“I am as well as I can be.” He paused, his stranger’s gaze searching hers. “Nothing you can fetch me will bring back my memory. Vast portions of my life are gaping holes. Almost all of it. Do you know, Harriet, it is like walking about wearing a blindfold?”
“I am so sorry,” she said, hating the distance that existed between them now. “Will you not call me Hattie?”
His expression remained tight. Rigid. Odd how this new version of him even looked like a stranger. He held his jaw differently. “I do not remember you.”
There it was, one of the many reasons why she could not marry the Duke of Montrose. He had taken her brother from her. Oh, Torrie was still alive. His heart still beat and breath still flowed through him. But he was not the same Torrie.
“I remember you, however,” she managed calmly. “And your memories will return to you, in time.”
“I have no promise they will,” he said coolly. “You must remember this, Harriet. The brother you once knew may be forever gone. We are beginning anew.”
For a brief, desperate moment, she wished she could begin anew, that her memories were as locked away as her brother’s. Because she had secretly loved the Duke of Montrose for as long as she could remember.
Loving him did not mean she was going to allow herself to become his next victim, however. The duke collected hearts. He was reckless and wild, broken and jaded and cruel. He was driven by demons only he could see. And she had no wish to fall headlong into his darkness.
One thing was certain. She could never marry him.
Chapter Two
“His Grace, the Duke of Montrose.”
As Monty was announced that evening at a ball being hosted by his friend and cousin, the Marquess of Searle and his marchioness, the chandeliers suddenly seemed hotter than the fires of Hades. The milling guests, whirling and chattering in their finery, gold winking from their throats and hair, blended into a garish blur. He was itchy already.
The good Lord’s chemise.
He had not fortified himself with laudanum or gin this evening, knowing he would need to be sharp. But now, he felt the opposite of sharp. He felt…lost. Adrift in a sea of people who did not know him, trying desperately to keep from drowning. Desperate for spirits of any sort. Something to appease the endless need crawling through him, eating him from the inside out.
“Monty.” Searle stood before him, thank God.
“Searle, I need a goddamn drink,” he announced.
Quietly enough, or so he thought, that no one else would overhear, even in this crush. Perhaps there was a gasp from the fringes. If there was, he did not care.
“You look like the devil,” his cousin said, raking him with an assessing gaze.
A judgmental gaze.
Rather the way all his acquaintances seemed to look upon him these days. Especially Miss Lethbridge.
Hattie.
Also, his own sister, Cat, who was off in the country with her husband. And his mother. Her nattering grew particularly wearisome.
“I am the devil, according to some,” he told Searle, aiming for a levity he did not feel. “Have you any gin? Whisky? Brandy?”
Better yet, laudanum.
But he dared not make such a request. For if he did, Searle would assess him with more than a gaze. And he had no wish for his cousin to begin shining a light upon his darkness.
“You need it?” Searle asked, his jaw tightening.
“To get me through the night? Hell, yes.” He was being utterly honest. God’s fichu, he needed it to get him through the next bloody hour, let alone the whole night. He despised polite society.
He had been a fool to think he could go all these hours—at a damned ball—without finding at least a few sips of what he needed most.
“Come,” his cousin said.
Blindly, Monty followed. The blurs of color and faces and voices continued. Until they made their way through the vast show of revelers to the relative peace of Searle’s study. They may have crossed a hall. They may have even climbed a set of stairs.
But as Monty gulped down some whisky offered by his cousin, he could not be bothered to recall how the hell they had gotten to where they were. Only that there was liquor there. He drained the glass and held it out to Searle.
“Excellent. More, if you please.”
Searle raised a brow. “I thought you intended to court Miss Lethbridge this evening.”
“I do.” In his mind rose an image of Hattie with her luscious dark hair, her expression of disapproval, clutching that damned cat. “I will. But I am not feeling the thing at the moment, Searle. I need some fortification.”
To say he was not feeling the thing was an understatement.
