Duke of Debauchery

by Scott, Scarlett

She smiled instead, lovingly stroking his hair. “Of course, I do, Ewan. If I did not care, I never could have married you.”

  If she had been expecting a similar declaration from him, however, one was not forthcoming.

  Instead, he caught her hand, brought it to his lips for another kiss. “You honor me, darling. I do not deserve you.”

  Of course he did. He deserved so much more. He deserved love. She wondered if any of the women he had known before her had ever loved him. Had ever even professed to care. From his surprise at her words, she would wager they had not.

  Foolish creatures, not knowing what they had.

  She would do better, she vowed. She would show him he was worthy of love, show him his heart could be won.

  She pressed a finger to his lips. “Hush. I will hear no more of that. You must know by now I hold you in very high esteem, Ewan.”

  “Because you have the mettle and generosity of an angel,” he said against her finger before kissing the fleshy pad. “But trust me in this, if in nothing else, I do not deserve you. I am not worthy of your esteem. I am not a worthy husband for you. But I promise to spend each day doing my damnedest to try.”

  She longed to ask him about the agreement they had reached, wherein they would live separate lives after she bore him his heir. But she knew it was too soon. There would be time to change his mind.

  “And I will try my best to be a worthy wife for you,” she promised.

  She had never imagined she would be a duchess, least of all Montrose’s duchess. Strange how what had once seemed impossible was now commonplace. Part of her was afraid it was too good to be true. That this handsome rake avowing he would do his utmost to be a good husband to her would change his mind. Return to his roving, reckless ways.

  “You do not need to try, Hattie, darling.” He dipped his head, pressed his lips to hers for a quick, hard kiss before retreating again. “You are elegant, beautiful, and I want you so much, I cannot think properly.”

  If he was attempting to distract her from further conversation, he was succeeding.

  His cock was rigid as ever, straining against her bottom. This time, she moved first, slamming her lips on his. His tongue swept into her mouth. One of his hands slid from her waist to cup her breast. She could not quell the desire burning inside her for him as their kiss deepened, growing carnal. Voracious.

  His other hand slid beneath her skirt, trailing a searing caress from her ankle, up her calf, to her knee. He explored the hollow there, before moving higher, up her inner thigh. She was not straddling him, but she suddenly wished she were, for she could undo the fall of his breeches and take him inside her.

  Kissing him while his hand slowly crept toward her center was such sweet torture. They had not made love since that morning in her bed, and she was keenly aware of all the hours her body had spent longing for his. All through the rest of the morning, during their luncheon, all afternoon. Dinner had been spectacularly tempting, a feast of senses in every way, as Ewan’s chef had sought to dazzle them with his undeniable talent. Sitting across from Ewan with the footmen in attendance, no means of putting an end to the ache deep within her, had been the greatest temptation of all.

  But now, he was beneath her, surrounding her with his warmth, his lips firm and knowing on hers. She loved the way he kissed her. The way he touched her. His fingers dipped into her folds, finding her pearl with unerring certainty. One stroke and she was arching into his hand, gasping into his mouth.

  “Ewan,” she said against his lips, half protest, half plea. “We must not here in the library. Anyone could come upon us.”

  “No one will enter,” he promised her, dragging his lips down her throat. “I was clear in my orders.”

  Her cheeks went hot. “If you told the servants not to disturb us, surely they will suspect…”

  “I do not pay them to suspect. I pay them to do their jobs,” he growled, kissing the tops of her breasts.

  He sank a finger inside her. She no longer fretted over the servants or what they must think of her. All she could feel was the intensity of the pleasure he gave, radiating through her body. One of his hands had traveled to the tapes at the back of her gown. He undid them with ease, her bodice gaping to accommodate his hungry mouth. He made short work of her chemise and stays.

  In a blink, or so it seemed, she was half-naked, lying across her husband’s lap while he worked a second finger into her sheath. Days ago, she could not have fathomed such an intimacy, not with any man and certainly not with Ewan. How quickly that had changed. Even as she rejoiced in this newfound freedom and sensuality, in the passion he had unleashed and the desire he had awakened, part of her feared he would grow bored.

