Lionel scrubbed a hand over his face and ripped off his cravat as he reached the top of the stairs. His meeting tonight had gone late, and he was exhausted. He glanced toward the door to the sitting room. Had he really sat with Emmaline just that morning? It seemed another lifetime.

He opened the door to his chamber. Hennings greeted him and helped him prepare for bed. Lionel fell onto the mattress, expecting to fall instantly asleep. Instead, he stared up at the canopy.

He longed to see his wife. To hold her. To apologize—again—for the pain he’d caused her by altering her life so drastically.

He turned to his side and heard the click of the door to the sitting room. Sitting upright, he blinked, as if that would help him see in the near dark. The only light came from the embers in the fireplace, and it was just enough for him to see a shape moving through the room.

A slender, feminine shape.

“Emmaline?”

She came to the side of his bed. “Yes. I’m sorry to bother you.”

“You could never bother me.”

Now that she was closer, he could make out her features. She was tense.

“Lady Richland came to see me today. I know you were once… You were once lovers.” Her tone was flat, and it carved a hole in his heart. “Do you want her?”

“God, no.” He turned toward her but stopped himself from getting out of bed because he was nude.

She seemed to relax slightly. “She told me why you challenged Geoffrey, that you were protecting her secret.” Her gaze bored into his. “Your kindness is… I can’t even describe it.”

“Some would argue what I did wasn’t kind.”

“You told me this morning that you tried to convince Geoffrey to settle the problem.” Her voice climbed. “I’m not at all surprised that he wouldn’t. He always possessed a short temper.” She took a deep breath. “The truth is that he grew increasingly difficult over the course of our marriage. He became angry and cruel, and that was after he stopped coming to my bed.”

Lionel’s pulse increased. He wanted to touch her, to comfort her, but wasn’t sure if she’d want that. “I thought you were happy.”

She tipped her head down. “I was at first. Until I wasn’t. I married impulsively, and I came to regret it.” She lifted her gaze to his. “And then I married on a whim a second time.”

He couldn’t stand to hold himself away from her for another minute. He swept his legs from beneath the covers and sat on the edge of the bed. Tentatively, he reached for her, lightly clasping her waist.

“I am not him. I will do everything possible to keep you from regret. Until my dying breath.”

“Lady Richland said you deserved someone who will love you. Lionel, I don’t know if I can give you that. I fear I’m…broken.”

He let out a sound that was half laugh and half sob. Pulling her toward him, he rested his forehead against hers. “Oh, my love, if you are broken, then I am utterly ruined.”

She touched his face, lightly stroking her fingertips from his temple to his jaw. “So you don’t want Lady Richland?”

“No, I don’t want her.” He cupped Emmaline’s face and looked into her eyes. “The only woman I want is you.” Emotion overwhelmed him. “I lo—”

She cupped her hands around the sides of his head and kissed him. Her sweet touch, given without reservation, swept him away. He closed his eyes and simply basked in her scent and her softness.

She slanted her mouth over his, deepening the kiss, stoking his desire. He clasped her waist tight and pulled her to stand between his legs. Wrapping his hand in the fabric of her nightrail, he tugged it up to her waist. Then he grasped the hem and broke their kiss long enough to draw the gown over her head.

Her hair was loose, and it cascaded back down over her face and shoulders as he swept the garment away. He brushed the silken strands back from her cheeks, stroking her velvety flesh as he renewed the kiss, claiming her lips and spearing his tongue deep into her mouth. He wanted to worship her, to own her, to love her.

The kiss overtook them both, igniting a heat between them that could surely combust. She pressed into him, her breasts against his chest, warm and soft, utterly tantalizing. He slid from the bed and picked her up, turning with her and laying her on the mattress.

He lifted his head and stared down at her, thrilled to have her in his bed at last. He kissed her again, leaving no part of her mouth untouched before he moved down to her neck. She cast her head back, offering herself to his lips and tongue. It was sweet and erotic and everything in between.

Cupping her breasts, he teased them, eliciting a deep moan from her throat. He bent at the waist, torturing her with light strokes of his tongue. Then he pinched her nipple, and she arched up from the bed with a sharp gasp. He trailed one hand down her abdomen until he reached her sex. She opened her thighs and lifted her hips, seeking his touch.

He sucked her nipple deep into his mouth, then released it. He teased it gently with his lips and teeth before closing around it once more. Her pelvis rotated as he slid his fingers into her core. Her body was like a map he would never tire of exploring, and every night he spent with her was a journey—an adventure—unlike any he’d ever taken before.

His cock throbbed against the side of the bed, but he staved himself off. He took his mouth from her breast and kissed her belly. Then he found her clitoris, licking it softly and then sucking it hard as he plunged his fingers inside her.

She broke apart, her muscles clenching around him, and her soft cries filling the room.

He moved her farther onto the bed and climbed up beside her briefly before settling between her thighs and guiding his cock into her wet sheath.

