Duke in Darkness (Wickedly Wed Book 1)

by Nicola Davidson

  If they were on their way home rather than approaching St. James’s Square, he would be balls-deep inside her right now. Proper behavior be damned.

  “Exton! You mustn’t, ah, look at me like that tonight,” said Lilian, biting her full lower lip.

  “Like what?” he drawled, shifting uncomfortably on the carriage squab. These new breeches he wore were not only itching his scars, but strangling his cock. And he would give anything to be wearing a pair of well-worn boots rather than silver-buckled shoes that pinched his toes and tormented the maimed sole of his foot. It wasn’t like he would be waltzing.

  “So, um, hungry,” she replied, her pink cheeks obvious even in the low light.

  Gabriel shrugged. “Can’t help it if I have…the most beautiful wife in London.”

  The blush deepened. “Hardly that.”

  “Yes. You are. And that gown…”

  Lilian straightened her shoulders, an action that only pushed her magnificent breasts further forward. “You really like it?”

  He barely suppressed a groan, his hands positively aching to yank down her bodice and free the plump bounty. No gown in the world better represented his wife: simmering sensuality just waiting to be unwrapped. “Indeed. And your hair.”

  Twisting her reticule cord around one finger, Lilian smiled. “Dawn suggested something less, ah, stern would be appropriate.”

  “I approve. Although I’ll always prefer your hair loose…across a pillow.”

  “Exton,” she scolded again, but he ignored the admonishment. Even though they were alone, rejecting what she had been told was improper remained as instinctive to her as saluting a higher ranked officer would be to him. Behavior that might never be unlearned. Besides, it wasn’t like he’d say such intimate things in public. He would at least attempt to be ducal.

  A quarter hour later, they were in a slow-moving line of carriages stopping long enough outside the ornate three-story Castlereagh residence at number 18 St. James’s Square to let passengers alight, before turning left onto King Street or straight ahead to loop around the square. Much worse than the journey here, as he could practically taste freedom from the too-small space closing in on him by the minute. Yet he couldn’t wrench the door open and leap out of the moving carriage into the cool darkness. Couldn’t smash a window to allow some air in. Couldn’t do anything that would draw undue attention to himself.

  They were in Lilian’s world now. She would be the colonel giving the orders, he the inexperienced corporal, and the situation was of his own making. While most cousins of dukes strolled about town and shamelessly used the family title to get what they wanted, Gabriel had shunned almost everything to do with the ton while wholeheartedly embracing life in the army. The order, the discipline, the notion of being part of something greater had always been appealing. Both Quentin and Simon had been horrified when he’d purchased a second lieutenant’s commission practically the minute he’d left Eton, and insulted when he didn’t attend their parties while on furlough. Indeed, the Jordan-Ives men had lived at opposite ends of a scale.

  But the downside of that: now he stood in the middle of a battlefield with a strategy containing outdated and incomplete information on the terrain, friends, and foes. He and Lilian had certainly grown a little closer, but he’d still only known her a fortnight, and the depth of her loyalty hadn’t been tested. Bloody hell he missed the army, and the security of being surrounded by those he could trust with his life.

  Finally the carriage came to a temporary halt, and a footman jumped down from his perch to open the door and unfold the step. Gabriel climbed out first, cursing inwardly as he placed more pressure on his bad foot than wise. These pretentious shoes would have him limping worse than usual. Then he held out a hand to Lilian. “Shall we?”

  After smoothing her cape, she smiled and placed her hand on his sleeve. “Indeed.”

  Gabriel watched in admiration as an air of complete calm enveloped her. She now looked as steely and high in the instep as Wellington, which was very reassuring. Two footmen bowed deeply and opened the double doors, and he handed over their invitation to the butler standing just inside.

  The gray-haired man bowed. “His lordship and her ladyship are receiving guests to your right, Your Graces. The drawing room has been modified into a ballroom for the evening.”

  Gabriel inclined his head, but his skin kept heating and chilling with anxiety, and it took an act of strong will to force his feet forward. Even with Lilian at his side, he wished he were anywhere but here.

