Monty snorted at such rot. “Ah, there you have it, Searle. I am not in love. I shall live as I wish. As my duchess, Miss Lethbridge’s general happiness will be my goal, but do not cast me as a reformed rake in the next great tragedy just yet. I fully intend to carry on as I always have.”
Which meant he would bed Hattie until he exorcised this unholy need for her from his body. He would also be doing his best to make amends for his part in Torrie’s accident by seeing to it that his spinster wallflower sister became a wife after all. Monty’s guilt would be ameliorated. His life settled. He could get an heir on her for his troubles and go to the grave a sated man.
“You cannot mean to continue on as you have when you wed.” His cousin’s voice, a cutting blade of disapproval, slashed through his thoughts.
Of course he would.
“Nothing need change.” He took another sip of gin. “Miss Lethbridge already knows what I am about. I have warned her. Nevertheless, she has chosen to accept my suit.”
He had warned her. Reasonably. He had told her he was not changing. He had been a damaged sot ever since he had been a stripling. Time had not healed him. Neither would wedding Hattie Lethbridge. But seeking solace between her pretty thighs would not hurt, either. He could not recall wanting a woman as badly as he yearned for her. Ever since sneaking into her chamber, he had been slavering over her as if he were a mongrel in heat.
This urgency and voracious hunger within him, however, would pass. He was certain of it. Nothing in his life had ever been enough. And so, he was doomed to repeat the endless cycle of perennially wanting more.
“I want you to know the happiness I have experienced within my marriage.” Searle’s expression was stern.
Almost bloody sad.
More maudlin sentiment.
“I have all the happiness I need,” he told his cousin, and then he poured the remainder of his gin down his gullet.
“Gin cannot make you happy the way a woman can, Monty.” Searle was looking at him with something akin to pity now.
“And one woman cannot make me happy the way many can,” he countered.
For all his reckless, restless life thus far, that had been invariably true.
He did not expect Hattie Lethbridge to be any different.
*
Hattie’s mother, who had been a bastion of propriety all her life thus far, had suddenly decided to ignore society’s dictates. Which meant that when Montrose called upon her quite unexpectedly in the days following her precipitous acceptance of his proposal of marriage, Mama fled the small morning room in which they had been seated. Not only had she left Hattie and the duke unchaperoned, but she had closed the door.
Hattie glared at the door now as she offered Montrose a curtsey.
He bowed.
No walking stick today either, she noted. He certainly seemed hale, aside from his complexion being somewhat pale. Dark shadows marred the flesh beneath his eyes as if he had not slept. She could not help but wonder if she looked the same.
For she had scarcely slept a wink for the past several nights.
Misgiving had turned into second thoughts, and by the faint strains of dawn tracing the sky, she had been convinced she must cry off. That Montrose had cast some spell over her to persuade her to wed him.
The spell had consisted of his words. His need. And her stupid, wretched heart.
He bowed in most elegant fashion, his fathomless brown gaze assessing. Alert. “Hattie, darling. You look lovely.”
Despite her best intentions to don her armor and treat him as she would any enemy about to storm her castle, a flare of warmth sparked to life within her at his use of the words darling and lovely. Ruthlessly, she doused that incipient longing, telling herself these were words he likely used upon all his women. He was a practiced rake. A devious flirt. A rogue.
Too handsome for his own good.
And too reckless, too.
She forced herself to greet him in turn, careful not to show the slightest inclination of pleasure at his sudden appearance after so many days had followed his proposal without a call from him. “Your Grace. I did not expect you today.”
His lips quirked into a wry half grin that only served to enhance his raw masculine beauty, blight him. “Is that chastisement I detect in your lovely voice?”
Yes, it was.
She took a deep breath and moved to the window, where she might distract herself with a view of the street below. All the better to avoid looking at him. He was her own personal Medusa, but instead of turning her to stone, he turned her into a fool.
Hattie Lethbridge was no fool. Which was why she turned her attention to the rumbling carriages beyond the paned glass instead of the wicked rake behind her.
“It is an observation, Your Grace.” She forced her voice to remain mild. Unperturbed.
“Such formality.” His footfalls heralded his proximity even before a rush of awareness swept over her. “Hattie, will you not look at me?”
That touch.
It was like a brand and a knife to her heart, all at once. Because oh, how she wanted it. Oh, how she wanted him.
Why had she agreed to marry him?
“Why have you come, Montrose? You have already gotten what you want, have you not? Surely there is no need to tarry with me now.” She closed her eyes briefly against a rush of shame for the bitterness she had allowed to seep into her voice.
“You are angry with me.”
His steady observation only served to heighten her irritation and her ire with herself. She turned and instantly regretted the motion, for he was far nearer than she had realized. She lost her balance and fell against him, making their bodies flush. Her palms landed on his chest.
Rigid, warm, solid male muscle greeted her greedy touch.
His hands were on her waist. She was tall, but he was taller. She was strong, but he was stronger. She could escape his hold, but only if she wanted.
Hattie found herself strangely reluctant to move away, to sever the connection.
