Heartless Duke

by Scott, Scarlett

  “No,” he repeated succinctly. And when the eighth course was laid before him—les salades à la Parisienne: a confection of lobster, vegetables, and truffles—he stabbed it viciously with his fork despite never having truly developed a taste for lobster.

  “Your Grace,” the duchess persisted, “surely you can see reason. Sisters ought not to be without each other for as long as we have.”

  The lobster in his mouth was cold, oily, and tasted of the murk of the sea. He swallowed it whole to remove it from his tongue. “She will remain here with me,” he said tightly. And then he found his wine goblet, gulping the remainder of it down.

  “But I am sure you would be more at ease with me elsewhere,” said his wife.

  His. Fucking. Wife.

  Damn if his cock didn’t twitch at the reminder.

  More wine was what he required. An efficient footman dancing attendance recognized his plight and refilled his glass. “I would not, my darling. I cannot have you far from my side or my sight.”

  He infused his words with meaning, though he spared all of them from further elaboration on account of the servants at hand. To his household, this was a real marriage. Miss O’Malley—Christ, the duchess—had received her official introduction to the staff. If anyone had wondered why she had already been installed in the duchess’s chamber under lock and key for the last few days, they were wise enough not to question it.

  Indeed, the domestics at Blayton House were accustomed to his eccentricities, and they were well paid to turn a blind eye to his myriad indiscretions. Wild parties, drunken revelers, any manner of depravity—nothing surprised them. To the public, he was a careless rakehell, a notorious voluptuary with a wicked reputation. It was how he hid so well behind what he truly did working for the League.

  “I suppose that is settled then,” said his wife with a notably tart inflection in her lilting voice. “I am to remain here as His Grace’s prisoner.”

  Devil take the woman.

  She possessed an instinctive knack for pushing him to the very brink. For taunting and tempting and running him ragged. He had never met another female like her.

  Leo stabbed at his salad once more, taking care to choose a vegetable this time. “How fanciful an imagination you do have, wife. Such a wit.”

  Her brilliant blue gaze narrowed on him. “No more a wit than you, husband.”

  “I never thought to see the day, Carlisle,” Trent said then, choosing that moment to gloat. His grin could not be hidden. The bastard was enjoying this.

  “I hope you know what you have unleashed,” he said, raising his glass in a mock toast. “For it will all fall upon your shoulders.”

  It was true he had orchestrated the marriage between Trent and his duchess during the course of an investigation into her Fenian connections. As it had turned out, the true villain had been the duchess’s father and not her at all, but in the end, Trent had already fallen in love with his duchess, and nothing else had mattered.

  Leo had no doubt he would not prove so fortunate. Where the Duchess of Trent had been proven innocent, Bridget O’Malley had already been proven guilty. He had ample proof of her Fenian ties. No realm existed in which he could forgive her for those sins.

  Trent raised his own glass. “I have broad shoulders, Carlisle.”

  “You will need them,” he gritted.

  You will also need a goddamn phalanx of soldiers guarding you, he promised inwardly, for vengeance will be mine.

  This egregious interference and betrayal would not go unpunished.

  By that point, the wedding breakfast had become as volatile as a Fenian bomb itself. At any moment, it would explode, sending shrapnel tearing into everyone in attendance.

  He signaled to his butler. “I do believe we have enjoyed enough of this course, and we may proceed to the next.”

  His butler appeared aggrieved for a brief moment, until he schooled his features into their familiar, expressionless mask. “Yes, of course, Your Grace.”

  The servants scurried into action, removed the course. Silence descended, heavy as a boulder, punctuated only by the sounds of the domestics at work. The slight clink of cutlery, the clean sweep of china from the table dressings. The door closing behind the last of the servants, leaving the company of four alone once more as the next course was fetched.

  The Duchess of Trent scowled at him. “If you think to abuse my sister, you had best think again, Carlisle. You are meant to be protecting her. The only place for her to be is with me. I shall vouch for her and look after her.”

