“Ah, but you do not know me nearly well enough yet, darling.” He turned her hand over, having yet to relinquish possession of it, and frowned. “What is this? You are bleeding.”
So she was. Blood had pooled on her thumb and streaked down her palm. She had not even noticed because she had been so distracted by him.
“I was doing needlework,” she said, trying to ignore the visceral reaction his touch had upon her.
He is only holding your hand. He is only a man.
Only the man she had watched and wanted for years.
He is noticing you now.
Because he feels obligated, she reminded herself.
“You were doing needlework?” He reached into his coat. His eyes burned into hers as he extracted a handkerchief and dabbed at the blood. “It hardly seems like you to be so careless as to do yourself injury.”
He was right. Ordinarily, she took great care with her embroidery. She had a talent for it, and she found it soothing.
“I was distracted.” She tried to tug her hand from his grasp, but he held fast.
The drop of blood upon the white square was a stark, poignant contrast. She had sullied it, made her mark upon his monogram in a desperate irony.
“What distracted you, sweet Hattie?” he asked in that silky rake’s voice.
The one that said he knew precisely what had been distracting her.
Him, devil take his hide.
She said the first thing that came to her mind. “A horse.”
“A horse.” He took his time, inspecting her hand for further injuries, before raising her thumb to his lips. “I did not think you horse mad.”
She was mad, all right.
“A horse’s arse,” she elaborated, trying to strike the frisson of desire rolling through her.
Any lingering sting she had felt there, however slight, had been banished. All she felt was heat. Heat that shot up her arm and settled between her thighs.
“You were thinking of me,” he guessed. “My darling Hattie. I did not take you for a hopeless romantic.”
“I was being facetious,” she told him. “Give me your handkerchief, and I shall see it laundered or replaced.”
He was considering her, and it was once more that speculative rake’s regard. “Do you ever allow anyone past your defenses, Hattie Lethbridge?”
“Not you,” she was quick to say. Not if she could help it, anyway. She did not dare allow him any further than he had already trespassed. “The handkerchief, Montrose. My blood is upon it, and I wish to rectify the matter.”
“Surely you do not think me such a wastrel that I cannot afford a hundred more just like it tomorrow?” He tucked the scrap back into his coat. “No indeed, I rather relish the notion of carrying a piece of you close to my heart.”
She snorted. “Spare me your rakish wiles, Your Grace.”
Because she could not afford to fall prey to them. And her pounding heart and the need deep within warned her she was tottering on the edge.
“Do you think I have ever asked for another lady’s hand, Hattie?” He was being serious now.
His stare made her falter. He was looking at her almost tenderly. As if he felt something more for her than the guilt that was compelling him to continue making his offers.
“Have you?” The question fled her before she could snatch it back.
His answer should not matter.
“Of course not.” He raised her palm for another slow, deliberate kiss.
This one, she felt as a pang deep inside. In her core. In the place he would fill, if he were her husband…
If?
What was she thinking? This gorgeous rake, this scoundrel, would tear her heart to shreds if she let him.
She must never, ever let him.
“Do not try to make me believe your proposal is motivated by anything other than your guilt,” she snapped, hating him for the way he made her feel.
He kissed another place on her palm. “Have you ever heard of palmistry, Hattie?”
Of course she had.
“Stuff and nonsense,” she dismissed.
“Is it?” He was still holding her hand, head bowed. With his forefinger, he traced over the longest line bisecting her palm. “I am not so certain.”
She tried to ignore his scent that washed over her, making her yearn. “Do not pretend you are an authority on it, Montrose. I was not born yesterday.”
“You are yet a babe wet behind the ears,” he said in a teasing tone. “This line here.” He stroked again. “It says you will marry a man you already know. A friend of your brother’s. He will give you everything you want, kiss you senseless as often as possible, and make you his duchess.”
She forgot to breathe. He was stroking her hand softly. Nothing more. And she was on fire for him. Aflame from the inside. Longing clawed at her. Old longing, deep-seated longing. The kind she had alternately nurtured and quashed for years.
Ever since she had met him, though Montrose had not yet been a duke. He had been the Marquess of Ashby. His father, the duke, had still been alive. Montrose had come to visit their country estate for the hunt. How avidly she had watched him, riding alongside Torrie. He had cut a dashing figure even then.
“Montrose,” she protested. “Please cease this.”
“I cannot.” His fingers tightened on her hand as his gaze met hers once more. “I asked Torrie for his permission today. To wed you, Hattie. He has given us his blessing. All I need is one word from your pretty lips.”
Her brother had given his blessing.
Or rather, the shell her brother had become.
She could not forget. “Torrie does not have any recollection of you, thanks to your careless, drunken ways. He does not remember how much of a wicked, unrepentant rake you are.”
Regret shadowed his handsome face. “You do not need to remind me. If I could return to that night and talk him out of the race, I would do so, and gladly. I wish it had been me rather than him, a thousand times over. But it was not, and I cannot change the decisions I made in the past, however poor or lamentable they are. All I can do is strive to do better now and in the future.”
