Page 93 of Duke with a Deception
He heard a muffled sound. One that sounded alarmingly like a sob.
King knocked again. “Verity, it’s King. I’m coming in.”
With that warning, he tried the latch, and the door swung open.
There, seated on the Axminster in a pile of crushed purple silk velvet skirts, was Verity. Her cheeks were wet, her eyes red. Her diamond parure was gone. In the place of the elaborate, sparkling necklace at her throat, she wore the simple gold locket.
And she was looking at him as if he were a stranger.
That was when he noticed the letters spilling out of the wooden box she had carried home from Riverdale’s town house.
His entire body seemed to freeze into ice, his blood pumping slower, thick in his veins. He felt vaguely light-headed, bile climbing up his throat.
She remembered.
Fucking hell, Verityremembered.
“What are you doing in here?” he managed to ask, finding his voice at last past all the emotion clogging his throat.
She didn’t speak for what seemed an eternity.
And then, finally, she did. “I know, Peregrine.”
Not King but Peregrine. His stupid, hated given name. The one he never used because it had belonged to his sire before him, and he’d be damned if he would be forced to answer to the name and the title of the man he’d abhorred. King was who he was. Verity had never, not once, referred to him by that loathsome name. He hated that she was doing so now.
“What do you know?” he asked with a calm detachment that was likely down to shock.
Her jaw clenched. “That you are not Leo. That I am not in love with you. I know that the two of us were never truly betrothed.”
That I am not in love with you.
For a moment, he didn’t move. The words struck with a precision that left him oddly hollow, as though something vital had been quietly removed. He ground his molars, trying to steel himself against the agony. “You are correct. I am not he.”
She shook her head, a fresh rush of tears cascading down her cheeks. “I don’t understand. I was confused, and you must have known that. Why did you not correct me?”
Why, indeed? It was a question he had asked himself many times. If he had gently explained, if he had demurred, everythingmight have unfolded differently between them. But then, if he had done so, he never would have had her. And not having Verity in his life was an anguish he couldn’t bear to face.
“Because I didn’t wish to,” he answered as honestly and carefully as possible.
“You didn’t wish to?” she repeated, her voice incredulous.
“As I said. I chose instead to go along with what you said that day.”
“Why? What could you have possibly stood to gain?”
Everything.
The word was there, on the tip of his tongue. But it felt too vulnerable. Too revealing. How to explain to her emotions that were more complex and confusing than any he had ever known? He could scarcely even make sense of it himself.
“I wanted you,” he said instead.
“Me? You could have had any woman in London falling at your feet if you had but snapped your fingers.”
Yes, but she would not have been you.
He couldn’t bring himself to make that admission either.
Belatedly, he realized he was still standing at the threshold, holding the door, where anyone in the hall could eavesdrop upon them. The shock had rendered him too numb to move, but he forced himself into motion now, allowing the portal to close at his back and moving toward her.
