Wicked Husbands Book 4
By
Scarlett Scott
Her Deceptive Duke
Wicked Husbands Book Four
All rights reserved.
Copyright © 2018 by Scarlett Scott
Kindle Edition
Edited by Grace Bradley
Formatting by Dallas Hodge, Everything But The Book
Cover Design by Wicked Smart Designs
This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
The unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is illegal. No part of this book may be scanned, uploaded, or distributed via the Internet or any other means, electronic or print, without the publisher’s permission. Criminal copyright infringement, including infringement without monetary gain, is punishable by law.
This book is a work of fiction and any resemblance to persons, living or dead, or places, events, or locales, is purely coincidental. The characters are productions of the author’s imagination and used fictitiously.
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Synopsis
Dedication
Acknowledgments
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Epilogue
Dear Reader
Preview of Nobody's Duke
Other Books by Scarlett Scott
About the Author
Georgiana, Duchess of Leeds, hasn’t seen her husband since he left her on their wedding day for an extended hunting expedition and never returned. But she isn’t the sort to wait around pining for an arrogant oaf who can’t bother to recall he has a wife, no matter how sinfully handsome he may be.
She finds all the fulfillment she requires in caring for the stray cats and dogs of London’s streets. Until, that is, the duke returns, and she uncovers the truth about where he’s been…
Kit, Duke of Leeds, never wanted to be duke. He was perfectly content with his life as one of Her Majesty’s most dedicated spies until his brother’s unexpected demise left him forced to marry an American heiress to save the family estate from ruin. The day he married her, he left for a secret assignment in America, with no intention of returning.
Seriously wounded and his cover ruined, Kit’s forced back to London where he finds a townhouse brimming with creatures and a wife who can’t bear the sight of him.
With husband and wife beneath the same roof at last, their marriage of convenience sparks into a passion that’s as undeniable as it is unexpected. But is desire enough to bring two wary hearts together? And once Kit’s wounds are healed, will Georgiana’s love be enough to make him stay?
For my girls, with much love.
Special thank you to my readers and to the Historical Harlots. You are every kind of awesome, and I’m so grateful for all of you! Thank you to the reviewers and to my fab little ARC team for graciously spending your time and thoughts on my books. Thank you as always to my editor for polishing this book in all the right places. Big thank you to my family for your support through all the long, long nights and corresponding grumpiness.
London, December 11, 1880
London, December 15th, 1880—New York railroad heiress Miss Georgiana Dumont married Christopher Anthony Harcourt, His Grace, the Duke of Leeds, in an ornate ceremony in St. George’s Cathedral, London, England.
The bride was adorned in a silk and satin gown from the Parisian House of Charles Frederick Worth, on which it is said over a thousand seed pearls ornamented the bodice and skirts. The ivory train of crushed velvet fanned out an elegant twenty feet behind the bride, creating quite a stirring sight to the wedding guests, among whom numbered some of England’s finest statesmen and Peers of the Realm, along with Prince Hans of the House of Saxe-Leiswig.
Her Grace, the Duchess of Leeds is an heiress hailing from Pennsylvania, having only recently acquainted herself with New York society after the tragic death of her uncle, Mr. George Dumont, renowned owner of the Western Star railroad line.
Three thousand hothouse flowers bedecked the chapel, and the new duchess wore a gleaming diamond collar about her neck, along with Orient pearls woven into her lustrous chestnut locks.
The wedding breakfast was attended by some three hundred guests and boasted such gastronomical delights as spit-roasted ortolans, Les Salades de Homards, and no less than five aspics.
The sole guest who was, notably, absent from the celebration appears to be His Grace, the Duke of Leeds, who reportedly left the nuptial fête early…
reported in The New York Times
undreds of guests were assembled, about to enjoy the wedding breakfast Georgiana had chosen with exacting care—with the exception of the ortolans, which were only offered upon her father’s insistence and expressly against her wishes—in the palatial home Father had purchased on Curzon Street with hopes of just such an occasion.
At long last, he and his new wife would be rid of her—their cause for celebration.
And at long last, she would be free of his tyrannical wrath and her stepmother’s ill-concealed resentment—her cause for celebration.
Her father loathed her. He made no secret about it. Before her namesake Uncle George had died unexpectedly, leaving the bulk of his tremendous fortune to Georgiana and her father in equal measures, Father had bemoaned to anyone who would listen how abysmal she was at the feminine arts. How she did not even know how to remove the macassar oil stains from linen (she could), how she could not even comprehend simple arithmetic (she kept all his ledgers), and how she was too plain to ever snare herself a decent husband (she thought she was not plain, but not a great beauty either).
