Duke of Debauchery

by Scott, Scarlett

  She stiffened at his mentioning of an heir. But of course, this was the standard union for men and women of their class. She hardly ought to be surprised. They married. The heir was secured. They went their separate ways.

  “Fair enough, Montrose.” Her countenance was still a study in strain. The lushness was gone from her lips. “I will remain faithful to you until I bear you an heir, and you must do the same.”

  That did not seem nearly as impossible.

  But Hattie taking a lover in the future… His mind refused to contemplate such a notion. Mine, said something deep within him. This woman is mine.

  And he would do anything to have her.

  Including agreeing to her damnable rules, it would seem.

  “I agree to your rule.” He moved to kiss her again, but she slipped from his grasp, flitting across the chamber.

  He mourned the loss of her warmth. Her curves. Her scent. Those bewitching eyes, snapping into his at such proximity.

  “I have more rules,” she told him.

  Of course she did.

  She was Hattie.

  “Name them,” he gritted.

  “I am bringing Sir Toby,” she said.

  Beelzebub’s earbobs. The feline. He still needed to find out the creature’s namesake.

  “It has to sleep in the mews,” he told her.

  “He will sleep in my chamber just as he always has,” she countered.

  His cock was still hard as marble. And he was no closer to getting what he wanted.

  “He may sleep in your chamber unless I am visiting you. Then, he must go elsewhere.” By God’s breath, he would not bed his wife with a feline for an audience every night.

  Every night?

  And afternoon.

  Morning, too.

  Anticipation surged. By this time tomorrow, he could begin introducing her to the many pleasures of the flesh. He began envisioning all the places at Hamilton House where he could tup her.

  “That is fair enough, I suppose,” his future duchess allowed. “How often do you think you might anticipate…visiting?”

  He almost swallowed his tongue. At this rate, once every hour. What was wrong with him? He was not even in his cups, and the laudanum-laced tea he had consumed that morning was not enough to dull the throbbing ache of desire that haunted him whenever he was in her presence.

  Or whenever they were apart, for that matter.

  If he did not have her soon, he would go mad.

  “As often as we both would wish,” he managed when he had finally found his voice.

  It was thick with lust.

  He moved toward her again, unwilling to allow so much distance between them. The sunlight streaming in the windows behind her cast her in a glow, lending her dark hair a lustrous sheen. He could understand why those insipid chits had been gossiping about her that night when she had overheard their jealous vitriol.

  She was glorious. Unique. She was simply Hattie.

  “Stay where you are,” she ordered him, holding up a staying palm as if she possessed some magical power that would overwhelm him and force him to halt.

  She did not.

  Monty kept right on walking.

  He stopped only when her decadent violet scent hit him. And then, he slid an arm around her waist, hauling her against him. She did not protest, other than to make a husky sound of surprise. “What other rules have you?”

  Her gaze had settled on his mouth. She blinked, looking adorably befuddled. “Rules?”

  Ah, she was not as unaffected as she pretended. How easily he could make this particular kitten purr. “The rules that will enable me to marry you on the morrow.”

  Her dark lashes fluttered once, twice. “I did not agree to marrying you tomorrow, Montrose.”

  “You said I needed to accept your rules.” He gave her a slow smile, the rake’s grin that had never failed him in getting beneath a lady’s skirts in the past. “I have already accepted two. Have you more?”

  “You agreed to a compromise on two.” A frown creased the creamy skin of her forehead.

  Beelzebub’s earbobs, this was the conversation with Searle all over again.

  What was it with everyone else and that horrid word?

  He suppressed a shudder, turning his mind instead to the delicious feeling of Hattie in his arms. He longed to kiss her again, to claim her mouth with his. But this was serious business. If he wanted to be a married man this time tomorrow, he had to tread with care.

  “You agreed as well, darling.” He could not resist tracing the fullness of her lower lip with his forefinger. “I would say we both compromised on two rules. Name your other rules.”