  “You forced me to marry her, and now she is mine,” he said, hating how much he liked the pronouncement. Loathing the effect those words had upon him. The vile creature dwelling within him enjoyed having Bridget O’Malley at his mercy.

  He wanted her there forever, at his side. In his bed. His willing captive.

  But those were fantasies, and his duties were firmly grounded in reality. In truth, he needed her. He needed her words, her admissions, the names she would provide. Any information she could give, and he could not lose sight of that important fact.

  “Carlisle,” cautioned Trent. “Surely there is no need to upset the ladies on a day meant for celebration. What would the harm be in allowing her to stay with us? You made it clear you do not want a wife.”

  “I need to interrogate her,” he reminded the duke. “Or have you so swiftly forgotten her information was a part of this bargain with the devil?”

  “I have not,” Trent acknowledged, solemn and cool. “I will have your promise you will treat her with the deference she deserves. She will answer your questions, but you must be a gentleman.”

  Leo flashed him an evil smile. “I am always a gentleman.”

  He felt Miss O’Malley’s eyes on him. Christ. He could not continue to think of her as Miss O’Malley, for if he slipped and referred to her thusly to the domestics, questions would abound. More importantly, he did not want the connection of her surname with her brother’s, incarcerated in Dublin as a Fenian sympathizer.

  He considered this marriage one more extension of supporting his cause. Lord knew he had played a great many roles already in his work for the Crown. What was one more?

  “I will remain here as the duke wishes,” said his wife then, her smile forced.

  He was seated near enough to her to feel the tension radiating from her, and he suspected it matched his own. She had made it clear she did not wish this union any more than he did.

  Before anyone could speak, the ninth course arrived.

  Bridget wasn’t prepared for the knock at her chamber door.

  When it sounded less than a quarter hour after she had returned there following the interminable wedding breakfast, she nearly let out a squeal of alarm. Any hope she maintained that it was a servant on the other side of the door died when she bid her visitor to enter and the Duke of Carlisle stepped over the threshold.

  Today, unlike most other days she had been in his presence, he wore his ducal authority as regal as any prince. He was dressed in the same elegant black coat, waistcoat, and trousers he had worn to their wedding ceremony, the stark white shirt beneath setting off his dark hair and eyes to perfection.

  She found herself wishing he was less handsome. That his features were harsher, his nose longer, his chin weaker. Anything to lessen the unwanted effect he had upon her. How difficult it was to see him now with that equally unwelcome word springing into her mind like the report of a pistol.

  Husband.

  Dear God, she had bound herself to this man.

  As he stalked toward her, his expression as formidable and unreadable as ever, she took an instinctive step in retreat.

  Certainly, he was not expecting to consummate their union, was he?

  Their marriage would be ended as soon as it was feasible to procure an annulment. He had promised.

  He stopped short of her, a mocking smile quirking his well-molded lips. “You need not fear I have come to exercise my husbandly rights, banshee.
I have merely come here to have a frank discussion with you regarding the nature of this union. And do cease wringing your bloody hands, or I shall have to bind your wrists once more.”

  She clasped her hands at her waist. “I was not wringing my hands.”

  “You have been at it all day, madam.”

  Perhaps she had, unwittingly. She was not ordinarily so easily worried or vexed. But then, neither was she ordinarily forced to marry her enemy. And she must not forget nemesis was what the Duke of Carlisle was to her, regardless of any other title he wore, and despite the vows she had spoken that morning. She did not dare trust him.

  “Forgive me if it would seem I have reason for my disquiet.”

  His lips flattened. “If anyone ought to be experiencing disquiet, it is the man who has just somehow shackled himself to a lying, manipulative Fenian conspirator who attempted to abduct his own nephew.”

  She suppressed a flinch at the viciousness of his words. “I am not a monster, Your Grace.”

