The Heart of a Duke(5)

Too late she saw the differences. Should have seen them earlier. Would have if her single-minded purpose had not distracted her.

Their features were identical, so it was easy to mistake them for each other, but if one took a second look, Daniel was leaner, his features more chiseled. Harder. Edmund lived the rich, coddled life of a duke. The carousing lifestyle of the Season’s social obligations was catching up with him. Edmund was thicker about the neck, his build not heavy, but softer. And while his smile could equally disarm, Edmund carried his ducal authority like a second skin and rarely lowered his guard to tease. He believed . . . Her thoughts trailed off and her back went poker straight. Good lord.

She had kissed her fiancé’s brother.

She had asked Daniel how dangerous one kiss could be. Well, she had her answer.

This was far worse than when he had left her locked in the root cellar, abandoning a thirteen-year-old girl to shiver and shake in the cold, damp darkness for hours. She had been frightened then, but now . . . now she was terrified. Of him. Of her. Of them.

“I tried to tell you, but you wouldn’t listen. You—”

“Too late.” She held up her hand to stop him. “You are too damn late.” She stripped off her leather glove as she closed the distance separating them, and the air cracked with the slap of her hand striking his face. She spun away and stormed over to Constance. Collecting the mare’s reins, she hurried over to the dilapidated remnants of the stone wall, climbed onto it, and mounted Constance without assistance.

“Julia! Julia, wait!”

She ignored his cry and dug her heel into Constance’s flank, leaning low and letting the mare run. She blinked back the tears blurring her vision. She would not cry.

Not over Daniel. Not over Edmund.

Neither man deserved her tears.



“THAT WENT WELL,” Daniel muttered as Julia disappeared over the hillside.

He blew out a frustrated breath and tamped down the impulse to rub his burning cheek. As a girl, Lady Julia Chandler had been a fierce whirlwind of energy. It was little surprise she had grown into a passionate woman with a strong arm and a face that should be immortalized on canvas.

She did not possess the classic looks of the delicate, porcelain-skinned, golden-haired English rose—thank God. Hers was a more vibrant beauty that struck a man right between the eyes.

Her hair was a rich, lustrous brown that burst from her bonnet, her eyes a deep blue that stared you down rather than demurely lowered or fluttered. No girlish simpering for Julia, her stare direct and bordered on challenging. She had full, sensual lips that when not pressed in a contemplative line, could kiss a man senseless. Add to that a figure carved with curves in all the right places.

Like a regal warrior, she had dared him, and he cursed himself for not being able to resist her.

He remembered her body cradled in his arms, her full breasts crushed against his chest. He never should have touched her, let alone kissed her, but no warm-blooded man could resist Julia. Unless he was a eunuch, and the throbbing in his loins squelched any doubts about that. He could not deny her plea. Or himself. But her parting words resonated.

You are too late. Too damn late.

The cursed words appeared to be the theme of his life and would no doubt be the epitaph for his gravestone. Too little, too late had been one of Edmund’s favorite taunts. Daniel had arrived five minutes after his twin, thus Edmund had inherited the dukedom.

Sickly and tipping the scale at barely over a quarter stone, he had been destined to die like a full dozen of his siblings before him—except for Edmund. For those first few weeks when he had lingered between life and death, he went nameless. They had called him the runt. Edmund had adopted the nickname after he had heard the story and understood the word’s meaning. More so, its use as a weapon to inflict pain. Edmund had liked to collect weapons, both those he could wield verbally and those that drew blood.

He shook off the dark thoughts. He was a runt no longer, and over the years, he had polished his own methods of defense.

He lifted his gaze to the path Julia had taken. He had never coveted anything belonging to Edmund . . . until now.

He never should have returned. He cursed the enigmatic missive that had lured him back after ten years away.

It is time. Come home and claim your destiny.

Addressed to his Boston residence, the letter had been from his late father’s solicitor and included a plea to see him as soon as he arrived in England. Away on business, Daniel had received the letter months after its delivery. Scoffing at the note’s melodrama, he had tossed it aside. There was nothing left for him in England.

His gaze roamed over the charred remains of Lakeview Manor. A stab of pain pierced his heart. The beloved estate and sanctuary was now a bleak symbol of his lost inheritance and a stark reminder that he had no home here, let alone any destiny to claim.