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Chapter Seven
Mary was surprisedto still find herself numb when the housekeeper Rathe had hired informed her that the Duke of Flanders was asking to speak to her.
Her legs shook as she forced herself to move down the stairs, and it was a struggle not to cry when she was able to lay eyes on him again.
He came to his feet as soon as he saw her, and Mary shook her head. "It's f-fine. Please just sit down."
Rathe took one end of the couch, and Mary took the other end. She waited for him to speak, but all the duke did was stare at her...like he still wanted her, when they both knew that was a lie.
"W-Why are you doing this?" she choked out. "W-Why make me f-fall in l-love with you when you obviously d-don't—-"
"It's not that I don't," Rathe said hoarsely. "It's that Ican't."
She could only look at him, not understanding what he was saying.
"My mother was just nineteen years old when she married my father...who was forty-one at that time."
Mary stared at him in shock, and a savage smile twisted over the duke's lips.
"Do you get it now? The difference between our ages might not be like theirs...but I'm still old enough to be your father—-"
"Yes."
That she would agree so readily made his lips tighten.
"Y-You're right," she stammered. "You're old enough to be my dad."
Rathe's fists clenched as he told himself that it was a good thing Mary finally understood where she was coming from.
"B-But R-Rathe..."
The duke forced himself to meet her gaze.
"That s-still d-doesn't make you my d-dad...does it? So if t-that w-was the only r-reason you w-were hurting me—-"
"Sixteen fucking years, Mary," Rathe snarled.
"So what?"
