Page 103 of Cocky August Rake

Despite himself, Reginald nearly smiled.

“But it was never the reason.” Harry’s expression sobered. “Every woman our father touched came away diminished. Less safe. Less herself.”

His gaze hardened with an old anger.

“I wanted one place to exist where a man’s desire didn’t give him power. Where the women could choose. Refuse. Earn their own money and keep it. Leave when they wished—or remain. If that’s what they chose.”

Reginald looked down at the floor.

“It wasn’t perfect,” Harry said. “I know that. But it was meant to be the opposite of everything he taught us.”

“Then keep it.”

Harry’s mouth softened.

“My life is here now. Melanie. My son.” The affection in his eyes was surprisingly obvious, even at just the thought of them, bright and open. “They’re my world now.”

Harry pushed off the desk and stood straight. “You’re your own man, Reg. I won’t ask you to hold something you cannot believe in.” A faint, rueful smile touched Harry’s usually hard mouth. “Even if that means my only brother is absent from London years at a time.”

The words landed harder than Reginald expected.

Before either of them could sink any further into sentiment, however, a knock sounded at the study door.

It opened without waiting for an answer, and the duchess stepped in.

And just behind her was Rose, an infant—Reginald’s nephew—cradled carefully in her arms.

Reginald rose so quickly his glass nearly slipped from his hand, and for one stunned moment, Reginald could only look at her.

She wore the same gown he’d peeled from her the night before, in his quarters on the Phantom Gale. Though it was creased now. And her pale hair had been drawn severely back from her face, making her dark eyes appear even larger.

She looked exhausted. Nearly colorless.

But when her gaze found his, it flashed bright.

With anger. Accusation too.

And beneath both, Reginald saw something worse.

Hurt.

LISTEN

When Rose left Reginald sleeping aboard the Phantom Gale, she’d believed she’d never see him again. She had tried to memorize him before slipping out from under his arm—the dark hair falling across his brow, the shadow of whiskers darkening his jaw, and his face… his dear face, that seemed younger somehow in sleep.

Then she’d returned to her home, halfway resigned already to some unknown future on the streets of London, only to find it being plundered.

And now, the very person who’d caused that—Reginald—was right here.

His coat hung open, his dark hair looked as though he had dragged his hands through it repeatedly, and he appeared tired. Frustrated.

But also… beautiful.

Rose’s heart struck hard against her ribs.

Blast him.

She stood just inside the study, six-month-old Ernest resting against her shoulder, while Reginald stared at her from across the room.