But Hattie haunted him. He kissed her and hungered for more. He touched her, and she seemed to brand him. He inhaled her scent, and the ghost of those sweet, exotic notes mocked him. He spent every night grasping his cock until he spilled to thoughts of her.
Her alone.
Even as he inwardly railed against such a dependence. He was the Duke of Montrose, for God’s sake. He attached himself to no one. Better to spend his life flitting from one lascivious entertainment to the next than ever tell anyone the truth about his past. The sins he indulged in were designed to drown the sins that had been visited upon him.
Only Torrie knew about those, and his knowledge had been obliterated by the phaeton crash. Monty had told no one else. Not even Searle.
“Monty?” his cousin’s voice sliced through his tumultuous thoughts. “I see Lady Searle just over there. Perhaps she has an inkling of where Miss Lethbridge has gone. They have become friends, after all.”
Hattie was friends with Lady Searle? Monty frowned. “They have?”
“Of course.” Searle flicked at the impeccable sleeve of his coat. “She, Lady Catriona—er, Lady Rayne now, I suppose—the Duchess of Whitley, and Lady Frederica, have all been getting on quite well. Leonie was the one who drew them all together. Of course, now that Lady Rayne is enceinte and rusticating at Marchmont—”
“Does everyone know I am to be an uncle but me?” he interrupted, irritated that even Searle was aware of Catriona’s delicate condition when he himself had been in the dark.
“There is to be a new addition to the family,” Searle said good-naturedly. “Of course, I was informed by Aunt Letitia first, and then Leonie received the happy letter from Cat herself.”
Again with the bloody letters.
He must have muttered something aloud.
Because Searle’s brows instantly hiked upward. “You have not been reading your correspondence, have you, Monty?”
His ears burned. He would get to the damned epistles. He would. But now that he could only drink gin in the evening, he often ended the night with a drop of laudanum as well, which put him into an excellent state for slumber. He could sleep, for the first time in years, without the nightmares coming to claim him.
“I have yet to find a suitable secretary to replace the last fellow.” Who had left Monty’s employ of his own volition after Monty had punched him in the eye. In Monty’s defense, it had been a horrid accident brought on by a combination of drink and one of his insufferable nightmares.
“I do not suppose you would have read your correspondence yourself in the absence of a secretary,” Searle said, his voice wry.
“Of course I would,” he snapped. “I have merely been busy in the wake of my accident.”
“Busy drowning yourself in swill.” His cousin’s countenance was all hard angles of disapproval.
“Busy attempting to gain Miss Lethbridge’s hand,” he corrected coolly. “And heal my ankle so that I can walk once more without pain.”
Even if his cousin was correct, that did not mean Monty wanted to hear his judgment. He had enough of that from his cursed mother, thank you.
“Ah, yes. Of course.” Searle’s voice made it plain he did not believe him. “How could I forget?”
“You are growing tiresome,” he muttered, tugging at his too-tight cravat as he searched once more for Hattie.
In vain, damn it all.
“Come. Lady Searle has caught sight of us,” Searle said, ignoring his ill-tempered grumbles.
Monty allowed himself to be shepherded toward the icy-blonde beauty his cousin had married. Once known as Limping Leonora for a childhood incident that had left her with an unsteady gait, she was no longer mocked or scorned. A bold, undeniable beauty, she held her head high instead of attempting to hide in the shadows. Monty admired her, and he was impressed by her genuine devotion to Searle.
For the moment, however, all he wanted was to know whether or not she had seen Hattie.
He and Searle reached her side at last, deeper in the crush where the glow of the chandeliers was even hotter. Formalities were observed—just barely—before Monty led the way of the conversation.
“Have you seen Miss Lethbridge, my lady?” he asked, doing his best to snuff the need burning through him and keep it from his voice. It would not do to seem desperate, after all. “Searle tells me you and she are fast friends.”
“Oh, yes,” Lady Searle said, smiling. “Miss Lethbridge is wonderful. We share a love of reading, and she has been a dear with Lady Georgina. I do think she would make an excellent mother one day.”
Lady Georgina was a wee bairn. Monty had been there with Searle on the day of her birth. He had seen her on a handful of occasions when visiting his cousin, and he had to admit, he was ever suspicious of squalling children. He recalled a cherubic face, two tiny hands, and the need to flee after Lady Georgina had begun to cry with displeasure over a delay in her next meal.
But there was something about the thought of Hattie as a mother—it took his breath. He could see her, a Madonna, his child growing within her. And all through him crashed a wave of possession so sudden and so fierce, he had to grit his teeth just to maintain control of himself.
He cleared his throat, mindful of the fact that Lady Searle had failed to answer his question. “Indeed, I have no doubt she would be an unparalleled mother one day. But have you seen her this evening?”
“She has gone home early with her mother, I am afraid,” Lady Searle said, giving him a sympathetic smile, as if she could read the wretchedness roiling within him. “Something about a megrim, I believe.”
A megrim.
Beelzebub’s stays, he was willing to wager he was the megrim in question. Or at least the reason for it. The realization quite nettled.
“I see,” he managed, attempting to look unconcerned.
