Duke of Debauchery

by Scott, Scarlett

  “How many harpies are there in the world, do you think?” he asked idly, stroking his jaw.

  She resented the way the subtle action drew her attention to his mouth. The Duke of Montrose had lips that made a lady think about kissing. Hattie was not impervious to them, although she knew precisely what he was.

  She forced herself to recall that, once again. To remember his question. “It is an unfortunate fact of life that although there are far more good people than bad, the rotten apples ruin the rest of the fruit.”

  He tapped the fullness of his lower lip with his forefinger, as if he were deeply contemplating her words. “Or the rotten fruit makes wine, depending upon how one views it.”

  He was teasing her. Montrose had never done that before. Nor had he looked at her in such intense fashion. Mayhap it was the darkness, but he seemed to be sweeping over her form, as if he could envision the curves hidden beneath her gown.

  He was looking at her very much like a rake looked upon a woman.

  She knew that look, had seen it many times from other men. But it had scarcely ever been directed at her. And never before by Montrose.

  Even his proposal had been bland by his standards. He had not even attempted to touch her.

  But she was not about to be wooed by him. If this was a new tactic, he could throw it over the balcony as far as she was concerned. “Why did you follow me out here, Montrose?”

  “Because those horrid creatures were talking about you, and you looked pale when you scurried away.”

  Dreadful man.

  “I did not scurry. Mice scurry, and I am no mouse.” She gave his arm a stern tap with her fan.

  He was still touching his lip, and she could not help but to allow her gaze to dip there once more. To think about that mouth in a way she should not. Heat raced through her.

  “You are certainly not a mouse, Hattie.” He smiled then, and the full effect of Monty smiling was not lost on her. “You are far too beautiful to be a mouse.”

  First, he had called her lovely and now beautiful.

  It was enough to cut through some of the heat and unwanted longing. To restore her senses. “Flattery will not change my decision, Montrose. And I have not given you leave to refer to me in such a familiar fashion.”

  Even if she did like the way her name sounded in his deep, delicious voice.

  Even if it felt right.

  No, it does not, she scolded herself firmly. The Duke of Montrose is a scapegrace and drunken rogue who has never taken anything seriously in his life.

  But you love him in spite of all that, taunted a different voice. One she promptly banished.

  “I would never flatter you,” he said solemnly. “You are far too intelligent. You outshine those two insipid chits and every other lady in the ballroom.”

  “And that is why I am inundated with dance partners,” she scoffed before she could think better of it.

  But Montrose seized upon her revealing words. “I will dance with you, Hattie.”

  “That is not what I meant.” She delivered another rap with her fan. “I have no desire to dance with you. And do cease calling me Hattie at once.”

  “When we are wed, I shall call you Hattie,” he drawled as if pondering the thought. “Unless you prefer Harriet? That is your true given name, is it not?”

  Where to begin? His persistence was growing more pronounced. He had been incredibly attentive at every social event she had attended in the last few weeks. But now he was calling her Hattie and making her think about his lips and cornering her on a dark balcony.

  He must be checked.

  “We are never going to be married.” Her tone was not as firm as she wanted it to be. Indeed, there was a breathless undertone she could not like. “Therefore, you must carry on with referring to me as Miss Lethbridge. Or if you wish to be perfectly proper, the Honorable Miss Lethbridge.”

  His grin deepened.

  All those very bad, very unwanted, altogether dangerous feelings returned.

  “Oh, darling. You know I never wish to be proper.” He moved nearer, reaching out to press the same forefinger that had been on his lips to hers. “And you are wrong. We are going to be married. You may as well accept your fate.”

  She wished his hand were ungloved.

  That was her first thought.

  Because if it were, she would be able to feel the texture of his bare skin on her lips. The pad of his finger. To flick her tongue over it, taste him… No, she must not think such thoughts.

  She stepped away from him, severing that decadent contact. “You only want to marry me to appease your conscience.”

