Duke of Decadence

by Rand, Violetta

  Without another word, she embraced the man of her dreams, the man she would have dedicated her life to, lifted his hands to her mouth, tenderly kissing each one, then released him.

  “Julia!”

  No, she couldn’t look back, wouldn’t, for her sake and his. She ran, not back to the house, but as far away from it as she could get—to Whitmore, her own home and sanctuary.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Alonzo was frozen in place, shocked and filled with rage—loss and pain.

  “Alonzo,” Madeline said. “Say something, anything.”

  His hands were fisted at his sides, and he pumped them to find relief from his anger. If Madeline Hershey were a man… oh how he wished for the briefest moment she were.

  “Your Grace,” she said haughtily.

  He faced her. “Come with me, Madeline.”

  She grinned triumphantly, holding out her hand. “Of course.”

  He took it and dragged her up the stairs and onto the balcony, then into the crowded ballroom. No one could miss his displeasure, for he could barely breathe evenly, let alone contain his emotions, the desperation of losing his beloved Julia. He stood in the center of the room and looked about for his host. When he found the duke, he called out, “Your Grace, may I have a word?” His powerful voice carried over the music, and the orchestra stopped playing.

  “Has something happened, Farrington?” The Duke of Stanhope hurried to his side.

  “Yes,” Alonzo said, his grip tightening around Madeline’s fingers. “This woman is an imposter and has caused great harm to one of your invited guests.”

  At the accusation, Madeline struggled to be free of him, but he held on tight.

  “Oh?” The duke stared at Miss Hershey. “What have you done, madam?”

  Mr. Garland rushed over. “Enough, Farrington.”

  A collective gasp sounded at the man’s impertinence to a duke.

  “I have told you before, Mr. Garland, if you wish to keep company with people above your station, you will learn to speak to them properly,” Alonzo chastised him.

  Left with no choice, Mr. Garland bowed. “I apologize, Your Grace. What has my sister done?”

  Alonzo thrust the locket at him. “This.”

  Mr. Garland stared at the miniature in confusion. “I do not understand, sir. That is my son.”

  “Your son?” Alonzo asked incredulously.

  “Yes. Devon. He is back home in America. My French wife died two years ago. He is all I have left.”

  Relief swept over Alonzo.

  “Let me go, Farrington!” Madeline writhed and kicked at his shins.

  “Madam,” the Duke of Stanhope gave her a disapproving look. “You have darkened my doorstep, harassed my guests, and made a spectacle of yourself. I must ask you and your brother to gather your things and leave here immediately. My carriage will take you wherever you need to go.”

  “Alonzo,” Madeline screamed. “Why did you betray me?”

  “Mr. Garland,” Alonzo spoke quietly. “Please take control of your sister now.” He gently pulled her in his direction, and Garland did just that, dragging her out of the ballroom.

  But not before she yelled out, “What about the five thousand pounds I donated to your gallery?”

  Stanhope leaned close to Alonzo. “I will gladly give it back.”

  “No. I know of a worthy cause that could use a donation like that.”

  “Oh?”

  “Lady Julia and Lady Willa are organizing a concerto to raise funds for the widows and orphans of the war.”

  “Consider it done, old chap.” Stanhope slapped him on the back. “Now where is your future bride?”

  “I am afraid she has left me after hearing about my supposed son.”

  Stanhope looked deeply concerned. “Shall we send out a search party to bring her back?”

  Lady Willa, clearly out of breath, entered the ballroom through the back doors. “Your Grace! Lady Julia has fled in a borrowed carriage. What has happened?”

  Alonzo rubbed his chin. He knew exactly where she was headed. It was the same place he would go—to her beloved Whitmore.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Alonzo arrived at Whitmore very late. He had ridden for three hours—mostly at a gallop. There were lit lanterns hanging by the front door, and lights in the lower windows. He dismounted from one of Stanhope’s superior beasts and waited for a servant to come and get the horse.

  A young man came around the side of the house. “May I help you, sir?”

  “I am the Duke of Pridegate, here to see my betrothed, Lady Julia.”

  The boy bowed and then took possession of the horse. “Welcome to Whitmore, Your Grace. Her ladyship only arrived a few hours ago. Is she expecting you?”

  “No, it is a surprise.”

  “The front door is always unlocked, Your Grace. If you go inside, the butler, Mr. Greeves, will help you.”

  Alonzo found the boy’s easy manners refreshing and respectful. “Thank you,” he said, and watched him lead the horse away.

  From what he could see, Whitmore was a handsome, gray-stone manner house with three floors. He adjusted his cravat and straightened his overcoat, ready to take Julia in his arms and comfort her. As he climbed the steps to the front door and opened it, he was welcomed into the modest entryway by floor vases filled with fresh flowers, marble benches, and portraits of who he guessed were Julia’s ancestors, on the walls.

  He removed his hat and overcoat, placing them neatly on one of the benches. There were no servants in sight, so Alonzo decided to explore. There were five doors off the main hallway, and he opened the first two to find no one within the rooms. But he had a gut feeling that the lone door on the other side of the passageway might be a study—where he would find his beloved.

  Sure enough, as the door opened, she looked up from her place on a leather sofa arranged in front of a marble hearth with a roaring fire. Her beautiful face was tear-stained, her eyes red and swollen, her hair down, cascading down her back in luxurious waves of spun gold. She stole his breath in that moment—perhaps his very soul.

  “Alonzo?” She stood in shock. “Why are you here?”

