Playing The Duke's Mistress

His brow furrowed deeper. Such wholesomeness—could it be feigned? There seemed to be no trace of pretence in her. She played no character when she came off the stage, except herself.

He walked back towards more respectable streets where a hansom cab might be found, still brooding.

Her sister Columbine must have been the girl with whom he had seen her in the park. The ill child clearly wasn’t made up, an imaginary character in a sad story designed to play on his sympathy or his wallet. Unbeknown to her, in Hyde Park he’d already witnessed Miss Fairmont’s anxious care of her sister, fussing over her like a mother water bird. He had sensed from what she’d said, or what she hadn’t said, that the stress of dealing with her sister’s welfare was beginning to break her health, too, if not her spirit. Why was she so alone? Unprotected?

When Merrick had her trapped against the wall... Darius swore. He’d never felt such unaccountable rage. She’d been cornered, yet with her head still held high she’d looked briefly into his own eyes. Hers had been anguished, inky as indigo, full of unshed tears. He had been torn between giving Merrick what he deserved and wanting to take Miss Fairmont into his arms. He’d wanted to comfort her. To promise it would be all right, that he would make it so.

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