  That he would tire of her, just as he had all the other lovers he had known.

  That when his heir was born, he would walk away, return to his life of hedonism, forget all about her.

  But then, he leaned down and dragged her nipple into his mouth, and it was as if he had pulled a knot tight within her. He curved his fingers, sliding in and out of her in slow, sure motions that had her clenching on him and crying out her release before she could even manage another coherent thought.

  He flicked his tongue over her nipple before blowing on it as he withdrew his fingers and settled the skirt of her gown back into place. His gaze alone was enough to turn her insides to pudding. She was doused in flame. A proper wallflower no more. Her debauchery was complete, and he had managed it in a matter of days.

  Such was the power of the Duke of Montrose.

  If only he did not own her heart as thoroughly as he owned her body.

  “My turn for questions, Hattie, darling.” His lips quirked into a tiny, self-assured grin. “What do you want?”

  What she wanted was horridly complex and painfully simple all at once. She wanted to be a true wife. To chase away the shadows in his eyes. To cure him of all the demons of his past. To love him. She wanted him to love her in return. To raise half a dozen babes with his chocolate eyes and eccentric sense of humor. She wanted to believe him when he told her he did not rely upon laudanum each day. The best of him—that was what she wanted to believe. All of him—that was what she wanted.

  But she could say none of those things now.

  All she could do was hold his gaze and tell him the one word that was also the truth. “You.”

  In every way.

  “You have me,” he told her before his lips were upon hers once more.

  Their lips clung. This kiss was not just about desire, but something more. A promise, not just of the passion of the next moment, but of something far more profound.

  Suddenly, her world was moving in a whole new way. She felt as if she were falling and flying at once. She clutched at him, and it took her two of his powerful strides to realize he had risen with her in his arms, and holding her, was carrying her across the library as if she weighed nothing more than a bird.

  She weighed a great deal more than a bird, and she knew it.

  “Ewan,” she protested. “Your ankle…”

  “Can go to the devil,” he finished for her, not even hesitating. “Nothing feels more perfect than you in my arms, Hattie. I would gladly suffer any pain just to hold you thus.”

  “How gallant of you,” she said and meant it. “But I would never want you to hurt because of me. I want to be the one who takes away all your pain.”

  “You see?” He glanced down at her as he continued walking. “You are an angel, Hattie Montrose. And you were waiting for this devil to claim you.”

  She hated the way he spoke of himself. The way he viewed himself, the irredeemable Duke of Debauchery, a man who was somehow her inferior when in fact the opposite was true. She loved him because of his imperfections, not in spite of them. One day she would make him see himself the way she did. She would cut down all the weeds in his garden, allow the flowers to flourish and blossom.

  “I am no angel,” she reminded him. “Only look at me now.”

  Her breasts wer
e free of her gown and stays, her nipples hard and dark from the attention he had paid them and the desire humming through her. Her gown was a crumpled mess, and her hair, it was certain, resembled an abandoned bird’s nest, coils worked free of her simple braid by her husband’s wandering fingers.

  “Oh, I am looking, sweet.” There was no mistaking the admiration in his voice. “I cannot fathom it took me this long to find what was before me all along, but I am deuced glad I came to my senses.”

  She was still the same woman she had always been—too tall, too carved, hair too dark, lips too wide, too quiet, and bookish. But she no longer felt like the wallflower hiding behind potted palms, eavesdropping upon two wretched ladies mocking her. Instead, she felt impossibly beautiful, incredibly powerful. She felt as if she held this gorgeous man in her thrall the same way he held her in his.

  Hattie was most certainly not grateful for the accident. She still mourned the brother she knew and loved. But she was grateful for this unexpected chance at happiness. For it was here—Ewan was here—and she meant to seize them both.

  He lowered her to her feet at the opposite end of the library, where the fire crackled merrily in the hearth and a plush rug greeted her. She rose on her toes, for as tall as she was, he was taller still, and settled her hands on his broad shoulders.

