Page 105 of Just About a Rake


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“I fear my friends require my immediate attention,” Dare said loudly, firmly. “I shall take my leave here. I apologize for any misunderstanding.”

Misunderstanding? Was he leaving her here alone at a time like this? A moment like this? Shouldn’t he be running off with her over his shoulder and a bellowing Heart chasing after them? She certainly wouldn’t mind realizing such a fantasy. But merely departing like this?

“Rake.” She reached out to him, and he evadedhertouch, just like she had done with the duchess.

“Enjoy the rest of your evening, my lady.”

My lady?

“No, I—”

He stepped back. “You should enjoy the rest of your evening with your family.”

“But I—”

He didn’t listen. He cut her off by pivoting, giving her his back, which, for some inexplicable reason, overlapped with the memory of him walking into a boxing match shirtless, only this time...

It didn’t feel like he would return.

*

Dare descended thesteps of Drury Lane with an urgency he last felt when he was escaping all the hands reaching for him at his father’s funeral. There were few days in his life that had been asbad as that one. And few days as good. On the one hand, he had lost his father, who had, for all his faults, been a passable father. On the other hand, a sense of finality, a sense of peace, had settled in his heart.

Both his parents were gone. Along with all their pain.

Damnation. His heart.

He clutched at his chest, dragging his hand up to his throat as his breathing became a graver concern than the pounding in his chest. Both nearly drew him to his knees.

Hell . . .

Damnation . . .

And . . .

The moment he reached his carriage, all elegance deserted him—did he even have any left?—and he launched onto the seat inside. “Home,” he barked in a single order. He couldn’t say more. He couldn’t say it softly.

The driver didn’t question him, and the carriage flew forward the moment the door shut. He could find comfort in at least this. He always had a means of retreat ready. That never failed him, and it didn’t fail him now.

Christ. Poets always waxed on about love and hope in tortured pieces of meter and rhyme. If his life were a poem, it would surely be a tortured masterpiece.

She told Heart they had achastefriendship. Chaste friendship? Their bloody meanings of “chaste” werenotthe same! If hers was noon, the brightest part of the day, then his was decidedly—flatly—midnight. They couldn’t be more opposite.

He could just imagine how every single male ancestor of his was rolling in his grave while every single female was curling up in laughter.

What the hell did you expect, Dare? That she’d confessed to her ruin?

He suddenly burst out in laughter. Why ever would she do that? He had taken her innocence. Could he ever hope for more from her when he himself could never offer her more than what he already was? There was areasonshe had chosen him to gift her innocence to. There was a reasonshehad never held any false hope about him.

He slammed a fist against the door.

Why the hell can’t I be more?

He pressed the palm of his hand against his forehead.

You know why.

Yes.