“Monty has been desperate to convince poor Miss Lethbridge to marry his sorry hide,” Searle said then.
Monty skewered him with a glare. “Desperation is not my style.”
Except, when it came to Hattie, it was.
“You could not find a finer lady to be your duchess,” said Lady Searle, looking like the cat who had gotten into the proverbial cream. “Have you offered for her, then?”
Monty’s lips flattened. This was not the manner in which he had intended to spend the evening, damn it. Hattie had fled. Here he stood at a ball, that infernal societal torture device he loathed, making conversation about wanting to marry a lady who refused to accept his suit.
What had his life come to?
And yet, some part of him—the part without pride, it was certain—wondered if perhaps Lady Searle could offer him some aid.
“I have,” he found himself admitting, much to his shame. “And she has not been…receptive.”
“Fancy that,” Searle jibed. “The most successful rakehell in London, the man who can get dozens of ladies to fall into his bed with the crook of an eyebrow, cannot convince a lady to wed him.”
“Stubble it,” he growled at his cousin. For he was not wrong, blast him.
“You must pay my husband no heed,” Lady Searle said, sending a lovesick smile in Searle’s direction. “If he is finding joy in your inner torment, it is only because he loves you and wishes to see his cousin happy. One cannot forget his attempt at getting me to marry him consisted of ruining me and forcing my hand.”
Searle’s grin faded. “If I could do it all over, my love, you know I would change—”
“I know, my darling,” she interrupted before turning her attention back to Monty. “What I mean to say is that if you were soliciting advice from Searle, you must recall the manner in which he won my hand.”
“Are you suggesting I compromise Miss Lethbridge?” he asked.
“Of course not,” Lady Searle hastened to say. “Ruining the lady you love—compromising her—is not the way to proceed, as it will only lead to unnecessary complications.”
“Here now, no one said anything about love,” he f
elt the need to point out. “I greatly admire the lady, and I respect her, but I do not love her.”
Also, he desired her more than he wanted his next breath. More, even, than his next taste of opium.
“If you do not love her, then why do you want to marry her?” Lady Searle asked.
Confound her.
“For the ordinary reasons,” he mumbled, tugging at his deuced tight cravat yet again. “Heirs, etcetera.”
Because if he did not make her his, he would soon perish with wanting. Wisely, he kept that bit to himself.
“Hmm,” Lady Searle offered, noncommittally.
“Hmm,” he repeated. “What the devil does that mean?”
“Monty,” Searle warned. “You are speaking to my wife.”
Yes, and he ought to have afforded her greater honor. Spoken to her with more respect, it was true. Also, he never should have sworn. But he was the Duke of Debauchery for a reason, and he could only change so much of himself.
“Forgive me,” he offered. “What the devil does that mean, Lady Searle?”
“Thick-headed coxcomb,” Searle said without rancor.
“Damned right I am,” Monty returned, but he was quite sure he and Searle were speaking of different heads altogether.
“Monty!” The protestation came from Lady Searle rather than his cousin, however. Twin flags of color darkened her cheeks.
He gave her an innocent look. “Yes, my lady?”
He saw her waging an inner battle. She could hardly say that she had understood his double entendre. In the end, she simply sighed, shaking her head as if he were a hopeless cause. “Surely you realize that a lady wants to be married for more important reasons than the procuring of heirs.”
“Those who believe in romantic folderol, yes,” he agreed. “Those who are practical? I think not.”
“Perhaps Miss Lethbridge is not as practical as you suppose,” she said quietly.
Hattie? Impractical? Hattie a romantic?
He had never imagined she was.
The suggestion gave him pause. Did she want to be wooed? He had been attempting to court her properly. Was that not good enough? Was there a difference?
“What are you suggesting, Lady Searle?” he asked.
“I am suggesting that perhaps there is a reason why Miss Lethbridge has not accepted your proposal of marriage,” she said sagely. “No lady wants to be told she is being married so she can be a broodmare, you understand.”
Of course not. Nor had he suggested such a thing to Hattie. But neither had he declared his undying love for her. Nevertheless, he grew weary of the crushed ballroom, the lights, the whirl of dancers, the eyes upon him.
All he wanted was to marry Hattie. But accomplishing such a feat seemed more out of his grasp by the day. She kissed him so sweetly. Her body responded to him. Their attraction was undeniable. And yet, still she resisted.
“Lady Searle, rest assured I did not make such a proposal to Miss Lethbridge.”
“Of course you did not, my dear.” She patted his arm in a maternal fashion. “But that does not mean Miss Lethbridge was not able to infer, all the same.”
“Bloody hell,” Searle interjected then. “I never thought to see the day my wife would be instructing you on the proper means of securing a wife, Monty. How the wicked have fallen.”
He was wicked. And he had always been fallen. But he was also determined. Hattie was his chance to make a change. She could not remove the blemishes upon his soul. She could not erase the stains of his past. But he could not shake the belief that she was for him. That she belonged with him.
That she was his. And he was hers. Whatever that meant.
He met his cousin’s gaze, unflinching. “She is the woman I want at my side. The one I want as my duchess. It is to be her or no one else.”
As he said the words, he realized their truth. Marrying anyone other than Hattie was an abomination to him.