  “Exton!”

  Emily Castlereagh’s delighted exclamation from the receiving line both startled and warmed him. The viscountess deliberately held out both her hands to demonstrate her friendship rather than a hug or kiss to the cheek, and a lump settled in his throat at her thoughtfulness. Taking her hands, he squeezed them, hoping the gesture conveyed the depth of his gratitude and longstanding affection. “Emily. What a pleasure to see you again.”

  “Oh, Gabriel,” she said softly, a shadow crossing her face when her gaze rested on his scar. Then she lifted her chin. “I should scold you for an hour. Fancy making me wait an eternity before replying to my invitation! But I am too glad to see you. It’s been far, far too long.”

  “My humblest apologies.”

  “Good heavens you have your mother’s eyes,” Emily said with a sigh. “I still miss her so. We had such fun at our salons. How is Imogen? I hear she and Clarissa are retiring to the seaside.”

  Gabriel gritted his teeth. The bloody townhouse might be a lot cleaner, but it still leaked like a sinking ship. “Indeed. At her request, I might add. Not banished. Whatever the gossips say.”

  “Sometimes I wish we spent more time at Loring Hall, I do miss my country menagerie. But London has its pleasant diversions, and we travel so frequently.”

  “Of course. May I present my duchess...the former Lady Lilian Nash.”

  The two ladies smiled politely at each other and began a conversation, while Gabriel moved on to shake Robert Castlereagh’s hand. “My lord.”

  The Foreign Secretary gripped his hand, but it wasn’t a show of strength, just respect. “Your Grace. It is damned good to see you up and about. I am sorry for your loss, but I know the dukedom couldn’t be in better hands. And married! A fine choice, I think. Emily and I wish you much happiness,” he finished gruffly.

  Gabriel nodded, relaxing slightly. “Thank you. Your marriage is one to aspire to. Something very attractive…about ladies with spine. And sauce.”

  Castlereagh laughed. “Damned right there is. Your duchess should prepare herself, Emily thinks to haul her onto several fundraising committees. But I hope you might be free for a brandy later. Once this nonsense is over and done with.”

  “Of course. Lilian, may I present Lord Castlereagh…”

  His wife chatted briefly with the viscount, but they couldn’t linger in the safety and pleasantness of the receiving line no matter how much he wanted to. So he military-straightened his shoulders, and re-took Lilian’s arm, leading her toward the drawing room where the other guests mingled. Even from here, he could hear the string orchestra tuning and warming up their instruments. As soon as the hosts entered, they would begin to play properly.

  “Their Graces, the Duke and Duchess of Exton!”

  Gabriel should have been prepared for the bellowed announcement. But it startled him, and he stumbled against the drawing room door. Naturally the loud sound coincided with everyone in the drawing room halting their conversation to stare.

  So many eyes. Tilted heads. Raised fans. Wide smiles.

  And few of them kind.

  The ton descended like a pack of wolves.

  Lilian barely managed a wave to Joy, who stood on the other side of the room with her parents, before being surrounded by a near-mob of acquaintances. This would be the sternest test of her mettle and patience. The group included some of the ton’s most notorious gossips, some of them harmless and some not so much, and already she could see t
he women dividing themselves into two distinct camps: those who were transfixed by Exton’s scar and limp and wanted to corner him in an antechamber to discover more, and those who were appalled and wished him to leave before he permanently spoiled the décor.

  She loathed both.

  “Well I never,” crowed one older matron in a pink turban with peacock feathers. “Aren’t you two lovebirds sneaky! When did you marry?”

  “A fortnight ago,” said Lilian. “At Lambeth Palace. Archbishop Manners-Sutton is such a kind and godly man.”

  “Special license, eh?” chuckled a widowed countess in purple, her eyes glinting with malice. “I find it romantic, although others might wonder the reason for such haste.”

  Exton tilted his head, his gaze jet ice. “My fault. After we met…” he paused and patted Lilian’s hand, cleverly disguising his speech difficulties, “I couldn’t wait.”

