“You think either one of us can go on as before?” Just the feel of her body against his told him _he _ could not. And damned if he didn’t intend to make her see she could not either.

She squeezed her hands between them and shoved herself free, breaking the contact. He advanced on her, determination grinding his teeth together.

She held up a hand to ward him off. “No more. We will go on like last night never happened.”

Despite her avowal, her gaze dropped from his, and he knew she was not as determined as she wished to appear. Crouching, she quickly gathered the linens with shaking hands, face averted.

As though she could not bear to look him in the eye. Straightening, she held his stare with the icy hauteur of a queen, the doubt nowhere in evidence anymore.

“I merely wish to resume my life. Continue with my duties until I can put away enough for a home of my own.”

“A home?”

“A simple matter to you, seeing as you possess several, but I have only ever wanted security—a home.”

“I can give you your own house—”

“It would belong to you.”

“You would earn it.”

Fire lit her cheeks. “On my back.”

He flinched, then shrugged. “A task you did not find so reprehensible last night.”

If possible, her face burned even brighter. “I would be no more than a well-paid whore.” She drew a deep breath. Pressing her fingers to her temple, she shook her head as if suffering a headache. “Let us stop this. Please. Last night was lovely, but it’s over.”Over . The word hung in the air, sagging, suspended for a long, tired moment before she added, “There are countless women out there eager for your attentions, wouldn’t you agree?”

Dark anger washed through his veins. Was she actually thrusting him into the arms of other women?

Dominic was quite certain this was the most singular event in his life. Generally, women were greedy for him, unwilling to share him and possessive of his attentions. Never mind that he never made them promises—or offers such as the one he just extended Fallon. Females tended to be capricious, irrational creatures. Nothing like this one who looked at him with defiance in her eyes, her rejection fresh and stinging as a slap to his face.

“Yes,” he heard himself agree, pride surfacing at long last. “I shall have no difficulty finding another to warm my bed.” He snapped his teeth together so hard they ached.

The color bled from her face. She stared at him with stoic acceptance. “Such is your life.”

“Quite so.” He nodded once. “I’ll let you get back to your duties.” Turning on his heels, he strode away, damned if he would beg. Damned if he would let her see just how desperately he longed for her in his bed.

She and no other.

Fallon watched him storm away, her heart in her throat, blocking her breath. She bit her lip to keep from calling him back, to accept the offer that went against everything she was, everything she ever wanted to be.

And yet, suddenly, the role of mistress— _his _ mistress—did not horrify her as it should have. She could only think of the benefits. The temptations. Chiefly falling asleep in his arms and waking up in them each morning…and in a home that he would provide. A home of her own. The prospect nearly made her dizzy. The duke and a home.

But at what cost? The coppery tang of blood washed over her teeth and she quickly released her lip.

Shaking her head, she entered the guest chamber requiring fresh linens, vowing to forget the simple thrill of his touch and recall that she was nothing more than a maid. A servant in his household. At least until she saved enough for her own place. Da had not raised her to become a rich man’s mistress. A toy to be played with and discarded when he tired of her.

Dominic would find another to take her place. Several, if his past habits were any indication. She need merely to brace herself for the day she saw him with another. An eventuality. Nonetheless, pain lanced her heart at the likelihood.

Legs suddenly weak, she sank onto the bed, staring ahead, not seeing the fine pinstriped papered walls at all. Instead, she saw herself. Struggling day in and day out to remain unaffected in the duke’s household—to act as a shadow when her heart was irrevocably bound to him.

 Grand, Fallon. You perfect idiot. You’ve fallen in love with the wastrel.

She rubbed the side of her face. What an impossible situation. Had she truly thought she could go on as before, blithely unaware of the duke? She had _never _ been unaware of him. On the contrary. And now…given the intimacies they had shared, her carnal knowledge…

She blinked, heat flooding her face.

In that moment, she knew what she had to do.

She would accept Lord Hunt’s stipend, however insulted she felt upon first hearing it. A dull ache grew beneath her breastbone. She pressed a hand there, rubbing in small circles. Her very survival dictated it. Better a dent to her pride than her heart.

Chapter 26

Dominic ignored the gentleman who stopped before his chair and continued to stare into the hearth’s flickering fire as he raised his glass to his lips. At least until the fellow cleared his throat so many times he begged notice.

“I’m busy,” Dominic ground out, lips hugging the edge of the glass.

“I’m sorry to disturb you, Your Grace. Your butler directed me here.”

“Adams?” He was going to have a word with the man about giving out his whereabouts to anyone who came calling.

“It is a matter of some urgency.”

Dominic snorted and sent a quick glance to the man, surveying him with a sweep of his eyes.

“Have we met? You look familiar.”

“I’m John Meadows. Your grandfather’s secretary.”

Dominic grunted and finished off his brandy. With a motion of his hand, he signaled a server to bring him another drink. Leveling a ruthless glare on the man, he spoke evenly, “This is a private club.”