  “Do you not know, my sweet?”

  “I could guess—you wish for us to still be wed. But I have thought about this long and hard. The child deserves his father, regardless of the shortcomings of his mother.”

  He wasn’t surprised by her selflessness. She’d sacrifice her own happiness for anyone in need. “Julia, there is no child.”

  “What?” She swiped a tear off her cheek. “But I saw the image. There is no mistaking his parentage. Why would any woman, even one as brazen as Miss Hershey, risk everything to travel this far and confront you the way she did if there weren’t a child?”

  “The child is her nephew, not her son.”

  A long moment passed before she could speak again. “Are you sure?”

  “As sure as I am about loving you.”

  “There is that,” she said, a faint smile lighting her face.

  Alonzo walked deeper into the comfortable room, looking about. There were shelves with leather-bound books, the leather sofa and two matching chairs, thick carpets on the floor, portraits of horses and hunting dogs, one of a scene from a garden with a child running into her mother’s arms, and a gold clock on the mantle that chimed twelve times.

  “The witching hour,” she said.

  “No. The loving hour.” He surged forward and captured her in his arms, and his beautiful Julia, the woman he would die for, kill for, pressed herself against him, showing him a hunger of her own.

  “What is this?” he asked. “You missed me after only a few hours apart?”

  “It felt like a lifetime, as if I had lost the best part of myself.”

  He stared in awe, humbled by her love, her trust. What had he ever done to deserve her, to get a second chance at living a good life? Cradling her face between his hands, he kissed her chastely at first, his control hanging by the th
innest thread. The need to claim her in every way surged through him—frantic and potent.

  “If I could…” he started.

  “I want you to,” she whispered.

  He took her hand and stared at the engagement ring on her finger. “You are mine Julia. Mine.”

  “I am most assuredly yours, Your Grace.”

  His hands fell away from her, and he started to undress. He untied his cravat, removed his coat, shed his linen shirt, then stripped out of his Hessians and breeches, until he was standing naked in front of her. He waited to see what she would say or do—but she seemed suspended in thought, studying his form. Of course his manhood reacted to her intense scrutiny, throbbing with need and growing harder by the moment.

  She circled him quietly, and finally, he felt her light touch on his backside, her delicate fingers tracing the lines of his buttocks, traveling up his back and to his shoulders. She sighed deeply.

  “You are a perfect specimen,” she said.

  He chuckled under his breath, not wanting to embarrass her in any way. By doing this, he gave her the power to choose whether they would make love now or after they spoke their vows at church. If he had his way, she’d be naked and underneath him within seconds.

  “Alonzo,” she said.

  He turned her direction. “Yes, my sweet?”

  Her gaze drifted to his manhood. “Are all men…”

  “No,” he said immediately. “I am larger than most.”

  “I know that cocky grin,” she said. “You are being half truthful and arrogant.”

  “Trust me when I tell you, I am well-endowed.”

  She laughed and so did he.

  “Will you help me with my laces?” She stood before him, presenting her back.

  He longed to touch her unbound hair and ran his fingers through it—pure silk. He gently moved it aside and undid her laces. She turned around again and smiled up at him, her eyes wide and curious.

  “Do not be nervous, sweet one. And do not feel obligated…”

  She lifted her gown over her head and kicked her slippers off, revealing her flesh—pale and soft, the curve of her hip, her flat stomach, her generous breasts, all he could ever want in a woman. But it was her dark brown eyes and thick, golden lashes that had won him over that first day. Now they were filled with lust and love for him—just him.

  They stood a foot apart, admiring each other, perhaps both afraid to touch.

  Then he could wait no longer, and lowered his mouth to her breast, kissing it tenderly, flicking his tongue over her dusky-colored nipple. She arched into him, silently begging for whatever he had to give her.

  “Yes, my sweet Julia.” He caressed her stomach, then her upper thigh, drawn to the gold between her legs, that soft spot of curls and wet flesh. His brave Julia did not falter or go weak kneed on him. Much to the contrary, she stood as straight and beautiful as one of Stanhope’s statues. Perhaps Alonzo should commission a statue of his own—one of Julia naked…

  Dropping to his knees in front of her, he gazed up at her, hoping to see proof in her eyes that she wished him to continue loving her. She nodded. Yes. His fingers sought the silky heat between her thighs.

  He inserted a fingertip inside her, and she moaned with pleasure. So did he, for she was tight and wet. His finger sank deeper. Then he used his tongue to trace wicked circles on her flesh, finding the center of her pleasure and licking and nipping until she screamed in release.

  He caught her before she sank to the floor and carried her to the thick carpet in front of the hearth.

  “I love you, Julia.”

  “I know,” she said with a self-satisfied smile.

  “Why Lady Julia, I believe you are the most arrogant woman I have ever met.”

  “Then we are a perfect match…”

  With that, The Duke of Pridegate spread her beneath him and made passionate love to his future duchess—everything in their world peaceful and perfect.

  About Violetta Rand

  Raised in Corpus Christi, Texas, Violetta Rand spent her childhood reading, writing, and playing soccer. After meeting her husband in New England, they moved to Alaska where she studied environmental science. Violetta spent a decade working as a scientist before quitting her day job to pursue her dream as a full time writer.

  Violetta still lives in Anchorage, Alaska, and spends her days writing evocative contemporary and historical romance. When she’s not reading, writing, or editing, she enjoys time with her husband, pets, and friends.

  Website:

  www.violettarandromance.com