Page 97 of The Duke's Rules Of Engagement
“I’m sorry. So sorry. I thought… Iwantedyou to love her. I wanted her to love you. I wanted you to be happy together. My other professional matches have all been love matches. But this one… Well, you insisted you didn’t believe in love. I almost gave up, but I always wished that you might rediscover that emotion when you married. That you might feel that happiness that a person feels when they have met their perfect match.” She buried her face in her hands and groaned out, “Please. If you love her, understand that she is an innocent party to all this. She understands she needs to marry someone of means, of course she does. But she didn’t manipulate you, and I… I truly believe that…that one day, she might love you back. Perhaps she does already. Please, Your Grace. It’s all right if you despise me for what I have done, but please don’t blame Harriet. I want… I wish nothing more than for the two of you to be happy together.”
Those last several words drained the final vestiges of her strength. Her legs went weak, and she slid down the back of the door. She stared up at him, feeling no more substantial than a husk, dry and light, ready to blow away in the wind.
He loved Harriet. Why wouldn’t he? Harriet was perfect. And now, he’d discovered Jo’s manipulation and was so angry it seemed impossible that he’d agree to marry Harriet now.
Good Lord, she’d ruined everything. “I’m so sorry,” she whispered.
His laugh was as sharp as a knife, and it pierced all the way through her. “Oh, no, Miss Porter. You have it all wrong. I did not fancy myself in love with Miss Cherrington.”
“What?” Her mind was a tangle of confusion, self-reproach, and pain.
“I said, I did not fancy myself in love with Miss Cherrington.”
She stared at him, uncomprehending.
His eyes narrowed, and he spat out, “I fancied myself in love withyou.”
Her mouth dropped open, but she couldn’t utter a single word. Even if she could have, she would have had no idea what to say.
“I intended to make my intentions clear today,” he continued. “Not to Miss Cherrington, but to you. I wantedyou.”
“Oh God, Matthew.” Her voice was half a whisper, half a moan. “I—”
But he cut her off with a swipe of his hand. “Fool that I was, I thought you might love me as well. But that’s a ruse, isn’t it? Like the match was a ruse, like everything has been a ruse. False and deceitful and a lie. Have you ever told me anything that was true, Jo?Have you?”
Pain suffused his voice now, but the hard edge of anger pounded behind it.
“Yes,” she said. “Yes, I have.” So much. Yet, she hadn’t told him the biggest truth of all: that she’d fallen in love with him.
He didn’t seem to hear her answer, though. He leaned forward, staring down at her with darkened eyes that might as well be daggers. “I thought I made it quite clear that I would not marry someone who desired me only for my title or fortune. Since you—and Harriet Cherrington—clearly look at me and see nothing but a duke and his riches—”
“No.” She shook her head hard. “No, that’s not—”
But he went on. “I will have nothing to do with you. I have no wish to see you—either of you—ever again. Please refrain from seeking out my company in the future. I will be leaving this place, this city, post haste. And since I will never darken the Cherrington doorstep again, please convey this message to Miss Cherrington as well.”
Tears pooled in Jo’s eyes and began to stream down her face. Her chest heaved as she gasped for air. She couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe. Her lungs, her limbs, her whole body felt as if it were made of stone.
“Please move away from the door, Miss Porter,” the Duke of Crestmont said coldly.
“Please…I—” With great effort, she hauled in a gasp of air. “I love you.” She lowered her face into her hands.
So much. She loved him so, so much. This proud, sensitive, beautiful man. She’d wronged him, and it was all her fault, but shelovedhim. Shouldn’t that count for something?
“Move.”
Evidently, her love didn’t matter. Or he didn’t believe her. That was more likely. He thought her a liar and a fraud. But she wasn’t—not in this.
She didn’t move. She couldn’t. She had to keep him there until she made him understand, and yet, she had no idea how to make him understand.
He made a low sound that contained his rage and his pain, each emotion struggling for dominance. She tried to unscramble her thoughts, to think of something to say to him that would be real and meaningful, and that he’d understand and forgive her.
Then she heard the slam of the door that led into the kitchen. When she looked up, he was gone.
Chapter Thirty
Matthew tried his damnedest not to slam the door behind him, but it rattled the entire little house anyway. He located a doorway on the opposite wall and charged blindly through the room, some part of his roiling senses determining that it was a small kitchen. He brushed past a female form that gasped and said, “Excuse me, sir!” but he forged on through the doorway, a pantry, and a short corridor beyond, which finally, thankfully, led to the entryway and the front door of the house.
He burst out into the warm July air and set off in a fast clip down the street. He’d walked several blocks before he realized he’d reached a farm. He was outside London and walking in the opposite direction of Mayfair.