Searle splashed a bit more whisky into his glass before returning the decanter to a sideboard. “You would better serve yourself to avoid the whisky, do you not think?”
Monty was feeling a bit more like himself now. He had not slept the previous night. Balls were deadly boring. He had scarcely bothered with such mundane festivities before. That he had stooped so low now nettled. But Hattie would be in attendance.
Just because she had told him she had no intention of marrying him did not mean he was giving up. Quite the opposite. He was more determined than ever.
“The whisky is a requirement for courting,” he said, finishing his next glass with ease. Returning to the swirl and crush of the ballroom did not seem as overwhelming now.
“I cannot think Miss Lethbridge would be impressed by a drunken suitor,” Searle observed.
If his cousin thought he was in his cups, Searle did not know him at all.
Monty almost laughed. But there was nothing humorous about the state in which he now found himself. So, he raised his glass once more, only to find it empty. He held it out again. “I am hardly drunken.”
“Monty.” His cousin’s tone was laced with disapproval. “You have arrived at a ball and demanded three glasses of whisky.”
Unperturbed by the assessment, Monty shook his glass. “I demanded three, and yet I have only been given two.”
“Do you require a third glass?”
“Beelzebub’s earbobs.” He pinned Searle with a glare. “Is this what marriage does to a man? You sound like my bloody mother.”
“Aunt is concerned about you,” Searle said, hovering near to the whisky decanter, as if he were guarding it. “As am I. How is your ankle?”
“It pains me.” Though the accident had taken place some time ago now, he did not think his ankle would ever be the same. Much like the rest of him.
“You were drinking enough to drown an infantry brigade before the accident,” Searle pointed out, not making a move to replenish the spirits in his glass.
Very well. If his cousin would not pour him another, he would simply get it for himself. He stalked across the study with his walking stick, then reached for the decanter.
“I am suffering, Searle. I cannot even walk without my stick. The bloody bone is healed, but it throbs like the devil. If I do not have a drink, I will not be able to attempt a waltz with Miss Lethbridge this evening.”
Most of what he had just said was tripe. He was sure his cousin knew it. But Searle did not attempt to correct him. He watched. Monty tossed back the third glass, relishing the burn of the whisky down his gullet.
“Monty.”
Monty did not want questions, seriousness, or sympathy. He wanted to comfort himself in whatever fashion he deemed necessary and for everyone else to go to the devil.
“Do you think I should compromise Miss Lethbridge as you did with Lady Searle?” he asked, seeking to distract his cousin from the inevitable sermon he had been about to deliver.
He contemplated a fourth glass of whisky but decided against it.
“No, I do not recommend compromising her.” Searle stalked forward and thieved the glass. “Court her properly, if you truly intend to marry her.”
“Of course I intend to marry her.” He had first seized upon the notion during his conv
alescence. “It is the only means of making amends for my sins.”
Well, some of his sins.
He would never forgive himself for what had happened to Torrie.
“Marriage to atone for your actions is not a good reason.” Searle settled the glass out of Monty’s reach, his tone grim.
“I need an heir,” Monty argued. “Miss Lethbridge needs a husband. I need to do something to make up for what happened to my friend. See? Everyone shall be happy.”
Except Monty. Happiness was an ever-elusive chimera for him.
But he did not say that.
Instead, he followed his cousin back into the throng of revelers, searching for the one woman who could save him.
*
Hattie could not abide by balls.
She spent most of her time on the periphery, trying not to be noticed.
Which was how she happened to overhear a conversation between two of the Season’s reigning diamonds of the first water, Lady Ella Linnane and Lady Lucy Ross. Sometimes, lurking in the potted palms had its advantages.
Sometimes, not.
“Did you see her dress?” Lady Ella asked, sotto voce.
“What a dreadful shade of Pomona green,” Lady Lucy agreed. “With her complexion and the jonquil robe, it is a dreadful faux pas.”