  “No, that is not why.” His expression was somber. “I want to marry you because I want you, Hattie.”

  But she did not believe that. Could not believe it. Because despite his many faults, the Duke of Montrose remained one of the most handsome, sought-after men in London. She could not believe he truly wanted to marry a wallflower scarcely anyone had ever noticed.

  His lie hurt more than she had expected. It was akin to a knife in her heart. A reminder of the awkward girl she had been, the lady she had become, who haunted the periphery of every gathering.

  “Do not lie to me, Montrose.” Her voice was shaking, which she regretted. But it could not be helped. Her emotions would not be reined in. “Lie to everyone else all you like. But do not lie to me.”

  With that parting shot, she dipped into a mocking curtsey and left the balcony.

  Chapter Three

  Lie to everyone else all you like. But do not lie to me.

  Hattie’s words echoed in Monty’s mind the next night as he prepared himself for an evening of debauchery. She was alarmingly close to the mark there.

  He had spent a good portion of his life deceiving everyone around him.

  He had to lie to them, just as he had to lie to her. Because if anyone—if one single soul—knew the truth, it would be the end of him. He could not bear it. He would jam the barrel of a pistol into his mouth and…

  Wincing, he halted that particular thought.

  Marrying Hattie was the answer.

  He simply had to convince her. Or compromise her.

  Yes! Compromise her.

  To the devil with Searle’s advice. He could bloody well seduce her, put an end to this nonsense with the balls and the musicales. He would not have to court her or send her flowers or chase after her. He would not have to find her on moonlit balconies and attempt to steal a kiss, only to be thoroughly rebuked and abandoned.

  He had enjoyed a drop of laudanum in his tea earlier. It filled him with a familiar warmth. His ankle did not even ache. He felt invincible and light as a feather all at once.

  Instead of leaving his laudanum behind, he tucked it into his coat. There was no telling how long he would be gone and whether or not he would need it before he returned. His body was positively buzzing as he left his chamber and descended the stairs.

  Halfway down, he realized his damned mother was standing at the base, gazing up at him with a pinched look of reproach.

  He carried on, making an extra show of using his walking stick. “Mother,” he greeted her when he reached the last step, bowing deeply.

  “Montrose, I was wondering if I might speak with you.” She eyed him in that suspicious maternal manner of hers, the one he could not abide. “Have you been indulging?”

  “Of course not,” he snapped, tired of her endless castigation.

  This was her fault, after all. Her brother was the cause…

  But he would not think of that despicable bastard now. Arthur Parkross would burn in the fiery depths of hell for his sins one day.

  “You seem detached,” his mother accused. “As if you have been drinking spirits. Did you recently wake from a nap?”

  “Madam,” he reminded her sternly, “I am the duke. It is not your place to question or otherwise make demands of me.”

  She jerked as if he had struck her.

  “Montrose…”

  “Y
our Grace,” he interrupted, emphasizing formality. “You have overstepped your bounds.”

  Servants were lingering, not far. He did not want them to overhear this particular quarrel. For even as scandalous as he was, some subjects—namely himself—he guarded with a zealous need for privacy. This part of his life was not to be discussed. Not even if he pissed on every rug in the damned house.

  But enough of that. He had decided what he was going to do with this evening. His mother was keeping him from what he wanted. Which was a visit to the Duke’s Bastard, followed by a trip to Hattie’s bedchamber.

  He knew which chamber was hers. And there was an accommodating tree conveniently located near it, he was reasonably sure. If not, there was always the servant’s entrance. Bribery was a possibility…

  “Yes, of course,” his mother interrupted his thoughts, frowning at him, hurt evident in her expression and tone. “I merely wished for a few minutes of your time.”

  “I cannot spare it,” he dismissed. Because he had no wish to listen to yet another one of his mother’s lectures. If he wanted to hear a sermon, he would attend church. And he did not want to hear a damned sermon, which was why he had not warmed a pew in years.

  Instead, he had been warming beds.

