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.
After swallowing hard, Gabriel’s tongue finally loosened and he fixed a deadly glare on the man in green and yellow. “You know nothing.”
“Damned right!” burst out Castlereagh, his red face the portrait of a man holding onto his temper by the shortest of threads. “How dare you say such a thing to Exton? The man’s a hero! Commended many times by Wellington. Decorated by His Majesty!”
“Perhaps,” said the dandy, languidly smoothing one of his lacy sleeves. “Doesn’t change what happened at Bayonne, though. Utter disaster. Major-General Hay killed. Another lackluster leader, Lieutenant-General Hope captured, how that man could be elevated to a baron, I’m sure I don’t know. And so many good British men killed or wounded under your collective watch. Over 800, wasn’t it, just in the one sortie?”
Every poisoned arrow found its mark. How could they not, when it was all true? Albeit without critical context like the French General Thouvenot of the Bayonne garrison had attacked in the dead of night, proceeding despite knowing that Napoleon had abdicated. Nor that the French had lost the battle and suffered over 900 dead or wounded. Or Thouvenot’s reckless and spiteful actions had been strongly condemned by both the allied forces and his own superiors.
“The French,” Gabriel bit out, “were defeated.”
“Indeed they were,” said Emily Castlereagh, her gaze frigid as she looked on the guest she obviously regretted inviting. “And the aftermath in Vienna included some of the greatest diplomacy the world has ever seen, Sir Roger.”
Envy flashed through him. Castlereagh was a fortunate man to have a wife who cared enough to publicly leap to his defense and extol his greatest victory. But thanks to Emily, he now had a name for the face he wanted to rearrange.
Sir Roger inclined his head. “Quite. But I must dispute a key fact. The French weren’t truly defeated, were they? Napoleon escaped Elba and has returned. His armies grow. His power grows. Army dukes like Exton and Wellington should be ashamed of their incompetence. At least Exton got what he deserved.”
The rage and humiliation inside him exploded. Gabriel threw down his champagne glass, gripped Sir Roger’s lapel, and ploughed his right fist into the man’s nose. Almost in perfect unison with an arc of bright red blood, pandemonium erupted around him. Ladies shrieked. Men shouted. A few cheered. Hands batted ineffectually at his arms, attempting to get Gabriel to loosen his hold on Sir Roger. He ignored the others, twisting around so they wouldn’t touch his back, and instead hit the dandy again, this time letting the man go so he flew backward and broke a flimsy-looking chair in half.
A part of him knew he couldn’t have done anything worse at this place, with these people around him. It would spread across London like wildfire within the next half hour, if not sooner. But he couldn’t stop himself. Every hurt, every fear, every nightmare he’d ever had, had rushed to the surface and burst free.
Gabriel loomed over the dandy, his fingers flexing and knuckles cracking, barely able to say the necessary words. “You impugn…my honor. And that…of my men. My superiors. I should…kill you. Get up.”
Sir Roger’s eyes bulged, he made a gurgling sound, then fainted.
“Enough, Your Grace,” said Castlereagh, yanking on his arm.
“Please, Exton,” Lilian whispered. “No more.”
Oddly, it was the soft sound of his wife’s voice that broke through his stormy haze, when he shouldn’t have heard her at all.
Gabriel couldn’t make himself turn his head to see Lilian’s mortification at his actions, or her disgust at his past. But to his right, Emily stared at him with stricken eyes. The string orchestra manfully continued to play in the corner, but everyone else in the ballroom had stopped what they were doing to watch and point and murmur. Castlereagh kept blustering that if insulted with such words he would have done the same, but nobody really believed him, and besides, he fought for a losing cause.
The Duke of Exton, formerly Colonel Jordan-Ives, had just disgraced himself and the British Army with a complete lack of discipline at a private ball. Had brought violence and chaos to a room instead of order. Had embarrassed his new wife and their esteemed hosts, hosts who had offered the hand of friendship.