She swallowed and tried not to look at his lips or to recall the way he had kissed her. “You did not answer my question, Your Grace.”
“I have come because you are my betrothed.” His gaze scoured her face, settling upon her mouth. “I will own, I expected a different sort of greeting altogether.”
A different sort of greeting? Was she to throw herself into his arms? What manner of females did Montrose ordinarily charm?
Strike that question—for she already knew and loathed the answer.
Jealousy curdled within her. A jealousy she had no right to feel. Montrose had already warned her, had he not, what to anticipate from him? Had she believed he would come to care for her? To love her?
Foolish, foolish Hattie.
“You are fortunate you are getting a greeting at all, Montrose,” she told him frostily then. “You asked me to marry you, and then you disappeared.”
His jaw tightened. “I asked you to marry me on multiple occasions and met with your refusal each time.”
She recognized the stubborn expression on his face, and she wished she did not find it quite so handsome. “You know the reason why.”
“Reasons. As I recall, there were many.” His fingers tightened upon her waist, perhaps in warning.
Or in possession.
Her heart beat faster. “I was a challenge to you, then, Montrose? After I capitulated, you grew bored.”
“I have hardly gotten what I want from you, Miss Lethbridge.” He used her surname mockingly, and she knew it was because her clinging to formality vexed him.
Good. Because he most certainly vexed her.
She ran her tongue over lips that had gone dry. His gaze followed the movement.
Her awareness of him shifted, turning into something else. Deep inside, a molten sensation of excitement burned through her. His scent teased her senses. Musky, male, shaving soap, the crisp freshness of a spring day. Delicious.
How could a cad smell so divine?
>
How could a woman who prided herself upon her intelligence be so weak when it came to this bold scoundrel? This thief of hearts?
Surely hers was not the only he possessed.
How she hated the thought.
His words hung between them, poignant. Heady. “What else do you want from me, Your Grace?”
His head dipped, until his lips were so near, she could feel his breath, hot and tempting, upon her mouth. “You as my wife, to begin. And then more. So much more.”
More.
Too vague.
Her curious mind railed against such a travesty. She wanted specifics. Details. Action. Touch.
Her cheeks flushed. She was sure she was as red as an apple. “I thought you had changed your mind,” she said, determined to change the subject.
To regain a modicum of control.
“Never.” He flashed her a brief, grim smile. “Have you?”
He tensed, as if he dreaded her response.
How odd. Emotion was not what she expected from him. Unless she was mistaken, and it was merely pride reflected in the shadows of his chocolate eyes?
“Hattie,” he pressed when she did not answer.
“Yes,” she admitted. “I have.”
He flinched as if she had struck him. “You no longer want to marry me?”
Part of her wanted to marry him more than she had ever wanted anything else. Part of her did not dare. He was a rake. A scoundrel. He was the Duke of Debauchery, for heaven’s sakes.
And he was watching her with his predatory eyes, his expression harsh. If looks could cut, he would have sliced her to ribbons.
She took a deep breath, which was a mistake, for it filled her with his intoxicating scent. “I am not sure if it would be wise. I have been plagued by misgivings ever since agreeing to it.”
His jaw tightened. “Because I have not danced attendance upon you in the last few days? Is that it, Hattie? I did not take you for an empty-headed chit who needed to be flattered and fawned over.”
That stung. “You are being unkind, Montrose.”
“As are you, madam.” His fingers flexed on her waist. “Do not play games with me.”
“This is no game.” Her pounding heart told her so. As did the longing. “I have been thinking. If we are to wed—”
“When we wed,” he corrected, lowering his head a fraction.
Bringing his sinful mouth nearer to hers.
She swallowed. “If we are to wed, we need to have rules, Montrose.”
“Rules.” One of his hands moved, navigating up her spine in a delicious caress. He traced his way to her nape, his fingers sifting through her chignon to cup her head. “Perhaps you have me confused with one of your milksop suitors, Hattie. I do not believe in rules.”
“My milksop suitors?” She struggled to concentrate. To stop looking at his lips. To stop longing for them upon hers.
“Lord Hayes,” he growled. “The Earl of Bloody Rearden. Milksops. Both of them.”
As a wallflower, she could not boast legions of suitors, but Lord Hayes and Lord Rearden had been amongst them. Strange to think Montrose had noticed. He had mentioned Rearden to her once before, she recalled now.
“They are not milksops, Montrose.” She would cling to her resolve. Remain firm. “And rules are necessary. Imperative, I believe, to the success of a union between us, if one is to come to fruition.”
“I am in possession of a special license that says it damn well will come to fruition. And soon.” His gaze dipped to her lips. His head lowered another fraction. “I want you in my bed, Hattie. I will be damned if I have to climb another tree to get to you.”
He wanted her.
In his bed.
What a wicked thing to say.
So why did it make her feel so wonderful?
She struggled to consider his words, to avoid thoughts of beds and the Duke of Montrose altogether. “You obtained a special license?”
“I set myself to the task immediately after you agreed to become my duchess.” One more incremental lowering of his head. His breath fell over her lips.
