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"No, not like you. She was malicious and degenerate. And her betrayal stung like mad and then it was done."
"But—"
"But" he interrupted, "then there was my father. My damned father. So cold and perfect. And so disgusted by his passionate, unwise son. He was determined to see me become a man worthy of the dukedom, and he found his chance. There were those letters, you see. Not an uncommon problem in broken affairs. My father paid a lot of money to retrieve them from her. He showed them to me, let me stammer out my grateful thanks, my apologies, my shame for having loved her in the first place. He let me grovel at his feet. And then he chose one particularly sordid letter and sent it to a friend, who sent it to another friend."
"Why?"
"He wanted to build me into a man, and he had to break me completely to do that. He engineered my utter humiliation. My own father. Gave his tacit approval for society to mock me. Made it acceptable to laugh at me, point.
"But I rescinded that approval two years later when I became duke. It was no easy struggle, Emma. I built a fortress around myself, and you have destroyed it."
"Hart. . . I'm sorry. I never meant—"
"But that is my point, Emma. I do not care. Don't you see? I simply don't give a damn. I just keep wanting you."
"You can't. I don't want you to."
"He made me into someone different, but you have brought me back to myself. You can't leave me now. Come to Somerhart. Stay as my guest." He swallowed hard. "I'll keep my hands to myself. Show you there is more between us than lust." His hand stilled. "Though I will leave my bedroom door unlocked, just in case."
She smiled as sleep pulled hard at her melting mind. "I won't marry you," she murmured. "I won't." Then she let his heartbeat lull her into dreams. Dreams of a man who could not love her, but did.
Chapter 25
"Emma," he whispered into her ear. Emma shooed him away with her hand. She was warm and so tired . . . and Hart was shaking her awake.
"What is it?" she cried in a hoarse voice.
"It is dawn. Time to go back to your room."
She waved her hand in his direction and clenched her eyes shut. "As if your servants don't know. The maids have begun leaving sconces burning in the hallway all night. They don't want me to trip." She curled tighter and her hip nudged a very interesting part of his body.
He took that as an invitation to pull her tight against him. "Then marry me. Make me respectable again in my household's eyes."
"I don't want to talk about this now."
"You never want to talk about it. You've been here a month and you avoid the subject at every turn."
"Yes."
"And yet you sneak into my bed every night."
"I'd hardly call it sneaking. I simply stroll down and knock."
"You don't knock."
"All right, I'm going to my room now. I won't get any more sleep here."
Hart's arm held her tight when she tried to move. She struggled and got nothing for her efforts but a body that throbbed to excited life. One of his hands was clamped around her upper thigh. His strength sizzled through her. His arousal was a hard brand against her bottom.
She arched, trying to get away and knowing the struggle would press her more firmly into that length. His grip tightened for a moment, then he wrapped his leg over hers to hold her in place. His long fingers slid between her thighs and snuck higher.
The edge of his hand slipped easily along her wet sex, shaking her toward complete arousal. Emma inhaled on a moan. She pushed against him with her feet and he pressed more weight against her legs. She felt helpless . . . and somehow he knew how much she liked it.
"Don't," she moaned, even as she eased her thighs open.
He ignored her, thank God, and plunged two fingers deep. "Hart," she cried.
"Marry me, Emma." His fingers stroked a slow, hard rhythm. "No other man can know you like this."