“You are truly in a bad way,” Searle observed. “I have never seen you like this, other than when it came to drink.”
It was true, he craved Hattie in the way he had chased his next sip of oblivion. He was not sure if he should fear that knowledge or embrace it.
“I know what I want,” he said. “And it is her as my wife.”
“You are sure about your feelings for her, Monty?” Lady Searle asked then.
He was sure of the fire burning inside him. It was Hattie’s. But he could not say that. Not aloud. Not to anyone.
“I am sure I want her as my duchess,” he said simply instead. All he could offer. He did not dare humble himself any further. “Any advice you could offer me would be appreciated, my lady.”
“There is one thing I know for certain about Miss Lethbridge, and it is that she loves her brother dearly.” Lady Searle paused, seeming to consider her next words with care. “I understand Lord Torrington was involved in the accident which saw you injured as well, and that he is no longer quite…himself. However, in spite of that, have you gotten his approval of the match?”
He had not approached Torrie. Given his friend’s loss of memory, their interactions in the wake of the accident had all proved deuced awkward. He still held out hope the old Torrie would return. In time.
“I have not,” he said.
“Perhaps you might begin there,” Lady Searle suggested. “If you have her brother’s approval, I have a suspicion Miss Lethbridge will be far more amenable to your suit. Indeed, it is entirely possible she perceives you responsible for her brother’s current plight. However, if Lord Torrington approves…”
The good Lord’s chemise, why had he not thought of such a tactic? It was brilliant, and it made perfect sense.
“If Torrie approves, Miss Lethbridge will not be so convinced she must tell me nay,” he finished, grinning as a surge of hope shot through him. “Thank you, my lady. You are a godsend.”
“Yes, she is,” Searle agreed, giving his wife a lovesick look. “Truly.”
Lady Searle smiled back at him. “I merely want to see all my friends as happy as I am.”
Monty was not certain he was capable of making anyone happy. But he wisely refrained from saying so. Instead, he began plotting the means by which he would win Hattie Lethbridge’s hand. At fucking last.
Chapter Seven
Hattie stabbed viciously at her embroidery, and for the third time in the last quarter-hour, she stuck her thumb with the needle.
On a pained hiss, she set her needlework aside and rose from her seat. She needed to distract herself from thoughts of Montrose. Had she truly almost allowed him to ruin her at a ball the evening before?
Her foolishness where he was concerned knew no bounds, it would seem. By the grim light of day, without the evening’s dark seduction to lure her into disaster, she was forced to be honest with herself. Her ability to resist Montrose diminished with each moment she spent in his presence.
With each delicious kiss.
Every decadent touch.
But the folly of falling ever more beneath his spell was not lost upon her. Although he was the most attentive suitor she could have imagined, and although in his arms was where she longed to be, she knew he was still Montrose. He was a rakehell, wild and unbridled.
She had scarcely slept last night. His scent had seemed to linger on her even after she had fled him, and long into the night, she could still catch the clean, sharp scent of his soap. Her lips had still burned with the pleasure of his kiss. She had throbbed with unquenched desire. And her heart had been heavy with the knowledge that she yearned for him more and more.
She had spent years admiring him from afar. Guarding her heart had been easy before, when he had never noticed her. When he had not pressed his suit, when he had not touched her or kissed her or appeared in her chamber like the wicked rake she knew him to be.
Something was wrong with her.
Because regardless of his carelessness, his madcap behavior, despite the part he had played in Torrie’s accident, and in spite of the
fact that she knew him to be a heartless rogue, she could not stop thinking about him.
Oh, drat him. Drat his rotten, miserable hide. Why could he not have left her alone? Why did he need to be so persistent in his wrongheaded insistence they wed?
A flurry of movement on the threshold of the room caught her eye.
She spun about as awareness slammed into her.
Montrose stood there, tall and handsome.
Wicked.
Heat burst inside her. He was here. Prowling toward her with a confident air.
And she was alone. No lady’s maid to protect her.
“Montrose.” Belatedly, she dipped into a curtsey. “What are you doing here?”
She should have known her fleeing the ball last night would not have gone unanswered.
He stopped when he reached her and sketched an elegant bow. “I came to have an audience with Torrie.”
His words settled over her, piercing her with shock. “Surely you did not tell him…”
He flashed her a grim smile. “Your opinion of me is not high, is it, Hattie?”
Her opinion of him was that she did not dare trust him.
“You do not exactly inspire a great deal of comfort in me,” she said, particularly since she was unchaperoned with him.
Again.
This time was every bit as dangerous as last night at the ball and when he had come to her in her chamber. Anyone could happen upon them. All it would take was her mother, brother, or a servant to leave her with no choice but to marry him.
“I am wounded.” His smile deepened, revealing fine lines around his dark eyes. He helped himself to one of her hands, taking it and raising it to his mouth for a kiss.
She watched, mesmerized, as his lips touched the top of her hand. She felt the contact all the way to her toes. What would it be like, she wondered, to feel that mouth everywhere?
She struck the unwelcome thought from her mind, for it would do her no good. Nor would it aid in strengthening her defenses against him. “I know you, Montrose.”
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