Hattie frowned and looked down at herself. She was wearing an evening gown of Pomona green satin and blonde lace with a yellow robe.
“I confess, I am surprised to see her in attendance,” Lady Ella was saying now. “I thought her firmly on the shelf. She is quite old now, is she not?”
“An ape leader,” Lady Lucy agreed, her tone unkind as she fanned herself. “It is being said the Duke of Montrose intends to wed her, but I cannot fathom such a mésalliance.”
“That is because you have set your cap at him,” Lady Ella said. “I would not fret. Everyone is saying he only wants to marry her because he feels guilty about what happened with Lord Torrington.”
“No one would ever want to marry her for any other reason,” Lady Lucy said. “She is quite plain and far too tall.”
Hattie’s stomach clenched at the confirmation they were indeed speaking about her. She told herself it did not matter what two empty-headed society chits said about her. Nor did it matter if they thought her tall and plain. She was taller than most ladies, after all, and no one had ever declared her a remarkable beauty. She was not fair-haired and blue-eyed in the fashion of Lady Ella and Lady Lucy.
“Do not forget her hair,” Lady Ella added. “It is the color of—”
“Ebony,” interrupted a low, masculine voice Hattie recognized all too well.
“Your Grace!” Lady Ella and Lady Lucy said in unison, dipping into curtsies.
What more could her humiliation need? There stood Montrose, towering over the simpering ladies who had just been insulting her gown and appearance. Hattie closed her eyes for a moment before casting a glance around to determine her route of escape.
Surely if she slipped through the space between the potted palms and the corner, no one would take note. Lady Lucy’s and Lady Ella’s backs were to her.
“Perhaps no one has ever told you, Lady Ella, that there is nothing uglier than idle gossip motivated by envy,” Montrose said then, his voice cutting. “But fear not. You have no need to worry over competing with Miss Lethbridge.”
Hattie froze in the act of retreating, wondering what Montrose was saying. Had he changed his mind about marrying her, just as she had known he would? Montrose’s interest never remained settled upon one thing for long.
She ought to feel relief at the notion.
So, why did a small pang of regret pierce her?
“Of course, Miss Lethbridge could not compete with Lady Ella,” Lady Lucy said. “Lady Ella is one of this Season’s most celebrated beauties, whilst Miss Lethbridge is…”
“My future duchess,” Montrose said, his tone harsh and quite unlike the lazy drawl she had become accustomed to expecting from him. This Montrose sounded serious. Somber. As if he meant what he said. “You could not possibly compete with her because she is your better in every way and far lovelier. Even so, do not forget that beauty fades, my ladies. A shrewish nature never does.”
Hattie bit her lip to keep from smiling. How unlikely. Montrose had defended her. Ne’er-do-well, scapegrace, scandalous Montrose. Without waiting to overhear more, she made good on her escape, heading for the French doors that led to the balcony.
Her cheeks were flushed, and there was another warmth she could not shake burning brightly within her. A warmth she did not want and dared not trust. Some mind-clearing evening air was what she needed. Because there was no other reason why Montrose championing her to the horrid Lady Ella and Lady Lucy should make her feel like this. Indeed, there was no reason for warmth and the Duke of Montrose to coexist within her.
No other reason save her heart, that was.
She tried not to think of the awful things those two wretches had said about her as she made her way into the night. Cool air kissed her cheeks as she stepped against the stone balustrade, resting her arms over it.
She had heard all the whispers about her before. Since Montrose’s pronounced interest in her had become common knowledge, the whispers had grown stronger. Although Montrose was known as the Duke of Debauchery, he was also a wealthy peer. A handsome duke. The tales of his licentiousness did nothing to deter debutantes from swooning over him. Nor did it do anything to stop matchmaking mamas from throwing their daughters in his path like matrimonial sacrificial lambs.
She was the Honorable Miss Lethbridge, a plain long Meg who would rather be at home with her cat and a good book than whirling around a ballroom. Who had no intention of marrying anyone. But that did not stop the vitriol being directed toward her.