  “I am deuced glad, too,” she told him.

  His lips twitched with suppressed mirth. “Oh, dear, I do believe my debauchery is catching. Listen to you, speaking with such a vulgar tongue. Whatever shall we do with you, Duchess?”

  “Whatever it is,” she told him, holding his gaze without flinching, “I hope it is wicked.”

  “Always, my darling Hattie.” He kissed her. “Always.”

  His lips claimed hers then, and as they kissed, their hands roamed over each other’s bodies. There was no grace or finesse in this prelude to lovemaking. There was only raw, unfettered hunger. His jacket fell to the floor. So, too, her gown. She freed the buttons of his waistcoat from their moorings, and he shrugged it away. Slippers and shoes and stockings were removed in haste. Her stays and petticoats were followed by his shirt and breeches.

  Last to go was her chemise. They fell to the floor, desperate for each other. She was on her back, and he was astride her, his cock nudging her entrance. The luxurious wool of the carpet was a decadent abrasion on the skin of her back and buttocks. Her every sense was alight and alive.

  He teased her pearl and then slid inside her with one swift thrust. She was instantly filled, her body awash with pleasure so intense she cried out. Heavens, perhaps it was a scream for the way her voice echoed through the cavernous, vaulted ceilings of the library.

  If the servants had wondered before, there would be no doubt now, she thought, but then he withdrew, only to sink deep inside her once more, and this time his mouth feathered over hers to catch her cry. And nothing mattered. Nothing but Ewan. Their rhythm was sweet. Fast. She felt as if a lifetime had passed since the last time they had made love.

  The way he moved within her, the way he touched her, the tenderness in his every movement, all burrowed inside her heart. She found his back, raked her nails down the strong plane. Their tongues battled. He tasted of the sweetness of their dinner wine, of sin, of himself.

  Of love.

  His clever fingers on her pearl made her spend on one of his deep thrusts. He dragged his mouth from hers and pumped into her. Three short strokes, and there was a rush of warmth inside her that made her subsiding shudders of bliss renew. She clung to him, her face pressed to his neck.

  How she wished she could keep this moment forever, Ewan almost a part of her, his body joined with hers, his lips on her throat, their hearts pounding as one.

  Chapter Seventeen

  “My correspondence, if you please, Low,” Monty requested. “Along with tea.”

  Satan’s cravat, how he hated knowing what he was going to do with the tea. But he kept his expression carefully bland. Fought down the guilt which had been eating him in small, vicious bites for the last fortnight.

  “Of course, Your Grace,” said the butler, bowing before disappearing from Monty’s study.

  He was a liar. A disgusting, pathetic weakling. Monty knew it. Christ, Low probably knew it. The staff had eyes and ears everywhere. And whilst he trusted his valet implicitly, he had no doubt that footmen he had sent to apothecaries in search of additional laudanum had gossiped. The entire bloody house was on tenterhooks, and he felt it more than anyone. They all knew it was just a matter of time until the Duke of Debauchery crashed another phaeton, punched another footman, pissed on the rug, or broke the nose off an ancestral bust. They all knew, Monty most of all, that this Elysium would never last.

  Because the joy was too great. The happiness too dangerously real. It was akin to the bliss that stole through his veins, that sweet serpent of opium, whenever he consumed laudanum in his tea. In his wine. However, he could have it without his wife realizing what he was about.

  Ah, Hattie. His sweet, beautiful, trusting, sensual gift of a wife. They had been married for just over fourteen days, and each day was like a waterfall of miracles upon the last. She was not just an angel. She was a goddess.

  Each night, he fell asleep in her bed, and every morning, he woke to her in his arms. They were well-matched in passion, wits, and humor. They spent their time alternately laughing, fucking like mad, and debating important subjects.

