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“Don’t be shy now,” Rathe drawled.
Rathe’s sneering tone made Mary cringe. It was her first time to hear him sound so nasty, and she shook her head, a part of her wanting to deny what was happening.
“Let’s not talk about it, please, I’m sorry—-”
“Actually, let’s. You started it, so nowfinishit.” The silence that followed grated on him, feeding on his stress. It made him feel defensive, like a damn bully, and he despised that even more. He said grittily, “Do you know that I’ve been working twenty damn hours each day since I came here—-”
Mary protested, “I didn’t say you weren’t—-”
“—-so I guess I’m deeply sorry,” Rathe apologized sarcastically, “that my mistress doesn’t believe I have the right to relax a little by enjoying dinner with an old friend. Someone I have known practically my entire life and—-” He stopped speaking in time.
Mary felt herself losing color. Forcing the words through bloodless lips, she said unevenly, “Go on.” When the duke didn’t answer, she released a humorless laugh, and a self-mocking note entered her voice as she said, “Don’t be shy now.”
Hearing his own jibe thrown back at him made Rathe flinch.Goddammit, what was happening to them?“Mary—-”
Mary screamed, “Say it!”
Tears silently started to run down her cheeks.Oh God, how did it come to this?She had only wanted to hear his voice, so why did it end like this?
Mary’s scream proved to be the last straw, pushing him over the edge. His temper exploded, and Rathe said savagely, “A woman. That’s what I wanted to say,” he snarled. “That she was not a girl, not a child – that she was nothing like you. With a woman like Camilla, I can expect her to understand—-” He stopped speaking the moment Mary ended the call.
Rathe threw the phone across the room, and the device smashed against the wall.
Fuck.
His fist slammed against the desk, breaking against the sheet of glass that covered it.
Fuck.
Was this really the fucking end for them?
Chapter Nine
After taking a showerand changing into her uniform, Mary slowly walked to her desk and gazed down at her calendar. It had become a ritual of sorts, ever since Rathe had left for London.
Forty-three days, Mary counted numbly. It had been over six weeks since she had last seen Rathe, five weeks since their violent argument over the phone. She had not tried to call him since then, and he had not tried to call her either. It was a stand-off, something Mary knew she was bound to lose because of one essential thing.
