The British Heartthrob’s Discarded Mistress Read Online Marian Tee

Categories Genre: Alpha Male Tags Authors:
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Total pages in book: 57
Estimated words: 54630 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 273(@200wpm)___ 219(@250wpm)___ 182(@300wpm)
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“Ms. Mary Ashton is here to see you, Your Grace.”

Rathe froze. “Excuse me?”

“Ms. Mary Ashton, Your Grace. Your, ahh, paramour—-”

“Of course I know who she is,” Rathe snarled.

Edward shut up, thinking, If the duke had known, why did he make Edward repeat himself then? Maybe the rumors were true. His Grace and his mistress had a lover’s quarrel—-

“Shut up, Edward. I can practically hear your thoughts.”

“Yes, Your Grace.” Maybe, Mary Ashton was the reason for the change in the duke’s—-

“Edward, for bloody’s sake, could you just turn around so I won’t have to read the thoughts on your face?”

“Yes, Your Grace.” Edward executed a quick 180-degree turn.

Running a hand through his hair, Rathe did his best to get over his shock.

Mary was here. He should have known she was not the type to shove things under the carpet until they were forgotten.

Mary was here, so what the bloody hell was he supposed to do now?

For the past few weeks, Rathe had come to develop a routine. Every morning, he would start the day reading reports about Mary from his security. It was the only way for him, he had come to discover, to survive the distance that separated them, the only way he could delude himself into thinking that Mary could forever remain his.

But whenever afternoon came, he would force himself to set aside all thoughts and memories of her. This time, it was all about disciplining himself. A way to prepare Rathe for the life he would eventually lead without Mary by his side.

And finally, when he found himself facing another sleepless night, Rathe would force himself to think of what his mother had suffered and was suffering. Every night, he would remind himself that one day, Mary would suffer the same thing as well, if they persisted in the madness that made up their relationship.

Over and over, he would repeat just one bloody sentence in his mind until exhaustion knocked him down.

He was not for Mary, and Mary was not for him.

“Shall I let her in, Your Grace, or do I...” Edward trailed off.

Rathe drew a steadying breath. “Let her in, but make sure to come back in...fifteen minutes. Make up any excuse about me needing to leave.”

“Understood, Your Grace.”

****

“What are you doing here?” These were the first words the Duke of Flanders spoke the moment Mary entered his office, which spanned the entire penthouse floor.

The words were spoken in a voice that was colder than what she liked to remember. Hearing him speak, it was difficult for Mary to still see him as Rathe – her Rathe – the man she loved...and the man she wanted to believe loved her back.

Right now, it was so much easier to see him as the Duke of Flanders, the aloof nobleman who was also distinguished for being one of the direct descendants of Wellington, the Iron Duke.

When Mary didn’t answer, the duke came to his feet in one lithe, graceful motion. Just seeing him move so beautifully was enough to have her heart beating madly. Since she had fallen in love with this man, he only had to look at her and she would feel like she was flying. If only, Mary thought painfully, she could be sure he felt the same way, too.

When Rathe stopped in front of her, Mary slowly raised her head to meet his gaze. When their eyes met, she almost stumbled back.

There was nothing – nothing of the Rathe she loved – remaining in that gaze.

Somewhere along the way, something had changed him. The Rathe she knew was gone, leaving in his place a cold handsome man who might as well be a stranger to her.

No doubt, he thought the same thing of her, too.

The duke lifted a brow at her, impatience underscoring his tone as he demanded, “Well?”

Mary flinched at the cutting edge of the duke’s British accent, his razor-sharp voice making her feel like the conversation between them was that of a duke reprimanding a servant.

An insidious voice whispered to her that it was exactly she was, since mistresses were just like another form of servants, and their skills just another form of service to their masters.

“Are you not going to answer me?”

He loved her, he loved her, Mary chanted to herself desperately. He hadn’t really said the words, but weren’t actions supposed to speak louder than words? He loved her. He would not be acting like this if something was not badly wrong.

She said haltingly, “I just wanted to surprise you.”

Rathe sucked his breath at the words. Unbidden, a memory came to him, one of their earlier days in England. Then, he had surprised Mary by teaching her to waltz on a snow-covered ground, and she had surprised him by penning him a poem and reciting the words to Rathe.

The memories felt like they happened an eternity ago, taking place in a world where he and Mary were not being judged. When the walls of ice he had built around his heart started to crack, Rathe swiftly shoved all his memories to the side, choosing to focus instead on the bleakness of his present.


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