She wanted to strike him for his arrogance. “Damn you, Montrose. I have already told you I will not be your sacrificial lamb. Marrying me will not change anything either. You do not want a wife. You want a mistress and another bottle of gin.”
Her words were cutting. Harsh.
He flinched as if she had indeed struck him, and she wished she could recall them. Unspeak them. Undo all the feelings for him she did not want to have. But she could not any more than he could return to the night he and Torrie had drunkenly raced their phaetons.
“I am not worthy of you, I will own,” he said at length, releasing her hand. “If the prospect of me as your husband is abhorrent to you, you need only say it.”
The color had fled his face, and she could not credit it, but all indications suggested she had hurt him. She, the spinster wallflower, younger sister of his closest friend, the woman he had never spared a second glance whilst he chased after half the skirts in London, had wounded the mighty, beautiful Duke of Montrose.
She hated that she had caused him a moment of hurt.
Hattie reached for him, but he slipped from her grasp.
He was stalking away, leaving her, his broad back mocking her with the promise of all that could have been. All she had ever wanted without ever daring to hope for. All she knew she should never have, for marrying this man would break her.
It would break her heart.
Break her spirit.
Ruin her.
Because she loved him. She had always loved him. But he could never find that out.
“Montrose,” she called out. “Wait.”
He stopped, remaining still for so long, she feared he would never turn.
Until, at last, he did. His countenance was stark. Needy. Gone was every trace of the polished rake. She could not shake the feeling she was seeing him, the real him, for
the very first time.
He looked lonely in that moment. Powerful, gorgeous, and utterly alone.
“What is it, Hattie?” His lip curled, almost a sneer. “A man can only bear so much rejection before his pride forbids him from making himself into an even greater fool.”
“Why do you want to marry me?” she asked. For his answer mattered.
His answer would decide her future.
“Because I need you.”
His raw statement sent her reeling, but she gathered her wits. “Why?”
“What do you want from me? Do you want me to tell you I love you? To whisper sweet nothings in your ear? To tell you I will be faithful and true until my dying day?” He stalked back toward her. “Do you want me to tell you that you are the one who will rescue me, the one who will change me? Because if that is what you are asking, I cannot give it.”
It was her turn to flinch. Of course, he could not give her what she wanted. She knew it. She had always known it, which was why keeping him at a distance had been so paramount.
But it was what he had said originally, his initial answer, which lured her now. The spark of hope ignited, however foolhardy.
“Why do you need me?” she asked.
“Because.” He raked his fingers through his dark hair, leaving it rakishly disheveled.
She was not going to allow him to escape so easily. “That is not an answer, Montrose.”
“Damn you,” he growled. “Because I want you, your innocence, your body, your kiss. I want purity. I want what has not been despoiled or jaded or destroyed. I want the way you remind me of who I ought to be rather than who I am.”
Here, she thought, at last, was pure, unadulterated honesty from the Duke of Montrose. A rare gift indeed. For he excelled at playing the role of scandalous devil-may-care. All his reasons were selfish. That she believed as well.
Strangest of all, it made sense. Montrose wanted her because she was the opposite of him. He was a jaded rakehell, whilst she was a lady who had only ever kissed one gentleman aside from him.
“There you have it,” he snarled. “The hideous truth. That was what you wanted, was it not? Fear not, madam. I will take my suit elsewhere. You are not the only unattached female in London.”
Fear and pity roiled within her, along with a desperate, surging, searing longing.
He was about to turn away from her again when she blurted the words she knew she would come to regret.
“I will marry you, Montrose.”
He stilled. His expression was unreadable. “You will?”
The Lord knew she should not.
Every practical, intelligent part of her also knew she should not.
The rest of her? The rest of her was weak for him. Weaker than ever. The rest of her knew she could not allow him to walk away from her and marry another. Because she, too, was selfish. The Duke of Montrose was the one thing she had always wanted. The one thing she had never dreamed she could have. The one thing she had always known would be her destruction.
He needs me, she thought.
And mayhap, she needed him too.
“Hattie,” he prodded, expectation lacing his tone. “Will you marry me for certain? Promise me this is not some game of yours, that you will not change your mind thirty seconds from now?”
Here was her chance to defect. To embrace reason. To save herself.
She took a deep breath. “I will marry you.”
Those words, as they left her, felt right. She could not feel remorse for them now, even if she knew it highly likely she would later.
She was in his arms then, and she did not even know how. His muscled strength banded around her, holding her to him. His body leaned into hers. Something rigid pressed into her belly, and she knew what it was. Oh, yes, she knew well enough. That most masculine part of him, the part he would use to claim her. Catriona had assuaged her curiosity in her letters in some ways. But Hattie knew there was much to explore.
Exploring it with Montrose held impossible allure.
Danger, too.
But the allure itself was intoxicating. She clung to that feeling, to the pulsing, buoyancy of hope. Of wonderment. Of desire. Because she had thrown herself headlong into the flames, and it was only a matter of time before she was burned.