As first public outings went, it couldn’t be more of a disaster.
Sucking in a huge breath in an unsuccessful attempt to calm himself, Gabriel turned to the Castlereaghs. “My deepest apologies…for ruining your ball. I will…take my leave. Good evening.”
Shockingly, the viscount held out his hand to be shaken, and Emily dipped into a low curtsy. Even more shockingly, a familiar gloved hand settled on his sleeve.
“Good evening, all,” said Lilian graciously, as though there wasn’t an unconscious man on the ground with a rearranged nose, a chair in pieces, smashed glass, or the scent of spilt champagne and blood in the air.
Together they turned and moved toward the drawing room door, eyes resolutely forward, acknowledging no one, not the whisperers, not the gigglers, not those who leaped back to avoid being trampled on.
And thus ended the fourteenth Duke of Exton’s first and most probably last ball appearance.
Chapter 11
Her husband had been tortured by the French.
Lilian’s stomach churned and flipped, made worse by the movement of the carriage, and she pressed her fingers to her lips in an attempt to stop herself vomiting. Or screaming.
All this time she had believed Exton’s wounds were inflicted on the battlefield. That although they were the enemy, men with some degree of honor had managed to best him in a fair fight. But no. He’d been held captive, without a way to defend himself, at the mercy of those who hated him for no other reason than the color of his coat.
Cut. Burned. Kept in chains.
His strong aversion to touch now made perfect sense, although now, more than ever, she wanted desperately to wrap her arms around him and offer comfort. How long had he been imprisoned? Could that be why he also insisted on well-lit rooms?
Lilian closed her eyes as so many sections of a horrifying map seemed to fit together. How could any man endure what Exton had and still function? Still smile occasionally?
Well. Tomorrow she would order every beeswax candle in London and ensure the townhouse resembled Vauxhall Gardens. Exton deserved nothing less than the utmost respect, and the gentlest of care. And she would ensure he got it, even if she had to drag Xavier with her to every shop and home in England.
“Nothing to say, Lilian? Proper lady like you…must be desperate…to scold me.”
Jolted from her thoughts by Exton’s harsh tone, she tried not to flinch. Because although his words had been thickly coated in anger, he sat hunched over, right up against the window, the scarred side of his face turned away from her. His hands were clenched into fists as they rested on his thighs, so taut his bruised, raw knuckles were white. If the moon hadn’t chosen this evening to gleam so brightly, she might have missed these details in the inadequate light of the oil lamps. But tonight, her husband’s pain, and heartbreakingly, his shame, was plain to see.
“No,” she whispered. “I will send an apology note to Lady Castlereagh in the morning.”
Exton rubbed his jaw. “How very civilized. What a…good ton woman…you are.”
Lilian’s stomach roiled again. He often did that, but the action wasn’t like soothing a bruise. More hiding the evidence. How had the French i
nflicted that facial wound? Had several men held Exton down while another carved and gouged the flesh?
She whimpered at the hideous thought. “No. I’m not.”
“There, there…” said Exton with a short laugh that held not a trace of humor. “I’m sure you’ll still…be welcome. In parlors. In modistes. In jewelers.”
“As will you. Tonight, ah, was—”
“A damned disaster.”
“No,” she replied quickly, shaking her head as she leaned forward. “Nothing that can’t be mended. It will all be forgotten soon—”
“Forgotten. Forgotten? Everyone knows. The worst colonel…in the army. Me. A man captured…by the enemy. A failure. As Sir Roger said…I got what I…deserved. As I’m reminded…every fucking day. And night.”
Tears seeped down her cheeks at the monstrous burden he carried, and she reached out to touch his hand. Except he moved, and she accidentally brushed his knee. “Exton, please…”
He jerked away from her. “I bloody told you,” he snarled. “Do. Not. Touch. Me. And don’t…bloody cry. Tears change nothing.”