  She stared at him.

  And he suspected there was not more than two. That she had been blustering her way through this interview. But why? She had already agreed to marry him. What had changed her mind? He traced the bow of her upper lip before trailing his touch to her smooth jaw.

  “I cannot think of any others at the moment.” She swallowed, and he absorbed the slight vibration through his fingertip. “I require more time to compile them. As I am marrying a wicked rake, I shall need to gird myself well.”

  She thought him a wicked rake? Was it fear that propelled her, then? Fear of what, however? What could he possibly do to her, aside from marry her, bed her, make her a duchess and a mother, and allow her to live her life as she chose when his heir was secured?

  She was ever a cipher, Miss Harriet Lethbridge.

  There was one thing of which he was certain, however. If he gave her more time to concoct additional rules, she would simply continue talking herself out of wedding him. That was not to be borne. Now that she was within his reach, he could not stop until she was his.

  “No more time, Hattie.” He shook his head slowly, his gaze devouring her face. Why had he never noticed how unique, how lovely she was? How different from the typical English beauty, the tired roses in full bloom that were his ordinary fare? “We will wed tomorrow, and that is that. I accept your rules.”

  Her verdant gaze shot to his. “I have not planned a thing. We have no guests. I have no dress.”

  He admired the way this particular gown emphasized her bosom. “Why not wear this one? You look fetching in it.”

  “Fetching.” Her frown had returned.

  He had said the wrong thing. Again.

  “Beautiful,” he clarified. Beddable. Delicious.

  Her eyes narrowed. “Do not use your flattery upon me, Montrose. I am inured.”

  Prickly Miss Lethbridge. He would take great pleasure in kissing all the starch from her sails. Licking, too.

  Patience, Montrose. Patience and persistence.

  “Speaking the truth is not flattery.” He found a dark wisp of hair that had come free of her coiffure and tucked it behind her ear. “We have been alone for far too long already, Hattie. At any moment, someone will swoop down upon us, putting an end to this. I will have your answer. Will you marry me tomorrow?”

  “Tomorrow,” she repeated faintly, as if he had asked her to travel to the moon instead of become his wife.

  “Yes,” he persisted. “Tomorrow. I have already compromised on two massive points, faithfulness and felines. Now it is your turn.”

  “I do not know what to say.” Her breathlessness had returned.

  Perhaps because he had trailed his touch over her décolletage, not stopping at the edge of her bodice, but descending lower. To the hardened bead of her nipple. Though layers separated him from the prize he sought, the hitch in her breath and her body’s hunger sent longing arrowing to his groin.

  “Say yes,” he told her.

  And then, he could not resist catching that responsive bud between thumb and forefinger, plucking.

  She inhaled sharply, her lips parting. “Montrose.”

  He rolled her nipple, pinched it lightly until she gasped again. “Hattie. Marry me tomorrow. I cannot spend another night beyond this one without you.”

  As the last words left him, he
realized they were common. Simple, false flattery. Reassurances he had given other women without hesitation. They would not do for Hattie.

  “I want you as my duchess,” he said, trying again. Hattie was not every woman who had come before her. She was different. Special. She was Torrie’s sister, by God. He could not treat her as he had all the rest. “I want you at my side. I need you, Hattie.”

  Still, she said nothing.

  Not a word as he cupped her breast, his fingers tightening over the deliciously rounded swell. He was staking his claim, it was true. He could not resist. It seemed impossible to him that he had gone so many years without touching this glorious woman. Without making her his.

  Tomorrow would be the day.

  He would make amends for all the time he had failed to see her.

  “Montrose,” she whispered, her voice dripping in reproach. But her body spoke a different language entirely, her back arching, thrusting her breast into his palm.

  Mayhap she needed him, too.

  Perhaps he was the man who could unlock all Hattie’s sensuality. There was a passionate woman burning beneath her prim, proper exterior. He could sense it.