She sighed, wishing he would leave her alone. Despite her eternal pragmatism, she could not deny that his pursuit of her filled part of her with a longing she had no wish to feel.
As enjoyable as it had been to overhear him giving the twittering ladies within such a crushing setdown, it would likely only increase her misery. The ladies would be outraged, and they would talk about her all the more.
“I am sorry you had to listen to the evil nattering of those two harpies,” said a voice, interrupting her solitude.
She jumped and spun about, a hand pressed to her heart. The glow of the moon illuminated him, and even in the lack of light, he was disturbingly handsome. That was the thing about the Duke of Montrose. He never failed to take her breath and make her heart pound, no matter how much of a drunken reprobate he was and no matter how many occasions upon which their paths crossed.
No matter how much damage she knew he could do to her if she but let him.
Belatedly, it occurred to her that he had known she was hiding behind the potted palms all along.
“How did you know I was there?” she asked, for she was certain she had been unobtrusive enough behind the thick gathering of vegetation.
“I watched you dance with the Earl of Rearden.” He moved another step nearer, bringing with him his scent.
It was shaving soap and delicious man and, as was always the case with Montrose, a hint of spirits. How she wished he did not often smell of his vice. One of many, she was sure.
“I danced with Lord Rearden quite some time ago.” Though his nearness affected her, she was determined to stand her ground. To avoid retreating. Any movement whatsoever on her part would be surrender.
“He is a scoundrel, Miss Lethbridge.” Montrose flicked at the sleeve of his coat, as if he were bored by their conversation. “You ought not to give him your time.”
“You are a scoundrel, Montrose,” she pointed out, and if there was bitterness in her voice, it could not be helped. For part of her—the most foolish part, surely—still wished he were not.
If Montrose was not a drunkard and a scandalous rakehell, the feelings she had always entertained for him would not be wrong. Those feelings could be controlled, she reminde
d herself firmly now. They could remain buried. Tamped so deep inside her heart, they would never see the sun and have a chance to grow.
“My intentions toward you are honorable,” Montrose insisted. “Rearden’s are not.”
The earl had only ever been kind to her. He was a widower, and she had once been friends with his sister, who had died in childbirth two years ago. He often sought her out at balls, but there was an unmistakable sadness in his eyes, such loss. He had never been untoward, and as far as she knew, his reputation was quite impeccable.
“The earl is a friend,” she defended, though it was not any of Montrose’s business what the earl was to her. She was not marrying either of them.
“Do not trust him.” He took another step. “Do not trust any gentlemen.”
“Least of all you.” Her tone was pointed, as it must be, even as his proximity did strange things to her senses. A moonlit balcony was not the time to lower her defenses, however, or give in to weakness. “I should go back inside, Your Grace. If you will excuse me?”
“Not yet.” He reached out, grasping her wrist.
A spark skittered up her arm, despite his hands being gloved.
She held still, suddenly breathless. “Unhand me, Montrose.”
To her surprise, he did.
“Hattie.” His voice was low. It sent a ridiculous trill down her spine.
Though he no longer stayed her, she found herself reluctant to flee. “What do you want, Duke?”
He flashed her a wicked grin, and she felt the force of it tugging low in her belly. “You know what I want.”
The warmth churning through her went molten. Montrose was flirting with her. Wielding his rakish charm with expert precision. And she longed to hear his unspoken words. Perhaps it was the darkness. Perhaps it was his kindness earlier in telling Lady Lucy and Lady Ella to go to the devil. She could not be certain.
But he was a rakehell, she reminded herself. He had made conquests of half of London’s ladies. He also was accustomed to getting what he wished. He must never know her true feelings, for he would only use them against her.
“I will not marry you, if that is what you are implying,” she told him crisply. “Not even if you champion me to all the harpies in the world.”
Duke of Debauchery Page 2