Naturally, they fell faster and harder, right when the carriage pulled up in front of the townhouse. Even before the footman opened the door, Exton had shouldered his way out, nearly flattening the young man as he stumbled to the footpath and limped toward the front steps.
Lilian dashed a hand over her eyes, and allowed the footman to assist her out.
“Your Grace? Are you…”
“Quite well, thank you,” she choked out, resenting the delay in hurrying after her husband.
“Is there anything you need?”
“No, thank you, good evening.”
And she left the young man in her wake as she ran into the townhouse, the click-clack of slipper heels on the marble floor of the entrance hall loud enough to wake the dead. Grandmother would have palpitations at her complete loss of control, but she needed to find Exton. Would he have gone to his library? To his bedchamber? She could practically feel Norris’s eyes boring into the back of her head, but she ignored him completely as she darted down the hallway to Exton’s library. The room sat empty, and unlit but for a neglected fire barely smoldering in the hearth.
Definitely not in here.
Lilian returned to the entrance hall, and ascended the stairs to her own bedchamber.
“Your Grace?” said Dawn, her eyes wide as she looked up from where she sat sorting a pile of stockings and gloves. “You are home very early. Wait. Have you been crying?”
“I am quite well, I promise. But I need your assistance to get undressed, quickly,” Lilian replied, as the seeds of a plan began to form in her mind. It would be the boldest thing she had ever done, but desperate times called for desperate measures.
Her maid nodded, and near-sprinted across the room to help. Soon Lilian wore a fresh chemise, nightgown, and her dressing gown, and her hair hung in soft waves down her back.
“You may go, Dawn.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes,” she replied firmly. There was no way in the world she would be able to sleep tonight until she had brought a little comfort to Exton. And witnesses were definitely not required for the scandalous act she had in mind.
Her maid curtsied and left the room. Biting her lip in consternation, Lilian stared at the connecting door to Exton’s bedchamber. The oak had never looked so forbidding, as though it were a spiked rampart and poisoned moat to keep her out rather than a door. Several deep breaths didn’t help, her heart continued to thump out a sharp staccato beat. The only thing that would help, and yet at the same time probably the least helpful to her nerves, was being in the same room as her husband.
Now or never.
Straightening her shoulders, Lilian approached the door as though any moment it would come alive and attempt to slice off a limb. Slowly, and quietly, she pushed on it, surprised when it opened easily. Exton hadn’t locked her out, thank heavens. Then she peered around the frame. Hobbs was nowhere to be seen. But her husband cut a lonely figure to one side of the room, where he sat in one of those horrid gilt chairs staring blankly at the fire roaring and crackling in front of him, a half-empty bottle of brandy cradled loosely in his hands. He had removed his cravat, jacket, and waistcoat, plus his shoes and stockings, but still wore his breeches and shirt.
No. Such utter defeat simply would not do.
Before she lost her courage, Lilian strolled into his bedchamber.
Exton’s head jerked around, and a look of shock passed over his face before it settled back into grim anger. “What the hell are you…doing in here?”
She sank into a deep curtsy. “Good evening to you too, husband. Oh, brandy. Lovely.”
“Like a drink?” he asked mockingly, lifting the bottle.
“Yes please.”
He blinked, and Lilian took the opportunity to cross the floor, her bare feet grateful for the thick Aubusson rugs covering the cool polished wood. Then she took the brandy bottle from his hands and lifted it to her lips. Taking a gulp rather than a sip was a mistake; the amber liquid burned like fire down her throat, making her cough and splutter.
“Delightful,” she wheezed.
Exton tilted his head as he snatched back the bottle, his frown even more menacing in the firelight’s dancing shadows. “I’ll ask again. What the hell are you…doing in here?”
When her coughing fit had ceased, Lilian stepped back and clasped her hands in front of her. “I have brought a peace offering.”
“Oh? What might that be?”
“Me.”
* * *
What the bloody hell was going on?