She knew it, even as his lips slammed down on hers, hard and claiming. She knew it even as she answered his kiss with all the banked desire deep within her. With all the wonder, the need, the anguish. Part of her wanted to believe there was a future for a drunken ne’er-do-well and a wallflower. The other part of her knew there would be no happiness in this union. At least, not for her. For Hattie, there would be only the inevitable pain.
She kissed him back with everything she had, hoping he would be worth it. Hoping she could withstand the dance through the flames.
It was only the clearing of a throat that brought her back to reality, tearing her from Montrose’s kiss. Flushing furiously, shame sweeping through her, she extricated herself from the duke’s embrace and stepped away. Her brother, the stranger, stood at the threshold of the salon.
“You asked for a moment alone, old chap, but this is beyond the pale,” Torrie said, addressing Montrose. “At least, I think it is. I have forgotten a great deal, but I do remember that it is unseemly for a gentleman and lady to be alone, unchaperoned.”
“Forgive me,” Montrose said, but his gaze had never left Hattie’s. “I lost my head.”
“As did I,” Torrie quipped, laughing.
But his levity was brittle. The joke was lost upon them all. And though Montrose was looking at her as if he wanted to devour her, and although she had just consented to be his wife, Hattie could not summon up a modicum of hope.
Misgivings flooded her. What had she done?
Chapter Eight
Monty was in finest bloody spirits. He finally, at long last, had everything he wanted within his grasp.
He was seated across from the Marquess of Searle at the Duke’s Bastard. He had a gin at his side, the residuals of his morning laudanum humming through his veins, and a special license to wed Hattie.
Life, he decided, was good.
Damned good.
Too damned good?
Never mind that. He took a sip of his drink, enjoying the burn of it settling deep in his belly. “Have you any advice for me, Searle? I shall soon be a married man. Victim of the parson’s mousetrap, and all that claptrap. Your marchioness seems reasonably happy. How does one please a wife?”
Searle sent him a wicked grin. “In the same manner one pleases any woman, I expect. Surely you know how to do that by now, with your reputation.”
“Devil take you, Searle.” He took another sip of gin. “I did not mean in bed. I have been swiving since I was a lad.”
Searle raised a brow. “Did I say anything about a bed or swiving?”
Monty snorted. “Do not act as if you are not bedding Lady Searle to within an inch of her—”
“Monty.” Searle’s tone was rife with warning. “You are speaking of my lady wife.”
“Yes, well. Lady Searle recently had a bairn, which is ample proof you have been bedding her,” he could not help but point out, though he knew it would do nothing to further his cause. “I would not say you have been chaste as a monk.”
“Damn it, Monty. I do not know whether to laugh or rail at you for your insolence.” Searle took a sip of his claret.
Claret. Since when had Searle chosen claret over whisky or gin? Next, he would be asking for orgeat. Or his mother’s milk.
Was that a flush staining his cousin’s cheeks?
The good Lord’s chemise. What a development. Did marriage turn one into a maudlin, sentimental milksop?
He hoped not.
“What insolence?” He lifted his glass back to his lips. One more tipple. “Consider it honesty. A forthright nature. I am getting married, old chap. Not turning into a parishioner. You cannot expect me to change my ways.”
“Your wife may expect you t
o do so,” Searle said, his tone stern. Chastising, almost. “Indeed, I cannot think she will be pleased for you to carry on as you have these last few years. Miss Lethbridge seems a lady of reason. It is astounding an intelligent female such as she would deign to accept your tattered hide as her husband.”
“To Hades with you,” he snapped, for he did not like the notion of Hattie wanting to change him. He was himself. Always had been. Always would be. He was damaged. His scars were on the inside. Carnal distraction, spirits, and opium were the balms for his soul.
And Hattie’s mouth.
And her breasts. Dear God, her nipples. Those responsive, pink buds the color of her lips. To say nothing of her cunny, which he was certain would be equally exquisite. If the rest of her were an elixir, he had no doubt that sliding home inside Hattie’s body would be the ultimate tonic.
Until he tired of her, of course. Which would inevitably happen, just as it always did with the ladies of his acquaintance. He could not be so fixated upon a single woman as Searle was with his marchioness. One woman, for Monty, forever? Impossible.
“Marriage requires compromise, Monty,” Searle told him. “You and your bride must meet each other on common ground. It is not a journey either party can undertake alone and succeed. Trust me. My marriage did not begin as it should have, and it will be my eternal regret.”
“Ballocks. Compromise is for spinsters and dowagers.” He scowled at his cousin, who was rather being a supercilious arse about the matrimony folderol now that he thought upon it.
God knew he certainly had no intention of compromising. He knew from experience with his mother and his sister that females sought to change him. They fretted over him. Told him he drank too much. Told him he would get the pox if he did not curtail his insatiable appetite for bedding an endless string of women. Upbraided him for knocking over statuary and punching footmen and pissing on the carpet.
It was true, the last had not been one of his finer moments.
But still. He would not be hen-pecked and nattered.
Searle raised an imperious brow. “On the contrary. Compromise is for men who wish to live contented lives with happy wives whom they love.”
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