  “No more second thoughts,” he told her. “No more doubts. One word is all I need from you, Hattie darling.”

  For a long, heavy moment, she remained silent. Her verdant gaze burned into his. Her lush body curved into his as if it belonged.

  Because it does, said a voice deep within him.

  “Yes,” she said, at long last.

  Satisfaction swept over him, along with relief.

  The door opened, and Lady Torrington cleared her throat. “Do pardon me for my scattered wits, Your Grace. I have finally found my needlework.”

  Fortunately, his back was to Hattie’s mother, thus blocking her view of his hand upon her daughter’s breast. He released Hattie and spun on his heel with a ready smile.

  The smile was real, even if his delight at her entrance was feigned.

  It was the smile of a man who had just secured what he wanted.

  “Lady Torrington,” he greeted. “How fortunate you have arrived. Miss Lethbridge will be needing your aid in arranging the particular details of our impending nuptials.”

  Torrie and Hattie’s mother faltered, her gaze darting to Hattie, who still stood behind him. “We shall have several weeks to plan, of course. Never fear, Your Grace. It promises to be the event of the Season.”

  To the devil with the Season. To the devil with ceremony and circumstance.

  He wanted Hattie.

  And he wanted her now.

  “My dear Lady Torrington,” he said, tempering his words with a kind, if pitying, smile. “Having conferred with my betrothed just now, I cannot help but to deem such a wait altogether impossible.”

  “Forgive me, Your Grace, but we shall need proper time to prepare.” Lady Torrington’s lips compressed with obvious displeasure. “Surely you can see that, as a gentleman of reason.”

  Ha! When had she ever known him, in all his years of being Torrie’s most disreputable rakehell friend, to be a gentleman of reason? What tripe.

  Hattie’s mother wanted a grand wedding—an event of the Season, as she had put it—for her own gratification, not for her daughter’s. Monty could see through her ploys. Moreover, he did not forget the evening Lady Torrington had all but begged him to take her to bed. Her husband had been in the grave some five years, it was true, but he was her son’s friend.

  He had been preyed upon enough in his lifetime.

  He turned back to Hattie. “Miss Lethbridge, do you desire a lengthy courtship, or would you prefer to wed me on the morrow?”

  He held his breath, awaiting her answer, horridly aware she could change it at any second. Willing her not to do so. His eyes met hers. Their gazes held.

  It seemed to him, in those frozen seconds, that a wealth of information passed between them. A windfall of understanding.

  At long last, she jerked her gaze away, her stare flitting to her mother. “I am wedding His Grace tomorrow, Mother. I do not require a society event.”

  “But—” Lady Torrington sputtered as if all her dreams and plans had been torn from her grasp.

  Too bloody bad.

  He bowed, ignoring her protests. “If you will excuse me, Lady Torrington, Miss Lethbridge. I must take my leave, as I have much to arrange.”

  Chapter Ten

  The Duke of Montrose was a clever, persuasive, handsome scoundrel.

  Somehow, he had convinced Hattie to give him nearly everything he had wanted.

  Very well—he had convinced her with his kisses and his knowing hands, his tongue, his handsome face, his deliciously masculine scent, his everything. Every part of him. His deep voice. Those dark eyes.

  What a fool she was.

  And he was…well, he was her gorgon.

  Her lady’s maid finished brushing out her hair.

  “There you are, Miss L—Your Grace,” said Lansdowne.

  She could not fault Lansdowne for confusing her title. It was new and sudden to Hattie as well. Almost impossible, in fact, as she stood, surrounded by the duchess’s apartments in Hamilton House. The appearance of them was not shabby by any means, but it was clear they had not been inhabited for some time.

  The wallcoverings were crimson flock damask, quite elegant but faded from dozens of years of sun. Perhaps better suited to the last duchess who had chosen them. The furniture was luxurious satinwood, but this, too, bore the hallmarks of the previous century in its styling. Indeed, it was as if the room had been held in waiting for a generation.