  Subjects Monty had not even bothered to contemplate in years. Such as poetry. The good Lord’s chemise, when she read him poetry in her glorious, dulcet voice, it never failed to give him an erection, even if the tone of the poem was mournful. Even if it was a valediction. They fed each other tarts from their fingers, breakfasted on hothouse pineapples and strawberries, stayed up too late, slept until dawn, woke only to make love, and then fell back asleep once more.

  He had never been so taken with a woman. Never. The way he felt for Hattie…it was terrifying. Terrifying and beautiful and intoxicating, just like she was. Not even the return of his mother to Hamilton House had served to dampen his mood. It was damned odd. Concerning, too, this obsession he had with his new duchess.

  Obsession? Hell, who was he trying to fool? He was besotted. His every waking thought centered around Hattie. It was ludicrous. Shameful. Unbelievable. He ought to try to put some distance between them, he knew. Go to his club.

  Except, he had no wish to. No desire to do anything other than live his life as Hattie’s husband. As the Duke of Montrose. By God, he was a man of responsibility once more. In her eyes, he was a far better man than he truly was. And somehow, he had come to believe himself capable of becoming that man his duchess believed in. To that end, he had worked his way through all the tired stacks of his correspondence in their entirety, and he had begun reviewing his correspondence on a regular schedule.

  Schedules and Monty, the Duke of Debauchery, were anathema.

  But schedules and Ewan, the dependable husband Hattie had come to know, melded.

  As for him? He remained hopelessly mired, trapped between the man he was trying to become and the man he had once been.

  Low returned then, and the relentlessly loyal retainer saw to it that all Monty’s newest epistles were laid before him. The tea tray was brought as well. He dismissed the servants and prepared a cup. He told himself he could eschew his customary drop of laudanum this morning, but his trembling hand called him a liar.

  Monty opened a drawer in his desk where he kept a bottle of laudanum for just such a purpose. One drop to get him through the next few hours. What was the harm? He added a drop, stirred his tea, and then took a sip, the ill feeling inside him at his shameful secret—one of many—dissipating as the opium began to do its job. A few more sips, and a comfortable glow had settled within him.

  He hated this part of himself, his need for a cure which could never truly heal. But he forced aside all guilt as he began working through his letters. Even this mundane, ordinary task provided an excellent means of distract
ion. But lying just beneath the surface of his every movement hid one thought. One thought which troubled him, which nettled his conscience, forbidding him from striking away the guilt.

  His wife.

  Hattie was changing him.

  She was changing everything.

  What to do with that knowledge? Monty did not have the proper answer, so he sipped some more tea and worked his way through the letters as the pleasant hum of laudanum overtook him. More platitudes from various acquaintances. Deliriously contented words from Cat, who had found more joy in her marriage than Monty could ever hope to find himself.

  Truly? asked an insidious voice within. Not even with Hattie?

  The truth was, he felt certain he could find joy with her. But his conscience knew he would have to be honest with her. He would have to, at the very least, admit he had been eating opium each day. That he relied upon it as he had once relied upon gin. That all her fanciful notions of him were grand delusions.

  That he was still the Duke of Debauchery, thoroughly irredeemable, and only worthy of her disdain rather than her trust.

  On a heavy sigh, he reached the next letter in his stack. He recognized the pinched slant of the penmanship instantly, his heart going cold. He already knew without having to look that the letter had come from Arthur Parkross.

  Damn the evil bastard. This was the second letter in a month’s time. After so many years of silence, such a visceral reminder of his past felt like a physical attack.

  Clenching his jaw, Monty forced himself to read. The words flitted to him in bits and pieces.

  It is imperative that I meet with you at once…

  A matter of grave import…

  I am in desperate need…

  All about himself, as usual. That was all the vile cesspit of a human being had ever cared about.

  Monty slammed his fist on the desk with so much force, his teacup rattled in its saucer. Seeing it, the symbol of all his weakness, the evidence of the way the sins of his past haunted him still, he took up the teacup and hurled it across the room. It hit the wall in an explosion of fine porcelain, raining to the carpet. He stared at the stain spreading down the wallcovering.