She immediately wrapped her legs around him, drawing him deep inside her. Her heels dug into his backside, and she clutched at his back. Bracing his hands on either side of her head, he thrust into her, closing his eyes in ecstasy. She met him eagerly, and they moved in tandem, their bodies finding a primal rhythm and fitting together as if they’d been created expressly for each other.

He opened his eyes and stared down at her, slowing his pace for just a moment. She was so beautiful, so extraordinary. And he was lucky enough to have her. At least for now. But he hoped forever.

She pulled his head down and kissed him, tangling her tongue with his in fierce abandon. He drove into her again, increasing the speed once more.

Breaking the kiss, she cast her head back and cried out, her eyes closed tight. He watched the play of rapture across her face and lost himself completely.

Once he regained his senses, he kissed her forehead, her cheek, her lips, caressing her face with infinite tenderness. “Will you stay?” he asked softly.

She nodded. “Yes.”

He rotated, sliding off her and flipping to his back, pulling her with him so she nestled against his chest. He stroked her shoulder as she splayed her palm against his chest.

He’d never felt so wondrous, so…complete. Her breathing evened, and he continued to trace his finger along her satiny skin.

His mind went back to the events of the day, from her revelations about Townsend to her worry that he might want Marianne instead of her. Never. He wanted Emmaline. But it went far beyond that. He meant to protect her, to make her happy, to give her everything she desired. He loved her.

And he’d tried to tell her, but she’d kissed him. Had she known that was what he was saying and wanted to stop him? It had felt like that.

He didn’t care. Their relationship had already exceeded his expectations exponentially. He’d wait patiently for her to accept his love.

And if she wouldn’t?

He’d face that obstacle when—and if—it came.

He kissed her forehead once more and whispered, “I love you.” Then he finally succumbed to sleep.

* * *

Emmaline wasn’t sure if she’d dozed, but it seemed she must’ve since the beginning of dawn was creeping beneath the edge of the curtains hanging in front of the window. She lay snuggled against Lionel, her back flush to his side.

Turning, she stared at him, barely able to make out his features in the shadows.

He loved her.

She’d thought he meant to say it and had kissed him to stop the words. She didn’t want to hear them. Not from him. Not now. And maybe not ever.

She wasn’t supposed to be with him. This marriage was a sham. Or it been until it had become something else.

His even breathing filled the room, soft and strong. Like him. She nearly laughed at that. People would never imagine the infamous Duke of Danger could be soft, but he was. He cared so much about people and honor. Not just his honor, but those of the people he cared about. He would go to any length to protect them, that she knew.

She could see how much the duel with Geoffrey had cost him. It hadn’t gone the way he’d wanted. It made her more curious about the other duels. Had the same thing happened? Had each one carved a little more of his soul away?

How she wanted to take away his pain, to protect him as he did for others. She laid her head against his bicep. Did this mean she loved him?

Perhaps. The emotion was certainly similar to love, but it wasn’t the same as any love she’d ever experienced. The love she felt for her family was borne of duty and responsibility. With Geoffrey, it had been excitement and a desire for independence. This was something completely different. It was wild and uncontrollable, and she seemed to have no say in the matter.

No, she refused to accept that. She’d spent her life having no say, and she wouldn’t go back to that. One of the primary reasons she’d married Lionel was because he’d agreed to give her autonomy.

And maybe that was one of the primary reasons she loved him.

Her insides twisted. Loving someone meant giving them power. It also meant accepting the likelihood of pain. She didn’t know if she could do that again.

Lionel’s arm twitched, dislodging her head. Before she could snuggle back up to him, his body shook in a violent spasm. She kept her distance and watched him, but he lay quiet.

As she began to relax, he jerked again, his legs kicking out and his arm striking her in the abdomen. She backed away slightly, expecting him to cease again, but he didn’t. In fact, the movements continued. He grunted, his arms and legs crashing about the bed, disrupting the covers. He seemed completely unaware of his actions.

“Lionel?” She gently touched his shoulder, but he smacked at her, his arm flailing. She tried again, more firmly grabbing his bicep. “Lionel!” She shouted his name and repeated it several more times.

He came awake with a loud gasp, his body shooting off the bed. As he sat up, his breath came in deep pants.

She gently touched his thigh. “Are you all right?”

He didn’t answer immediately, but took several deep breaths. He wiped a hand across his brow and, after a moment, turned his head toward her.

There was enough light stealing beneath the curtains that she could see the torment in his gaze.

“Oh, Lionel. Was it a nightmare?”

He shook his head. “Maybe. I suppose. Can memories be nightmares?”

The question broke her heart. She moved closer to him and took him in her arms, holding him close. She rubbed his back and kissed the top of his head. “I think they can. If you want to tell me about it, I’ll listen.”

He took a deep breath, shuddering in her arms. She twisted her body and moved up the bed, leaning against the headboard. He came with her, laying his head on her chest. And then he began to speak.

“It always starts with my father’s death. We were at a gaming hell. I was young—two and twenty—and it was something we liked to do from time to time. My friends found it odd that I would go with my father, but I loved it. We had such a grand time together. And he was excellent at the tables.” His words were warm and wistful. “Just excellent.