But the settlement Uncle George had made upon her—more money than she could have ever dreamt existed in her previous life as a humble Pennsylvania farm girl with a wealthy uncle who occasionally sent her precious china dolls and fancy pens and boxes of sweets that tasted like manna from heaven—changed Father’s strategy. He no longer bemoaned her faults to anyone in his vicinity in the hopes they would take her off his hands at a bargain. Instead, under her stepmother’s watchful eye, a new campaign had begun.
She had become a valuable commodity, their means to ensure themselves entrée into all the best social circles if she married well. A nouveau riche Pennsylvania farmer and his new wife could only climb so high in New York City’s social elite, regardless of his wealth. But a nouveau riche whose daughter had married into the oldest lines of England’s aristocracy possessed clout.
In the last year, she had endured rigorous lessons, endless fittings, was tested and berated, molded and transformed into the sort of princess she had only read about in the stories she was not permitted to read as a girl but that she had se
creted beneath her corncob mattress just the same.
The princess she resembled now, dressed in her ivory gown from Paris. A gown that had cost a small fortune and that had required the help of three lady’s maids to don. A gown that made her feel simultaneously as if she had stepped into a fairytale and as if she couldn’t breathe.
Her corset was cinched so very tight.
But really, it was the man before her that was the problem.
The tall, lean, elegant stranger she had married. The Duke of Leeds was more beautiful than some women, though not in a feminine sense, and that was one odd thing about him. His was a masculine beauty, all harsh angles and strong symmetry. He had fierce brows, a patrician nose, blades for cheekbones, a wide, rigid jaw, and the most perfectly sculpted lips she’d ever seen on a gentleman.
He was also more aloof than a stray tomcat, possessed of an icy, detached temperament, and, if her eyes were to be believed, leaving her. That was the other odd thing about him, aside from the fact that he had asked for her hand and married her without ever speaking more than a few sentences.
Do you care for the polonaise?
You are looking lovely today, Miss Dumont.
Will you do me the honor of marrying me?
I shall have my solicitor reach an agreement with Mr. Dumont’s lawyers.
This ring belonged to my mother. Endeavor not to lose it, Miss Dumont.
I, Christopher Anthony Harcourt, take Georgiana Elizabeth Dumont…
Yes, that had been about the extent of it.
What manner of man intended to leave his wife on the very morning of their wedding, mere hours after their vows had been spoken? It defied her abilities for logic and reason, but nevertheless, Christopher Anthony Harcourt stood before her with a packed valise and an expression of ill-concealed irritation that she had dared to intrude upon his charmed realm.
“What are you doing here, Duchess?” he asked her now.
She had inserted herself into her husband’s solitude in the chamber that had been set aside for his use until they departed as one for Leeds House, and from there—she had previously supposed—their honeymoon. The bedchamber was massive and her stepmother had seen it decorated with an alarming amount of gilt and pictures from London galleries she’d been told were all the rage. Georgiana had looked at them with a jaundiced eye and had not been convinced.
“That is perhaps the eighth sentence you have ever said to me,” she blurted to her new husband. It was not what she had meant to say, and she wished she could recall the words the instant they left her mouth, for they reminded her of how gauche she was. Georgiana may have been a naïve farm girl, but even she knew what was said about her.
The gossip rags called her The Pretend Duchess and The American Dollar Princess. They printed caricatures of her in a ballroom, carrying a scythe and planting seedlings on the dance floor. They showed her hauling the Duke of Leeds over her shoulder and rushing him down the altar like a marriage-crazed female Atlas. In her former life, she hadn’t even been aware such publications had existed. In the time since she had settled into her new role as one of New York’s glittering, wealthy elite, she had learned all manner of lessons.
Comportment. Elocution. Dancing. Piano. Painting. Literature. French. Disappointment.
Her father had spared no expense after he had decided that she would at last be of use to him, giving him the clout he could not buy with Uncle George’s funds when she snared herself a coronet.
“Surely I have spoken more than eight sentences.” Her newly minted husband frowned at her now. “Although, I daresay I am honored that you have attempted to document them for posterity.”
How stilted he was. She had told herself that marrying him would at least remove her from her father and stepmother’s tainted sphere of excess, greed, and viciousness. And she had fancied that after their marriage Leeds might warm to her.
“You do not intend to partake of the wedding breakfast?” she asked him, though she knew the answer.
It was written all over his countenance. He looked like a man at a train station, eagerly awaiting the arrival of his ride elsewhere.
“Regretfully, I must decline, Duchess.”
She wished he would call her Georgiana. She didn’t feel like a duchess, and she wasn’t certain that she ever would. Was this how husbands and wives conversed in this strange land where she had been sent? Were they always so pretentious and controlled?