  A few wistful sighs sounded. Put like that it did sound romantic, rather than a mutually beneficial arrangement between a damaged duke needing heirs, and the eldest daughter of a leading family with barely a guinea to their ancient and impeccable name.

  “And now you’re a duchess,” said a beautiful blonde baroness who had made her come out the year before Lilian. “Always the plan though, wasn’t it?”

  Lilian stiffened at the purred barb. “If by plan you mean the good fortune to meet a gentleman of character and integrity, a decorated war hero, who by a quirk of fate inherited a dukedom, then yes.”

  “Dashed good luck,” said a fresh-faced corporal in his scarlet regimentals, clearly enjoying the sheer number of bejeweled women surrounding him. “Poor soldier cousin to rich as Croesus duke. Er, I mean, apart from the deaths, of course. Bad luck for them. But congratulations to you both.”

  “Thank you,” said Exton with remarkable calm considering the gauche and ill-advised nature of the comment.

  “Northam must be pleased,” drawled a dandy nearly dripping in lace, wearing an eye-watering combination of leaf-green jacket and jonquil breeches. “With a duke for a brother-in-law, he’ll be extended unlimited credit everywhere. Hope you and Kingsford have him on a tight leash, young men can be so foolishly impulsive. And Northam has expensive tastes, does he not? Always impeccably attired when out and about.”

  Lilian wanted to kick them all. And they seemed to be moving closer. Good grief, if she swung her reticule around, she might collect several colored feathers as trophies. “My entire family is delighted, including my grandmother. Exton, I am terribly parched. Would you escort me to the refreshment table?”

  He inclined his head. “Be delighted, my dear. Back shortly, everyone.”

  They walked in silence until they were out of earshot of the group, then Lilian turned to him. “I’m so sorry. Those comments—”

  Surprisingly, Exton smiled. “Polite Society. An oxymoron if ever I heard one. Champagne? Or lemonade?”

  Choking back an entirely inappropriate giggle, Lilian managed, “Champagne.”

  While her husband turned to acquire two freshly poured glasses, she took a moment to observe the drawing room-turned ballroom. It was actually rather spacious, and thank heavens, well-lit. The string quartet sounded excellent, and several couples were now dancing a quadrille on the far side of the room where all the furniture had been removed. Her feet wanted to step in time to the music, but she fiercely suppressed the urge. Not by so much as a sniff would she embarrass Exton by expressing a desire to dance. He had done so much for her already, and she wouldn’t abandon him tonight when the sharks were circling and ready to feast.

  “It’s no good, Lilian.”

  She blinked at his amusement. “Beg pardon?”

  “Your heels are nearly gouging a hole…trying not to move. If you wish to dance, by all means…find a gentleman.”

  “I am quite well, thank you,” she replied coolly, unnerved that he had seen through her façade so easily. “Unless of course, you are trying to get rid of me?”

  “Quite,” he said, taking a sip of his champagne. “So I may pursue the lady…with the pink turban. She stared at the fall of my breeches…with great interest.”

  Lilian’s lips twitched wildly. “She wasn’t the only one. If you do wish an affair with Madame Turban, I would of course step aside. I fear I cannot compete with a half century of experience.”

  Exton laughed. Not a polite chuckle or the annoying languid titter that Brummell had made so popular and her late fiancé had copied, but a full-blooded laugh. And for a moment, his haunted weariness seemed to ease as his eyes danced with mischief. “My, my. The well-bred kitten has claws.”

  “Ha!” She lifted her own glass of champagne and took several sips of the tart, fizzy beverage, just for something to do. Good heavens, her husband was an attractive man. Not handsome as such, he would always be far too dark and uncompromising, and with his scar, entirely too forbidding for that. But she’d come to think of handsome as bland, anyway.

  Far more concerning, it had become much harder to picture her late fiancé in her mind. Every time she tried to remember his voice, his proper conversation, or the way he had pressed a cool kiss to her cheek or forehead, thoughts of her husband accosted her instead. Exton in her bedchamber, instructing her to unbind her hair and remove her nightgown. Pleasuring her to orgasm. Comforting her, and patiently answering questions on scandalous topics.