  Legions of beds.

  He was not proud of that, as he thought upon it. But worshipping women had seemed a remedy. The first of many he had sought to ease the pain within. None of them ever fully healed the bitter wounds. No matter how hard he tried.

  “You cannot spare a few minutes?” his mother pressed. “I am worried about you, Montrose.”

  He laughed at her pronouncement. A bitter and deep laugh, no levity in it at all. “You are about twenty years too late in worrying about me, Mother.”

  With that, he brushed past her, stalking from the townhouse he reluctantly shared with her. In truth, he should have sent her to the dower house. But since he had yet to take a wife, he had not done so. He had sent her to Scotland not long ago with his sister Catriona, but their absence had been cut short when Catriona had returned to marry the Earl of Rayne.

  Long story, that. One which began with the earl shooting Monty in a duel.

  Walking stick in hand, he settled in his carriage. The last year of his life had been devilishly trying. But he was convinced it was time for fortune’s fickle wheel to give him a good turn.

  *

  Sir Toby was playing with her hair again.

  That was the first thought in Hattie’s mind as a gentle stroking over her unbound locks pulled her from slumber. Eyes still closed, she stretched.

  “Do go away, you little scoundrel,” she murmured.

  His fluffy, warm body was a comfort she adored. But occasionally, the cat decided to bat at her hair in the midst of the night.

  “Hattie.”

  Dear heavens.

  Sir Toby could not speak.

  Her eyes flew open, a scream rising in her throat. A hand clamped over her mouth.

  “Do not scream, love.” She knew that voice. That deep, decadent rumble.

  “Montrose,” she said against his bare palm.

  She had the fleeting, foolish thought that she was having her wish from the other night on the balcony at Lord and Lady Searle’s ball. His skin was against her lips. It was warm. Surprisingly smooth. Some wild impulse inside her wanted to kiss that palm.

  But then she recalled it was the midst of the night, and he had somehow stolen into her chamber, and that he was a roué of the worst order.

  So, she bit him instead.

  He emitted a strangled howl of pain, removing his hand. “Damnation, Hattie. That bloody well hurt.”

  She felt not a moment of guilt. “Good. Perhaps next time you will think twice about the wisdom of sneaking into a lady’s chamber.”

  “Your teeth are sharp as your wits,” he grumbled.

  Hattie remained unmoved. She would bite him again in a trice if she had to. Anything to keep herself from falling into his dangerous flame. “What are you doing in my chamber, Montrose?”

  “Getting bitten by a vicious she-cat.”

  Speaking of cats, where was Sir Toby? She patted the counterpane and found him curled up alongside her, apparently unmoved by her altercation with the duke. Lazy ball of fluff. Did he not know he was meant to guard her from scoundrels?

  “I would not have bitten you had you not trespassed in my chamber.” She reached alongside her, investigating the counterpane. Her hand met with muscular thigh.

  Oh.

  She snatched her hand away. Montrose was sitting on her bed. And she had just touched him. None of these things were good.

  “I wanted to see you without other eyes and ears,” he grumbled. “How is a man supposed to convince a lady to marry him if he is forever having to observe the bloody proprieties?”

  It occurred to her that Montrose had likely never before courted a lady.

  All his conquests were demimondaines.

  “I can assure you that you do not go about it by sneaking into bedchambers.” She frowned at him through the darkness. Her window dressings were askew, lending just a hint of moon’s silver light to the room. “Did you climb into my window, Montrose?”

  There was a tree in the small gardens below, with large, sturdy old branches.

  The rogue must have somehow scaled them and made his way to her chamber.

  “Had I known a bite was awaiting me, I may have reconsidered putting my life at risk.” His tone was still wounded.

  “Montrose, you should not be here.” And not just because his presence in her chamber was highly improper. But because there was something about being alone with him in such intimate quarters that made her feel quivery inside.

  Longing unfurled deep within her.