“You must decline,” she repeated, for she could think of nothing better to say. In her old life, she would have known how to speak to a man such as this, had he entered her kitchen. In her new life, she was a pretender in clothes that cost more than her father’s farm and everything she had ever owned combined.
He inclined his head, ever so polite. Ever so proper and the epitome of English manhood. He was handsome. Reserved. An enigma. “Indeed, Duchess. I am afraid that, while I am most pleased to now have you as my wife, a prior commitment must regretfully take me from your side.”
She did not like to believe she had become spoiled, but in that moment, all she could think of was the Salades de Homards she had chosen with him in mind. In the course of one of his scarce sentences, he had espoused a love of lobster. And the dish, when mentioned to her by Father’s French chef, had seemed a perfect fit. Something to please her new husband.
Why had she ever imagined that pleasing him would be enough?
Why had she fancied that she, an inelegant aspirant, could ever satisfy Christopher Anthony Harcourt, a debonair aristocrat to the manor born, whose hands had never known a day of work?
And still, she could not stop herself from saying the most inane, humiliating sentiments imaginable. “You do not wish to stay for the salad with lobster medallions? I requested it with you in mind, Your Grace. It is dressed in a vinaigrette, and I’m told it is all the rage on the Continent.”
As if lobster salad would matter to this man. Never mind that he was almost certainly in dire need of her funds. He wore the air of a man born to a life of privilege and ease, who viewed the extravagant as commonplace.
“It sounds lovely, but I cannot linger.” He flashed her a smile, but it was not at all apologetic.
Her hands clenched in the angelic billows of her wedding dress, crushing the silk. “You cannot linger at your own wedding breakfast?”
He stared back, his expression one of thinly suppressed irritation. “No, madam. I cannot. I am due to attend a hunting expedition in America, and to my great misfortune, the two plans overlap in a most disagreeable fashion.”
He had no intention of consummating their marriage.
She stared at him. At his rigid posture, suggestive of his desire to remove himself from her presence at once, at his flashing blue eyes. At his firm, uncompromising mouth. How had she been so foolish as to expect a different man upon her marriage than the one she had seen thus far?
“You married me for my dowry.” She stated it rather than forming a question. Of course, she had suspected it all along, as Leeds’ coffers were rumored to be empty and her dowry was no secret. But he had never once spoken of money, and she had supposed he may have wished for a wife and children.
“My brother wagered away everything that wasn’t entailed and left me with more creditors than I can count.” He flashed her another brilliant smile. But it held neither warmth nor kindness. “You, my dear, are the answer to my prayers.”
“It would rather seem that my dowry is,” she corrected.
“I am pockets to let.” He didn’t sound ashamed of his mercenary motivations, and she detected not for the first time that his words possessed an odd resonance. Almost American in accent, and certainly not proper aristocratic elocution. “It is common knowledge, madam. I was never meant to be the duke. These burdens were not mine, though I must now own them.”
She searched his countenance for a hint of tenderness, any sign that he might have some lingering softness hiding beneath his hard exterior. And found none. “I did not know you were
pockets to let to such an extent that you would sell yourself.”
“To the highest bidder.” Sneering, he offered her a mock bow.
His insinuation nettled. “I did not bid upon you.”
“No.” He cocked his head, considering her with an insolence she had not previously imagined him capable of in the few, polite tête-à-têtes they had shared. “Your darling papa bought me, flat out. But though he purchased my name, you do not own me, madam. I’m leaving now, and I cannot say when I shall return.”
Or if he intended to, she thought he meant to say.
There was something so very grim in his mien. Something as somber as a funeral procession. It wasn’t just the resentment he resonated. This man was dark and dangerous and bitter. A perilous combination.
“If you leave today, Your Grace, you need never return.” The statement left her in a sudden rush, and an answering flush stole over her cheeks as he studied her.
He bowed again, low and mocking. “As you insist, Duchess. I bid you good day.” His long, strong fingers gathered the handle of his valise.
“You cannot mean to leave now.” But it was a useless protest, and she knew it.
“Goodbye, Duchess,” he said solemnly, her new husband who had never even kissed her aside from a peck on the cheek to seal their vows. “Do take care of yourself.”
“Please,” she pleaded, though she wasn’t certain why. Self-preservation, perhaps? Pride? Her gossip rag detractors would delight in something as salacious as the Duke of Leeds leaving her on her wedding day without even partaking of a bite of the feast prepared in his honor. “Stay, Your Grace. At least for the wedding breakfast. What will our guests think if you are absent?”
Her Deceptive Duke (Wicked Husbands Book 4) Page 1