  “Would you like another?”

  Startled at the question, Lilian looked down at her glass. Empty! How on earth had that happened? Usually she nursed a drink for over an hour; Grandmother said a moment less was vulgar drunkenness. “Er, yes,” she said quickly. They couldn’t very well return from the refreshment table empty handed.

  Exton handed her a full glass. “I suppose we must go back.”

  “Yes. You are doing splendidly, though. Oh, look. There is Lord and Lady Castlereagh. I think they are looking for us. You could talk to them, and I will divert the rest.”

  “Careful,” said Exton, leaning down to whisper directly in her ear. “For that service…I might kiss you. Publicly.”

  Heat darted straight to her core, and she almost tilted her head so he might brush his lips against that sensitive spot where her neck met her shoulders. Since discarding her cape at the front door, the skin above her collarbone was bare apart from the necklace. It would be so easy…

  No!

  Good heavens. Apparently too much champagne made her reckless. She most definitely did not want him kissing her in front of others. The news would get straight back to Grandmother, who would never forgive such a tawdry display. The only permissible public touch was resting her arm on his sleeve, or perhaps him placing a light hand at the small of her back. “Don’t even think about it.”

  “Pity,” he replied, and they made their way back across the ballroom to the group they had been speaking with.

  “Ah, Exton,” said Lord Castlereagh. “Here you are. Ready to leave the ladies to their gossip and have a brandy with me? With your vast experience and success in fighting the French, I should dearly like to hear your views on what is happening in Paris right now. A general mobilization!”

  Pride filled her at the Foreign Secretary’s words. Exton was indeed a hero—

  “Are you intoxicated, my lord?” asked the dandy in jonquil breeches from earlier, and Lilian stilled as a frisson of foreboding slithered down her spine.

  “Beg pardon, sir?” growled Lord Castlereagh, his cheeks reddening.

  Naturally, that well-honed ability of a Londoner to sense impending dramatics had ears pricking like a passel of blasted rabbits, the group surrounding them both moved closer and quieted. And this man, this drawling, lace-encrusted fool, had a nasty gleam in his eye that said he quite reveled in having an audience.

  “His Grace, or the former Colonel Jordan-Ives, allowed himself to be captured and tortured by the French. I heard of cuts and chains and flesh burning, like what they do to paupers who owe money in Whitechapel. And he didn’t escape, he had to be rescued. Ha
rdly a mark of experience or success, now is it?”

  It felt like he’d been sucker-punched from two different directions.

  Castlereagh’s blow was entirely unintentional. The viscount couldn’t know that Napoleon ordering a general mobilization, that is, official preparation for war, would never be a topic that Gabriel wished to discuss. Not anymore. But that opium-eating sewer rat claiming that a long-serving British Army colonel had allowed himself to be captured and tortured, as if he had surrendered immediately and trotted meekly into that prison to be cut and burned and beaten? The words wouldn’t even settle in his mind to be weighed and measured. They were too sickening. Too shocking.

  Too shameful.

  Far worse, they’d been said in front of Lilian, who stood frozen, her eyes wide, her color pale, and her lips pressed tightly together. Clearly, no one around him knew what to say, either. For a large group of people, they were astonishingly quiet. Several of the ladies had begun to discreetly move away from the group as soon as Castlereagh mentioned the word fighting, but had been replaced by twice as many men. A few were muttering under their breath about upstarts in lace. Some were startled, as though an actor had spoken the wrong lines in a play. Others looked like they were trying to stifle amusement. But worst of all…some were nodding.

  Bloody goddamned nodding.

  Rage surged through him, twisting and clawing together with a burning humiliation and guilt, and he actually started to rock on his heels. As if to remind him of his greatest failure, all his sword and dagger-inflicted scars abruptly tightened and itched unbearably, his foot, the one the French soldiers had crushed between two bits of wood and applied a hot poker to underneath to try and make him talk of the army’s plans, throbbed to the point of agony. His throat had become so dry he couldn’t form words, but his hands were curling into fists. The dandy might not realize it, but he stood seconds away from dismemberment.