  “Of course I should not, but as long as we are quiet, no one will ever be the wiser.” He stood then, and she felt his weight lifting from the bed. “Where is the bloody tinderbox? I can scarcely see anything.”

  “Alongside my bed, on the table,” she said, grateful her bedroom was at the far end of the hall where neither her mother nor her brother was likely to overhear.

  The familiar sound of the tinderbox opening reached her, followed by the striking of flint. A spark flared to life as he lit a spill, then the brace of candles, bathing the room in a warm glow.

  She could see him quite clearly now, and she wished he had not lit the candles at all. Because seeing him made it so much more difficult to resist him. His gaze seared her, traveling over her as she sat up, the counterpane falling to her waist.

  Sir Toby at last stirred, waking and stretching before nimbly climbing over her legs and approaching the edge of the bed. He sat, staring at their unexpected guest.

  Montrose’s stare flicked to the cat. “You sleep with the feline?”

  “He is my companion.” She gave the animal a soft head scratch. “He belongs here. Unlike you. What was it you wished to convey to me that necessitated breaking into my chamber like a common thief out to filch the silver?”

  He passed a hand over his jaw, his expression turning rueful. “To the devil with your teeth being sharp. Your tongue is the sharpest weapon in your arsenal. A thief, am I? If I am to be compared to one, perhaps I ought to steal something for my troubles. At least, then your words would possess a hint of truth.”

  The notion of the Duke of Montrose stealing something from her made the quivery sensation turn into molten heat. Instantly, she was thinking of what he might steal. A kiss. Or…

  Her cheeks burned. “I have nothing worth stealing.”

  He gave her a slow, wicked grin. “Oh, how wrong you are, darling.”

  Did it count if he stole her breath?

  Montrose seemed different this evening. She had not even detected the faintest trace of spirits.

  “You must not call me that,” she said weakly.

  He reached out to Sir Toby, and much to her dismay, the cat arched his back into Montrose’s slow caress. She watched his large hand traveling over
Sir Toby’s snow-white fur and thought she could not blame her cat one whit. To have that hand traveling over her exactly thus…

  No, she ordered herself. Stop this madness at once.

  “What must I not call you?” he asked slowly, his drawl sending another frisson of desire through her. “Darling? Or Hattie? Would you mind making a list for me? When we are husband and wife, I shall refer to it regularly to keep from displeasing you. Though I must admit, nothing makes me want to kiss you more than when you frown at me as if you are a governess, and I am your recalcitrant charge.”

  He wanted to kiss her?

  Yes.

  It was the voice she had been silencing for years now, as she had watched from afar while her brother’s handsome, rakish friend had run rampant all over London. Stealing hearts, stirring up scandals, and otherwise earning his status as one of the most scandalous—and sought after—gentlemen in Town.

  She forced herself to recall what he had just said. “You must not call me anything other than Miss Lethbridge, Montrose. For that is what my name is and what it shall remain. There is no need of a list of any sort as I have told you, ad nauseam, that I will not marry you under any circumstances.”

  “You’re still frowning,” he said, his voice low. His head dipped.

  He continued petting Sir Toby, who was now purring loudly. Of course, only the Duke of Montrose could win over a cat who did not like anyone but Hattie. Even when he did not like Sir Toby himself.

  Sir Toby was too foolish to realize it, apparently.

  She knew the feeling all too well.

  “I am frowning at you because you are a reckless cad without a thought for my reputation.” She gave him a forced smile just to irk him. “There. Does that suit you?”

  “I am afraid not.” His gaze was on her lips. “Your smiles also make me want to kiss you. Indeed, as I stand here now, I cannot think of one reason why I have yet to do so.”

  Indecent longing flooded her. Settled between her thighs in an ache.

  What to do with such words? The Duke of Montrose was not for her, and she knew it. He would only break her heart. The only reason he was flirting with her and trailing after her now was because he wanted to marry her and lessen the burden of his own guilt. He did not truly think her beautiful. He did not truly want to kiss her.