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Chapter Nineteen
us had no such qualms, and he noticed that her breathing was too light for sleep. “Craven, I wonder if you might leave us for a moment?”
“Of course, Your Grace.”
Maximus eyed his valet as he turned to the door. “Were you aware that Miss Picklewood returned unexpectedly from the country? She seemed to have information that could only have come from inside this house. You wouldn’t know anything about that, would you?”
Craven widened his eyes. “Whatever are you insinuating, Your Grace?”
Maximus gave him a wry look and closed the door behind him.
When he turned back, Artemis was watching him. There was a sorrow in her eyes that sent a chill through his bones.
Perhaps that was why his voice was overloud when he demanded, “You let him out, didn’t you?”
“Yes.” She sat up. “Did you truly expect anything else?”
“I expected you to obey me when I told you that he must remain locked up.”
“Obey.” Her face had gone white and blank, save for the blaze within her eyes.
She was withdrawing and he couldn’t let her. “Yes. I would’ve found a safe place for him—a place away from people he might hurt. You—”
She made a scoffing sound and threw back the covers. Underneath she was nude, her skin rosy and delicious from sleep. “You want me to obey like all your other minions. To fit neatly in the box in which you decide to place me. Can’t you see? I’ll rot in that box. I cannot be contained by your expectations of me.”
He felt the argument spiraling out of his control. He was adept at debate within the House of Lords, but this was no logical political argument—this was emotions laid raw between a man and a woman.
He looked at her helplessly, knowing somehow that this argument encompassed far more than the difficulty of what to do with her brother. “Artemis—”
“No.” She rose, as martial as any Greek goddess, and grabbed her chemise. “This is my brother we’re talking about, Maximus.”
“You’ll take his part before mine?” Oh, he knew it was a mistake even before the words left his lips.
Her shoulders squared. “If I must. We shared a womb. We’re flesh and blood, tied together forever, both physically and spiritually. I love my brother.”
“As you don’t me?”
She stopped, her chemise in her hands before her. For a moment her shoulders slumped and then she raised her head. His goddess.
His Diana.
“When you’ve tired of me,” she said softly, precisely, “Apollo will still be my brother. Will still be there for me.”
“I’ll never tire of you,” he said, knowing with every thread of his soul that he spoke the absolute truth.
“Then prove it.”
He knew what she asked with such an open and vulnerable face. Something within him shriveled and died. She deserved this. Deserved a husband and a home and children. His children. But he’d been on the rack too long for a penance he wasn’t sure he could ever entirely pay. The dukedom… his father.
“You know…” His voice was hoarse, the croaking of a dying man. He licked his lips. “You know why I cannot. I owe him my life, my service, the duty of being the duke.”
She shrugged one delicate, bare shoulder. “Well, I do not owe your father’s memory anything.”
He staggered as if she’d slapped him. “You cannot—”
“No,” she said. “I cannot. I thought I could do this, truly I did, but I’m not brave enough, you see. I can’t hurt everyone around me, can’t hurt Penelope, can’t hurt me any longer.” She held out a trembling hand. “I don’t fit into the pretty little box you’ve made for me. I can’t watch you rise from my bed knowing you’ll visit another woman’s. I’m not a saint.”
“Please.”