  Being here now felt strange.

  Wrong.

  Thrilling.

  All of those feelings, all at once, in truth.

  It was difficult to believe she had, in fact, married the Duke of Montrose that morning in a small ceremony. Not even her dearest friend Catriona had been able to attend, for she was lost in the countryside with her new husband and their growing family.

  “Thank you, Lansdowne,” she forced herself to say at last, ashamed at how her mind had been wandering.

  She could only ascribe it to the strangeness of the day.

  Of marrying the most notorious rakehell in the realm.

  The man she loved.

  The man she had loved in secret for years.

  But never mind that source of burning shame.

  “Will that be all, Your Grace?” her lady’s maid asked.

  Hattie wore her dressing gown. Beneath it, a plain night rail—her best, of course. She had not had the opportunity to commission a fresh wardrobe. She had brought precious few belongings along with her to Hamilton House. More would follow tomorrow.

  Her packing had been frantic. Unsettled. Fraught with worry.

  And wanting, too.

  She could not forget that.

  Her mother’s warnings to her had been frantic. Dire.

  The Duke of Montrose will not settle with one woman alone, Hattie. You must resign yourself to that fact now, before your heart becomes involved.

  Oh, Mother, she thought now.

  Too late for that.

  Far, far too late.

  “Your Grace?” Lansdowne persisted. “Do you require anything else?”

  Her lady’s maid was eager to make herself scarce, and Hattie could not fault her. She was on edge herself, knowing that at any moment, she could expect the knock on the door adjoining her chamber to her husband’s.

  Her husband’s.

  What a strange phrase.

  Stranger word.

  Strangest of all—the notion she had married him. Hours before, they had exchanged vows, observed by their mothers and a most solemn Torrie and no one else.

  “That will be all, Lansdowne,” she told her lady’s maid at last, grateful she had followed her from one household to the next.

  Although Montrose had introduced her to his staff, and his domestics had seemed welcoming, she was grateful for a familiar face within these strange walls. For someo
ne she knew she could trust.

  Because one thing was certain; she could not trust her husband.

  The man she had married was rife with secrets. And she could not be certain he would ever deign to share any of them with her.

  “You look lovely, Your Grace,” Lansdowne said. “You will steal His Grace’s breath.”

  “Thank you, Lansdowne.” She was grateful for her maid’s praise. Truly, she was. “I bid you good evening.”

  But she was also painfully aware that her husband had boasted some of the most beautiful women in England as his paramours. Not that she had been paying his conquests any mind…

  Very well. She had been paying them heed. Montrose was connected to ladies who were gorgeous, sure of themselves, experienced, worldly. Ladies who were nothing like wallflowers who did not even know how to choose a complimentary color in her evening gowns, if the scurrilous gossip of those two shrews was to be believed.

  As she fretted inwardly, her maid quietly took her leave from the chamber.

  Hattie was alone.

  Alone with her thoughts.

  Her eagerness.

  Her misgivings.

  Dear heavens.

  Lansdowne had scarcely even been gone when a knock sounded at the door adjoining her apartment to the duke’s.

  To his.

  Montrose’s.

  Her husband.

  What had she done?

  “Enter,” she called out, for what else could she say?

  The door opened.

  There he stood.

  He was dressed in a banyan. His hair was damp from a bath. And he looked like sin personified. He was the most beautiful and terrifying sight she had ever beheld.

  There was no way she could allow this man into her bed.

  “Montrose,” she said, trying to control the odd combination of eagerness and fear battling for supremacy within her.

  “Hattie.” There was no denying the approval or the hunger vibrating in his voice, echoed in his heated stare. “Now that we are husband and wife, perhaps you might call me Monty, as everyone does.”

  Her brother called him Monty, or at least he had, before the accident. She had heard others do so as well. But something about his request felt wrong. Hattie tried to temper her nerves as he sauntered deeper into the chamber, nearing her.