to hear you.” It was as though she was determined he not be forgotten.

“Indeed,” Lord Strickland said. “The only thing missing is Autenberry hale and hearty and overseeing the festive occasion.”

For some reason his stare fell on Poppy. She smiled and held his gaze, struggling to show no reaction when he swung his gaze to Struan. Lord Strickland’s eyes narrowed and turned far less kind as he considered the Scotsman. Almost as though he knew something had transpired between them.

Struan stared back at him unflinchingly, his stare bold, as usual, and unapologetic. One corner of his sensual mouth tipped in a smile. She felt an answering clench in her stomach. The man was in her blood. As alarming as that was, it was even more troubling to think he also knew that fact.

He’d met Poppy’s gaze directly when she first faced him over breakfast—and every time since. Even so, his presence didn’t detract from the pleasure of the evening. He gazed on her more than once as they nibbled on desserts and sipped their after-dinner drinks, adding to their much too full bellies. The meal had been unimaginable excess. Roasted pheasant and goose. Savory pies. Sauces and puddings and decadent breads. She could quite happily never eat again.

Struan had been quite civil with her on their rare moments of conversation. His gaze at times lingered, but as long as he didn’t touch her she could maintain composure. His hot-eyed stare didn’t fill her with the previous panic or frustration. No, indeed it did not. It filled her with longing. She didn’t feel nearly so hunted by him. The game he had made of pursing her had evidently come to a halt. At that, she felt oddly disappointed. Gone were the long stares in which she felt herself sinking into his pirate’s eyes.

Ever since their tryst in the closet, they’d reached an unspoken truce of sorts. He kept his distance. Their conversations were limited. He was polite yet distant, cool. It was everything she had demanded of him.

And yet she missed it all. She missed him. It was damnably bewildering and made her feel the most contrary of creatures. She had demanded he leave her alone, and now that he had, she was forlorn for the loss of him.

For once she wished he would stare at her with that feral look in his eyes. Oh, what a terrible contrary creature she was. She had warned him off time and time again and yet now she missed his attention.

“Marcus shall be with us soon,” the dowager duchess proclaimed to the room at large.

Everyone nodded and murmured agreement, for once appearing to mean it. And with good reason. That very afternoon, Lord Strickland had reported that Marcus stirred and even mumbled a few words. Heartening signs, according to the physician, and the dowager duchess couldn’t stop talking about it.