Gabriel shifted in his chair, his cock beginning to throb at the thoroughly unexpected offer. He had to decline, of course. Lilian had never looked so angelic or innocent as she did right now—modest nightgown and dressing gown, bare feet, and unbound blonde tresses falling about her face—and the twisted darkness inside him roared, urging him to corrupt, to brand, to frighten. He couldn’t be around her right now. Not when his thin veneer of sanity had been scraped away by that goddamned dandy at the ball, to reveal all the rawness within.
The only thing that would help was this brandy bottle, and several more. Drinking and drinking until he passed out and gained a brief respite from the bramble bush in his head that clawed and strangled as it reminded him over and over of his failures. Sir Roger’s words, the ton’s nods of agreement, the mocking laughter of Frenchmen as they’d tried increasingly sadistic and inhumane ways to break him. Hell, he’d made her cry in the carriage. Who knew what worse things he might do now, when his control hung by a thread?
“Get out,” he said slowly, so she wouldn’t misunderstand. Then he took a long swallow of brandy, welcoming the slight burn in his throat, the resulting warmth in his stomach.
Lilian didn’t move. “N-no.”
“Excuse me? Gave you…an order.”
Her chin lifted, although it quivered a little. “And I’m d-disobeying it. Duchess’s prerogative.”
The words were startling enough, but then his wife unfastened the sash of her dressing gown, letting it fall to her feet in a pool of quilted ivory satin. Seconds later, her modest linen nightgown joined it, leaving her clad only in her thin knee-length chemise.
All the air left his lungs in a single breath as a brutal hunger surged. How could the woman not realize the danger she faced? He’d demonstrated in the ballroom what he was capable of!
“Get out,” he repeated, desperation adding a rasp to his tone. “I don’t…I don’t want you.”
A laughable notion, especially with his cock straining against his trousers. But Lilian didn’t smile. Or flinch. She merely moved her hands to the satin bow holding the bodice of her chemise together.
“I see,” she said softly. “Then you won’t look, or be interested, if I do this…”
Speechless, he watched her unsteady fingers loosen the bow then push her chemise from her shoulder, fully exposing one plump, creamy breast.
He’d had dancers who enticed with an expert sway of the hips or tilt of the shoulder. The most skilled and expensive courtesans in several countries. Widows who had discarded all their inhibitions in the pursuit of pleasure, and knew everything about the art of seduction. Yet none of them had ever provoked such fierce lust in him as his very proper wife awkwardly teasing him with a display of one bare, pale pink nipple. Even now he could see the peak beginning to harden in the night air, and his mouth watered for a taste, to suck and bite her nipple until it was so swollen and sensitive she could scarcely bear it.
A growl rumbled in his throat, more animalistic than man, and Gabriel got to his feet slowly to make the action seem even more menacing. For her own safety, he had to frighten her away. One step forward, and he loomed over Lilian. “Cover yourself.”
Wide sapphire eyes peered up at him. In response, she shrugged, and the other sleeve of her chemise fell down, revealing both breasts completely. Inwardly, he groaned. They were perfect. Too perfect. The opposite of him in every way—smooth, whole, and unblemished.
Gabriel couldn’t stand it.
In one fast, uncompromising movement, he clamped an arm around Lilian’s waist and spun her around so she faced the connecting door between their bedchambers. Her lowered chemise stopped her flailing, as the capped sleeves effectively trapped each arm at her side. But he’d made a mistake, for now he had the light floral scent of her hair in his nose, and he could look straight down at the naked bounty resting on his arm. His cock surged again, and moisture leaked from the head. Even better. He was on the verge of coming in his breeches like the greenest of lads, just because his wife had bared her breasts for the first time.
“Told you to go.”
Lilian went up on her toes, and tentatively rubbed her lush backside against his engorged cock. “It doesn’t feel like you want me to go, Exton. It feels as though you wish to bed me. And I am most willing.”
Duke in Darkness: Wickedly Wed, Book 1 Page 15