“Quite so, but given the nature of my business, they permitted me a brief word with you.” He glanced down at his rumpled attire, brushing dust from his trouser leg. “Forgive the late hour and my appearance. I rode all day to reach here.”

A quick glance around the room revealed that they were the subject of some interest. Several gentlemen peered at them from their seats, gazes lifting from their newspapers or cards.

“Convey your message and be gone, then.” A footman hurried over and deposited a tray with a fresh decanter upon it. Dominic held out his glass to be refilled.

In the last few days, he had spent more time at his club than home. Absurdly, he was hiding from Fallon. Unable, unwilling, to see the very thing—the woman—he most wanted and couldn’t have.

The secretary cleared his throat again, tugging at his cravat.

Leaning back against the plush cushion of the chair, he stretched out his boots before him. “Out with it? What’s the message?”

“Message?”

“Yes. From my grandfather?” He paused to take another lengthy sip, replying drolly, “What does the old bastard want?”

Meadows’s eyes bugged behind a pair of spectacles. “You refer to him thusly?” His shoulders pulled up in clear affront, nearly reaching his ears.

“Know any other old bastards?”

Meadows’s mouth worked, clearly beyond speech. The secretary had not been around when Mrs.

Pearce reigned supreme at Wayfield Park. Dominic waved his hand impatiently. “Spit it out.”

“Your grandfather is…”

“Yes.” Despite his air of indifference, a certain tightness gripped his chest as he prepared himself for the words to come, already guessing what they were.

“Declining.”

His hand stilled for a moment, pausing in bringing his drink to his lips. Not dead, then.

 _Declining. _ He took another sip.

“I see.” He lowered his glass to the small rosewood table at his side. Absently, his fingers bent inward, curving to stroke the scarred flesh of his palm. “That last time I saw him he was declining. Isn’t that what old men do?”

“Yes, well, he has worsened. I fear he will soon expire.”

Dominic’s lips twisted in a savage smile. “That also tends to happen when one is old. You die.”

“Have you no desire to see him?”

“I already did.”

“Perhaps again?”

“He’s not dying,” Dominic announced baldly, the proclamation earning a few more stares. He forced his eyes wide with feigned guilelessness. “He told me himself that he would not breathe his last breath until satisfied that I am well and settled, married and living a virtuous life.”

Meadows’s eyes skimmed him with some skepticism. “Indeed. Well, I fear he cannot live forever. Much as some would like.”

Dominic chuckled, not missing the secretary’s insult. Not missing it, and not caring. “Don’t put it past him.”

“I know there is some discord between the two of you—”

Dominic stopped from biting out that he didn’t know a damn thing. About him, at any rate. And likely he didn’t know anything about the good reverend that he appeared to hold in such esteem.

Instead, he only chuckled harder. “Discord? That’s rich.”

“I would be happy to accompany you to Wayfield Park to—”

“Now, why would I wish to go there?” He had no intention of stepping foot in the home of his youth. His grandfather could perish and that mausoleum could rot from neglect for all he cared.

He had spent enough miserable years in those walls.

“Well, aside from seeing your grandfather, there is the matter of Wayfield Park, its rents and tenants—”

“All of which ran smoothly these last years in my absence.”

“Yes. Under Mr. Collins’s care. Now that he is ill, would you not wish to begin familiarizing yourself with—”

“Not especially. I’ll worry about that when I must. After he’s dead.”

Meadows adjusted his spectacles and angled his head to the side. “I beg your pardon?”

“You heard me.”

Meadows gave a jerky nod, the skin of his face suddenly pinched and tight-looking. “I see all that I’ve heard of you is true.”

Dominic shrugged and grunted in a manner that conveyed how little he cared about the secretary’s opinion.

Meadows sniffed. “You _are _ the devil.”

Dominic reached for his glass. “So I’ve been told.”

With a grunt of disgust, Meadows turned on his heels.

Dominic watched the little man flee with a hard smile on his face. He sat for some moments—

alone in a room full of people—searching within himself, attempting to gauge precisely how he felt on the matter of his grandfather’s impending death. If he felt anything at all.

Nothing, he decided. He found only a dull hollowness within his chest. His usual numbing apathy. Nothing. Deadness.

His mind wandered, jumping ahead, seeking, aching, he realized, for the person who brought feeling into his cold life, breathing a warm wind through the arctic void. Fallon. For once the thought of her came as a welcome distraction. Fallon—the only person to make him feel he was more than the immoral blot of existence the world perceived. The only person to make him…feel. And not just when his body joined with hers. Every time he saw her. Every time he talked to her. Every time he _thought _ of her. With Fallon, he felt right, good, whole.

And she wanted nothing to do with him. Damn her. She wanted to live her life, devotedly saving every halfpenny. For a home. Home. What was that anyway, save walls and a roof? What was so important about a bloody home? He possessed several, and none of them meant anything to him.

Finishing off his brandy, he pushed to his feet, suddenly craving solitude. At this late hour, he could return to his townhouse with no fear of facing anyone. Namely her. She would be safely tucked in bed in the servants’ quarters. Living the life of a maid. An existence she preferred to that of one with him.