She felt suddenly as if she had drunk too much wine. Her skin was buzzing. Warmth suffused her. “Montrose…”
“Hattie.” His mouth was finally upon hers then.
Not a ravenous claiming as she had anticipated but a soft, gentle seduction. An exploration of her lips. There was such tenderness in his kiss. His lips were full, skillfully settling over hers, coaxing hers to respond. He cupped her face, held her still. Her hands slid around his neck. She did not feel trapped.
She felt as if she wanted to moor herself to him. To stay in his arms forever.
When Montrose kissed her, she could forget about everything else. The world fell away, all her concerns, his storied past. She could ignore the day he had proposed to her, when he had smelled of gin. She could tamp down the fear he would inevitably break her heart.
There was not a trace of spirits on him now. Nor the scent. Nor the taste as his tongue traced the seam of her lips before slipping past them. She opened for him, her tongue meeting his.
Velvet and heat. Seduction and sweetness.
“You want me,” he said against her mouth.
She did not dare say yes. Did not dare to give him that power.
Instead, she tipped back her head, severing the kiss with great reluctance. “I want rules, Montrose.”
“Marry me tomorrow, and I will agree to them all.” He kissed her again.
Marry him tomorrow?
Was he mad?
She would have asked him, but his lips on her obliterated all sensible thought. His body was hard as she pressed herself against him, seeking more contact. And that was when she felt the most masculine part of him once more. Long and hard and pressing into her belly.
She tore her mouth from his. Their eyes met.
The grin he gave her was positively carnal. “Have I shocked you, darling?”
Deep in her core, a new ache throbbed to life. A desperate longing.
“You are indecent, Montrose.” Her voice was irritatingly breathless, her accusation lacking any real censure.
“Always.”
But perhaps she was indecent as well, for she did not want to move. Indeed, her instinct was to get closer. “I cannot marry you tomorrow.”
“Of course, you can.” He gave her another kiss, this one slower. More deliberate.
He was attempting to woo her with kisses. To make her forget about her doubts, about her rules.
It was working.
She broke the kiss. “If we marry in haste, everyone will assume the worst, Montrose.”
“If you marry me, everyone will assume the worst even if we take three months to wed.” He kissed the corner of her lips. Her cheek. Her jaw. Her ear, where his lips hovered. “Marry me tomorrow, Hattie. To the devil with your second thoughts and your list of rules. I want you. You want me. That is all that matters.”
How easy it would be to agree. She understood his reputation now. He was a master of seduction. He had chipped away at her resistance with his lips and his touch. Was this what he did to all his women?
The question nettled enough to remind her of her rules.
“I want rules, Montrose,” she insisted.
But he was kissing her neck now. He found a particularly sensitive place and bit gently, then soothed the sting with his tongue. “Stuff your rules.”
Oh, he was good.
Her knees were turning into jelly.
“Montrose.” Her traitorous head tipped back, granting him the ability to move his mouth lower.
To find the hollow at the base of her throat. Then her clavicle.
“Darling.” He said the term of endearment against the swell of her breast, just above the edge of her bodice. He kissed the top of her left breast first. Then her right.
She forgot to breathe.
He was better than good.
How could she possibly survive a marriage to him? And yet, how could she want
anything else?
“Fidelity,” she managed to say.
His fingers were tugging on her bodice, lowering it incrementally. He stilled. “Pardon?”
“Fidelity.” She clutched his shoulders, telling herself she would push him away in a moment. Telling herself she was most certainly not clutching him nearer. “It is one of my rules.”
Chapter Nine
If there was one word in the vast lexicon which ought to have wilted his prick, Hattie had just said it.
Twice.
Fidelity.
One of her blasted rules.
God’s fichu, why did she suppose he could be faithful to one woman for the rest of his life? He was sure he was incapable of such an impossibility. Moreover, why the devil was his cockstand still straining against the fall of his breeches, as if such a despicable word had never been dropped like an anvil between them?
He needed laudanum.
Or gin.
Oblivion.
He also needed Hattie in his bed. The ache for her was unbearable. His body hungered for hers.
But fidelity?
“No rules,” he said firmly, his decision made. He could have her without them, he was sure of it.
Her hands were on his shoulders. Pushing.
“Then no wedding.”
That gave him pause. He straightened to his formidable height. He cupped her cheek in his palm. “I am only sparing you disappointment, Hattie. You already know who and what I am. I will not lie to you.”
Her lips tightened, and the glaze of passion vanished from her gaze. “I am firm on this rule, Montrose.”
And he was firm, too. That part of his anatomy was still pressed into her gown, nestled against the softness of her belly. Begging to be inside her.
He sighed. “I cannot make such a promise to you.”
Her chin lifted. “Then I cannot make one to you either.”
The thought of another man touching her produced a strong, unprecedented reaction in him. He had never before been jealous of a paramour.
He thrust the unwanted response aside in favor of pragmatism. “You will not take a lover until you bear me an heir, as is the way of such arrangements.”
Duke of Debauchery Page 10