  “You are far too beautiful to be a monster, my dear.” His smile faded, and the smoldering quality of his gaze intensified. “More like a siren, luring men to their demise.”

  Was it possible the almighty Duke of Carlisle feared her? That he feared how much he wanted her? Or did he refer to her connection to the ring of plotters responsible for the death of the Duke of Burghly?

  In truth, she hated what they had done. Their violence had been despicable. Cowardly.

  But she would not think of that now.

  “I never lured you or any other man,” she denied softly.

  “It matters not. What does matter, however, is the information you can provide me.” His unyielding tone was a bitter reminder of why he had married her. Likewise, why she had married him.

  And what she must now do.

  She inhaled slowly, keeping her face as devoid of expression as possible. “What do you wish to know?”

  “Who sent you to Harlton Hall?”

  If she told him the truth, John would be arrested, and any chance she had of freeing Cullen would be over. If she lied, she betrayed her sister. The decision, even now, when she’d had days to consider it and weigh the good against the bad, was not an easy one. Daisy had saved her when she had not needed to, and Bridget would forever be grateful for the reprieve. But she had known Cullen since he was a babe wrapped in swaddling, red-faced and wrinkly with a crop of inky hair. She had helped their mother to raise him. She would sooner betray Daisy than see Cullen swing from the gallows.

  “Who sent you to take the Duke of Burghly?” he demanded again.

  “Thomas O’Shea.” It was the name she had devised, the one she had practiced in the three days she spent waiting for her dreaded nuptials.

  She knew no one by that name, but the time it would take for Carlisle and his men to investigate would be all the time she required to escape him. It was Cullen’s only chance.

  “Look me in the eye when you speak,” Carlisle demanded roughly.

  Drat.

  She had not realized her gaze had strayed. It snapped back to him now with unerring precision, and she wondered what he saw when he looked upon her.

  “What else would you like to know, Duke?”

  “Why you are lying to me again.” His voice was guttural, his stare intense.

  That had not been the request she had envisioned.

  Her heart thumped. Her hands, still laced together at her waist, went damp. But she refused to look away, bracing herself.

  This is what you must do, Bridget. For Cullen’s sake.

  “I am not lying.”

  He gave her a grim smile. “Did you know, darling wife, when someone tells a lie, there is a sign? A symptom, if you will, of the disease of their dishonesty. I’ve studied you long enough to know yours. Do you know what it is?”

  “I told you the truth,” she insisted.

  “Ah, and there it is again.” He cocked his head, studying her as if she both fascinated and repelled him simultaneously. “Very well. Since you don’t wish to play my game, I shall tell you what it is. When you lie, your pretty little nostrils flare.”

  She swallowed hard, wondering if this was a test, or if he was truly that talented at uncovering a deception. Either way, her only choice was to stay the course. “The man told me his name was Thomas O’Shea,” she repeated.

  “I am certain he did.” His tone made it plain he did not believe a word she said. “What was this Mr. O’Shea’s address?”

  “He did not give it.” That much was true.

  Carlisle said nothing, his inscrutable gaze plumbing hers for so long, she felt as if they were engaged in a duel. “Where were you to take the boy?”

  “London.” This too was accurate.

  “Where in London?”

  “I do not know.” A lie.

  “Your nostrils, my dear.” He sneered. “Perhaps I shall have to gain the information I need from you in a different fashion. Is that what you would have me do, Miss O’Malley?”

  “Have you forgotten I am the Duchess of Carlisle now?” she asked, unable to resist needling him even though she knew quite well how foolhardy it would be to prod the angry lion within his own cage.

  “In name only.” He came closer. “Perhaps I should rectify that.”

  “I would never stoop so low.” The taunt, more reckless than the first, fled her lips before she could stop it.

  A sinful smile curved his mouth. “I can prove you wrong with ease, wife.”

  “You say it as though it is an epithet,” she pointed out, irritatingly breathless at his proximity.

  What ailed her?

