What a Duke Dares (Sons of Sin 3)

“This isn’t cosmic destinies colliding. It’s you wanting your own way,” she said sourly.

She understood that he found her implacable opposition puzzling. After those torrid moments in the cabin, he knew she wanted him. He could cope with desire. Her love would horrify him. If she could suffer his pity, she supposed she could confess her feelings to drive him away. But she and Cam were both proud beyond bearing. His pity would be the last straw.

“We have more than physical attraction.”

“What? Childhood memories?”

“Yes,” he said steadily. “You know me so well, despite our long separation. I think we’ll go along very well together. Producing an heir won’t be a hardship.” He paused. “And you don’t expect any lovesick romantic nonsense from me, which will give us a good start. I like you, Pen. I always have. I distinctly remember telling you that I liked you better than any girl I knew.”

Oh, heaven lend her strength. She supposed he meant to flatter her. To her, the lukewarm declaration twisted a knife in an open wound. How he’d cringe if he knew that “romantic nonsense” powered her every breath. “That was nine years ago.”

“You remember?”

She remembered everything he’d ever said to her. That was just another curse of this futile, painful love. “I remember you wanted a conformable wife.”

His laugh was wry. Long ago, she’d recognized that he didn’t laugh enough, weighed down even as a boy with old scandal, an unhappy family, and an overdeveloped sense of responsibility. The overdeveloped sense of responsibility hadn’t faded. Why else would he be so set on marrying her?

“I know when I’m beaten. Conformable is no longer part of the deal.”

A wave of her hand dismissed his response. “Cam, you talk about the Rothermere scandals. What about the Thornes? We’ve become more ramshackle with every year since you proposed, and we were no shining example of respectability even then. My father ruined himself chasing whores. Aunt Isabel was decidedly eccentric. Peter died in penury. From what I gather, Harry plays the rake. I can’t imagine the ton approves of my junketing.” Even though the words pierced like darts, she forced herself to say them. “Far better you weather the gossip and make your peace with Lady Marianne. You need a duchess to enhance your name, who meets general approval, who fits the neat, useful, proper life you want.”

This description left him less than delighted. “How dull I sound.”

Her fight drained away. Instead she felt deathly weary, as though she’d walked twenty miles in ill-fitting shoes and found no welcome at journey’s end. “Not dull, Cam, just not for me.” In so many ways that she could never explain. “Confess everything to Lady Marianne. If she’s the woman you think she is, she’ll stand by you. Marry your perfect bride and forget me.”

“No,” he said stubbornly. “We must marry.”

“Don’t you like Lady Marianne?” It hurt to say the woman’s name. Pen wondered if she’d ever overcome the excruciating wrench of knowing that Lady Marianne would be with him every day; she’d bear his children, she’d accompany him into old age.

“Of course I like Marianne. She’s a paragon.”

Naturally. If Pen married Cam, she’d always know she was his second-best bride. “I’ll never be a paragon, even if you sacrifice your happiness to save me from social ruin.”

His expression hardened. “I’m not saving you from social ruin, I’m saving myself. Everything I’ve worked for since I was a boy will turn to dust if I don’t make this right. I beg of you, Pen, marry me. Only you can rescue me.”

Oh, the villain, the scoundrel, the cad. At this moment, she hated him.

She stared at him, telling herself she wouldn’t cry. “Cam, it’s mean to play upon old obligations.”

He shrugged. “You’re my only hope of emerging with my reputation intact. A man with one hope doesn’t surrender lightly.”

She backed away as if distance would bolster her resistance. “You’re inviting years of misery.”

The tension eased from his face, leaving him somber but adamant. “I’ll live with that.”

“I’m not sure I can.”

He paled and she was shocked to see that she hurt him. “I’ll do my best to make you happy, Pen.”

In a low, trembling voice, she repeated, “It’s not enough.”

He didn’t pursue her. He didn’t have to. He knew he’d won. “It must be.”

Well, that was an epitaph for a marriage if she ever heard one. Harshly, because the grief ahead loomed like jagged mountains, she asked, “Even if we marry, I don’t see how we’ll avoid scandal.”

“That’s easy.”

His confidence didn’t soothe the dread stamping around inside her stomach. “It always is for you.”