“He was so good, in fact, that from time to time, people questioned whether he would cheat, but it was always done in jest. Everyone knew my father was a man of integrity and honor. Everyone but Lord Babcock. That night at the hell, Babcock had lost quite a bit. He was angry and frustrated. He accused my father of cheating. We laughed at first, but it became evident that Babcock was serious. He stood, his face red, and called my father out.”

Emmaline felt his pulse quicken as he divulged the tale. She stroked his head, his shoulders, his back.

“My father also stood, all color draining from his face. I thought he was horrified—and he probably was—but he was also ill. His body seized, and he dropped to the floor. He was dead a few minutes later. I told Babcock I would see him on the dueling field the next morning.”

“I’m so sorry,” she whispered, kissing his forehead.

He curled his hand around her side, and his fingers dug into her flesh. “I wanted to kill him. He’d killed my father.”

Tears clogged her throat, but she didn’t want to shed them. This was about him, not her.

“Neither one of us hit with the first shot. I remember it clearly. I was so angry, my hand shook. I shot wide, and I was furious with myself. I said I wasn’t satisfied and demanded another round.”

Emmaline didn’t understand the intricacies of dueling, nor did she want to. She’d no idea one could even do that.

“The next time, I didn’t miss, but I still didn’t hit him where I intended. I shot him in the arm. He never used it again.” He lifted his head and looked at her. “I was sorry he didn’t die.”

“Are you still?” She hadn’t meant to speak, but the words cascaded forth.

“No.” He laid his head back down. “The irony is that he was the only one I intended to kill, and the only one who didn’t die.”

He took a deep breath, his chest inflating quickly, then deflating slowly. “I never imagined I would duel again. It certainly wasn’t something I wanted to do. However, four years later, I found myself in an untenable situation. I was at the park, and a father was abusing his son—both verbally and physically. I couldn’t stand by and let it happen, so I intervened. The man, Addison was his name, grew violently angry with me. I was with West at the time, and he interceded. Addison called me out. Despite our efforts to defuse the situation, I met him the following morning. Again, we tried to resolve the issue, but Addison was adamant. He meant to kill me. He was, fortunately, a terrible shot, and never came close to hitting me. I hadn’t intended to fire, but he ran at me, yelling that he would kill me with his bare hands if he had to. I shot and hit him in the shoulder. It was a minor wound, but he died five days later of infection.”

Lionel’s heartbeat had picked up again as he’d related the story of the second duel. She waited for him to say more or his pulse to slow, but it didn’t.

She sensed he was in turmoil, in pain. “What can I do?”

“Nothing. These are my crimes.”

“How can they be crimes? You were protecting that boy, and you tried to avoid dueling his father. You can’t be blamed for his violent temper.”

“I visited them after he died—the boy and his mother. They live in Suffolk. I offered them money or any other manner of support they wanted. The boy yelled at me and cried. Despite his father’s abuse, he still loved him. He told me I was an evil man because I’d stolen his father away. I knew right then that he would kill me if he could—just as I wanted to kill Babcock. I’d taken that boy’s father from him, just as Babcock had taken mine from me.”

Emmaline couldn’t breathe. Tears stung her eyes, and she fought against the drowning sensation in her throat. She made some sort of ghastly, strangled sound.

Lionel sat up and cupped her face. “Emmaline.” His gaze was stricken, his features drawn.

She put her hands over his and couldn’t stop the tears that fell from her eyes. “Oh, Lionel.” She wrapped her arms around him and hugged him tight.

Several more tears fell to his shoulder, and she worked to get her emotions back under control. This wasn’t about her. But she couldn’t stop her heart from breaking anew when she thought of the anguish this man lived with every day.

After a few minutes, she pulled back, wiping her hands over her eyes and inhaling deeply as she leaned back against the bed. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. I’m just surprised you’re still here.”

“Why wouldn’t I be?”

He held his hands out, the palms up in offering. “Now you see me for all that I am. A man of honor, yes, but also a killer.”

“You aren’t. You were defending yourself against that man.”

He dropped his hands to his sides and turned from her, moving to the other side of the bed. “That doesn’t change the end result—nothing can. And don’t forget your husband. I killed him too. But I will never raise a weapon against another human being again. I can’t.”

She followed him, scrambling over the mattress. Grabbing his bicep, she stopped him before he could stand up. “Don’t go.”

He didn’t face her. “You can’t still want me.”

“But I do.” Lord help her, she did. She shouldn’t want to, and she still didn’t know if she could allow herself to love him—at least openly.

He turned, his eyes bleak and haunted. “What did I do to deserve you?”

“Does it matter? I don’t understand why we’re together, why this…works. It makes no sense. And maybe it doesn’t have to.”

“I’m not sure I can do that. The deaths I caused—those didn’t make sense. It’s important the rest of my life does.” He stood, and this time, she didn’t stop him. Grabbing his banyan, he wrapped it around himself. “Go back to sleep if you wish. I’m going downstairs.”

She watched him go, her emotions in tatters. He really was ruined. And she wasn’t sure he wanted to be restored.