He would not speak first, which left it to her to begin the conversation. As though she didn’t feel it right to her toes. He drank again, lids shuttering his gaze, as though she could miss the way he stared at her. She’d made her bed now she would lie in it. She’d never meant for that charming young man-all muscle and grace and wide, smiling mouth-to become an unwitting victim in her escape. He’d been a casualty of a child’s stupid, silly plan. The thought whispered through her on a thread of guilt. Twelve years away from money and power and the aristocracy made for a strong will. She folded her hands to control their trembling, and met his gaze. He took a long pull of amber liquid and crossed ankle over knee, letting the glass dangle from his grip as he watched her, black eyes taking her in, watching, seeing everything. Nor did he offer her a seat when he folded himself into a large leather chair. He moved to pour himself a scotch, but did not offer her one. “No one wants to sleep in the same house as the Killer Duke.” There was no anger in the words. “A woman comes in the mornings to clean.” He stood, brushing his hands on his massive thighs. It was so incongruous-the great duke setting a fire-that she couldn’t help herself. He was already crouching to light a fire in the hearth when she entered.
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