  She was Bridget O’Malley, fierce and strong. He was the Duke of Carlisle, and they fought on different sides of the same war.

  She did not want him. Could not afford to desire him.

  Yet, she could not deny the thrum of her pulse, the flood of heat between her thighs, the pulsing ache in her core. The need for more of the sweet release he had given her. Her body was the true traitor, it would seem.

  “You are a curse to me, banshee,” he said bitterly, but then his touch was upon her, and it was just the opposite. His long fingers stroked her jaw with slow and tender deliberation.

  The decadent scent of him enshrouded her. His eyes shone like jet beads as they fell to her lips. She ran her tongue over them, recalling the ferocity of his mouth on hers. His kisses had been as intense and beautiful as the man himself.

  “You are equally my curse,” she returned.

  Complete truth.

  “Not dissembling this time, my dear?” His smile turned wolfish. “How intriguing.”

  Her cheeks prickled with embarrassed heat.

  How could this man read her so well? Was she so affected by him she had lost her ability to gird herself?

  The pad of his thumb brushed over her lower lip then, and she could not stop her reaction. She inhaled swiftly, swaying toward him against her will. One step forward, and her skirts were crushed between them, her hands no longer laced together, but on his chest. She did not even mind the twinge of pain in her healing arm as she moved, for he was solid, muscled heat, and she was helpless to do anything but absorb him.

  One of them moved. Perhaps it was him. Perhaps it was her.

  She could not be certain, and her mind could not be bothered to decide, for the Duke of Carlisle had sealed his lips over hers. She forgot why she should extricate herself and run in the opposite direction. Some faint voice of alarm within her cautioned this too could be a tactic. A means to seduce her and make her vulnerable to him, to lower her guard so he could gain the answers he wanted.

  But she told the faint voice to go to the devil, because the Duke of Carlisle had not kissed her in days, and now that she had his lips, she was going to revel in them. She kissed him back, ravenous. Enemies they may be, but here was the one manner in which they came together in utter perfection.

  He nipped her lip. She bit him back. His hands were in her hair, undoing every intricatel
y woven strand of her braid, each loop and pin wrought by the lady’s maid she had been given that morning to prepare herself for her wedding day. She shoved at his coat, sending it to the floor. Her fingers found the cold buttons of his waistcoat, and these too she undid while running her tongue against his.

  She had no notion of what she was doing. All she did know was she could not stop. Did not want to stop. The waistcoat fell, and she felt the kiss of cool air at her back as her bodice gaped. He dragged his lips to her ear, down her throat. One by one, her buttons opened. Her bodice inched lower and lower. It was only when she shifted to aid him in removing her arms from the sleeves of her gown that a reminder tore through her.

  Pain, radiating from the place where he had shot her.

  She cried out, stiffening.

  Recalling.

  His mouth was on her throat, hot as a brand, but he had stilled. “Where in London?” he asked again. His fingers brushed over the skin he had bared between her shoulder blades, playing over her spine.

  She shivered, wrenched herself away from him before she succumbed to any further folly, and forced herself to look him in the eye once more. “I do not know.”

  His lips were darkened from the effects of their bruising kisses, and Lord have mercy on her, but she liked the evidence of their frenzied connection. “Shame on you, Duchess. You give yourself away again.”

  Duchess.

  Lord have mercy on her all over again, for she also liked the sound of that title on his tongue. The realization threw her. She was not meant to enjoy his kisses or his touch. She certainly was not meant to grow accustomed to the notion of being his wife. Or to be tempted to share his bed.

  And then something else occurred to her. Perhaps he had only kissed her to gain the answers he wanted. “Do not dare to kiss me again,” she told him coolly. “Ours is not a true marriage, and you have no right to take liberties.”

  “Your recollection of which one of us is the aggressor continues to be misguided.”

  Had she kissed him first once more?

  Mortification sent a fresh wave of heat to her cheeks, but she refused to acknowledge it. “I think not, Your Grace.”