As she had no candle, she was forced to rely upon other senses as she slowly felt her way toward the windows. A thin slat of light was visible through a gap in the curtains, and she moved toward it.
And straight into a quite immovable piece of furniture.
Her knee connected with something wooden, sending pain shooting up her leg. She could not stifle her cry of pain. She doubled over, rubbing the smarting area through the layers of her gown and petticoats.
Low masculine murmurings emerged from deeper within the chamber.
She recognized that voice, even if he was clearly still asleep, her clumsiness only partially having dragged him from the arms of Queen Mab. It was her husband’s. Ewan’s. Drat her foolish, traitorous body for the heat the mere sound of his voice and the thought of his name inspired in her.
She tamped it down. Thrust it aside. Cast it away.
Or at least, she tried. In the end, she had no choice but to inwardly seize her vexation with both hands and continue on toward the window. When she reached it at last, she drew back the thick curtains, allowing murky, gray light to billow into the room.
“There,” she pronounced, deciding half the window dressings would do. All she required was enough illumination to locate her husband and to convince him it was time to wake.
At long last.
When she turned away from the window, however, she was wholly unprepared for the sight that greeted her. Ewan was sprawled in the bed, the bedclothes bunched around his lean waist, hooked over his hip. His chest was bare. And even in repose, fast asleep, he stole her breath.
He was beautiful. But so very still.
She moved toward him, drawn, as always in spite of her better intentions. She had meant to calmly wake him with a safe distance betwixt them. However, her feet were already moving. Taking her nearer. Ever closer to danger.
“Ewan,” she called softly.
In sleep, he almost looked boyish. His face was relaxed, his beautiful mahogany hair swept away from his brow. There was none of the cagey, predatory rakehell about his countenance now. Instead, there was a surprising innocence. He looked almost sweet.
A surge of protectiveness beat to life in her breast. How she loved this man, even while she knew she should not. Although every part of her knew he would never love her. If she had harbored any silly notions he would change after their wedding, or even after the consummation of their marriage, he had dispelled them by his actions in the aftermath.
Strangely, she could not seem to summon up the necessary anger. He had stirred when she called his name, but his eyes remained closed. Now, he rubbed his chest slowly. Lazily. She watched, envying his hand as he made a low sound in his throat. His hand glided over the muscled bands of his abdomen, then lower, sliding beneath the sheet.
Oh, dear Lord.
He let out an appreciative moan.
She knew precisely what he was touching. As if she had been cast into flames, she jerked to life. “Ewan! It is time for you to wake and cease lolling about in bed.”
There. She had even sounded stern. Very much like a duchess, she thought.
His eyes were closed. A disarming, half grin crooked his lips. “Mmm. Hattie, love. Bring that sweet cunny over here and sit on my face, won’t you? I want you to come on my tongue as you ride me. I’ll lick you until you scream.”
His words shocked her. Alarmed her. Shamed her.
Intrigued her.
Her cheeks burned. Her ears, too. She was certain this was not the proper way a husband ought to speak to his wife. But she was also certain the wickedness he was sleepily suggesting would be the sort she would enjoy, especially after last night.
No, she reminded herself sternly. You will not allow your baser nature to lull you into forgetting he left your chamber and has been sleeping all day. Nor will you allow it to make you forget he warned you he will never love you.
She cleared her throat. Banished the sinful images he had brought to life. “Ewan. Your Grace. It is time to wake. It is nearly half-past two.”
It was possible she exaggerated about the time. Certainly, she did not think it could have taken her half an hour to find her way upstairs, settle Sir Toby in her chamber, and slam her knee into his writing desk. At the thought of her unfortunate collision, her knee ached anew.
His hand, much to her horror—and secret delight, it was true—began to move beneath the bedclothes. His eyes, however, remained closed.
“Ewan,” she prodded.
“Or would you prefer to sit on my randy cock instead?”
Dear. Sweet. Heavens.
She was going to have to do something. To rouse him using some other means. She looked about for an alternative and discovered an ewer on the table alongside his bed nearest to her. In three strides, she could reach it. She grasped the handle and lifted it.
Tilted it.
Poured a splash of water directly upon his gorgeous, rakish head.
He sputtered and sat up, wiping water from his eyes. “Wainwroth, you whoreson! What do you think you are doing?”
Wainwroth was his unfortunate valet. And once more, Hattie’s ears were burning because of her husband’s vulgar tongue.
“It is not Wainwroth, Your Grace. It is your wife,” she told him coolly, replacing the ewer upon the table.
His warm eyes opened, pinning her to where she stood as they sent a shock of awareness straight to her core.
Asleep, he had been precious. Awake, he was the picture of sinister masculine beauty. Though his dark hair was slicked over his head from the water she had poured upon him, it did nothing to detract from his dark looks. He melted her from the inside out.
But she must be made of sterner stuff.
“Hattie,” he said warmly, her name alone the verbal equivalent of a seductive caress.
Blast him.
She dipped into a mocking curtsey. “You remember me. I suppose I must be grateful for small mercies.”
He frowned at her, scrubbing a hand over his face to remove the lingering traces of moisture. “Of course, I remember you. I married you just yesterday, if you will but recall.”
“I recall all too well.” Feeling as if she were at a dreadful disadvantage with his naked chest on display before her and her stupid heart beating so painfully fast, she moved a few paces away from him. Distance, in this instance, was surely safer than proximity. “I am merely surprised you do. After all, you disappeared last night, and despite this being my first day here at Hamilton House as your duchess, you have not even deigned to rise from bed though it is nearly three o’clock.
“I thought you said it was half-past two,” he countered.
The conniving rakehell.
She glared at him. “When did you wake?”
“I believe it was when you crashed into the writing desk.” He gave her an arrogant grin. “I am shocked to hear my lady wife utter such unbecoming obscenities.”
All she had said was bloody hell, which of course she had learned from Torrie. Back when Torrie had been, well, himself. The reminder of her brother’s memory loss sent a sharp arrow of sadness through her. Yet another reason why she must not trust the half-naked duke before her, in spite of her heart. And whether or not he was her husband.
“You said far worse,” she was quick to remind him. Moreover, he had intentionally said those wicked things, knowing she would overhear.
“I confess, I enjoy watching a flush creep over your pretty skin, pet.” His tone, like his countenance, was unrepentant.
He was enjoying this. Lying abed like some satyr. Her gaze wandered to the bedclothes, and she could not help but to wonder if he was entirely nude beneath them. Something told her the answer was yes. She cursed the longing that uncoiled in her belly, the wetness pooling between her thighs.
All the memories of the night before spilling over her like the raging rush of a waterfall. She was vexed with him, wary of him, charmed by him, suspicious of him. At once.
“Why did you leave me in the night?” she
asked and hated the neediness of her voice.
He extended his hand to her. “Come, darling. Join me.”
She was sure she should not heed him. But her feet were moving. Taking her to him. Gingerly, she accepted his hand, cursing the sparks that skittered up her arm at the contact. Becoming his wife, lying with him, had not changed the attraction burning between them. If anything, it had fanned the flames.
He took her by surprise when he gave a sudden tug. She lost her balance and fell across his lap. Grinning down at her, he arranged her so she was on her back, gazing up at him.
“You tricked me,” she accused without heat.
For she could not truly be upset to be near him, cradled in his big body. In his bed. The rumpled counterpane smelled of him. A lock of hair fell over his brow, and an unexpected tenderness burst open. She reached up, brushing it to the side.
He caught her hand and raised it to his lips, kissing her fingertips. “I hardly tricked you. I merely made you more comfortable. Settled you where you belong.”
She did not want his silver-tongued charm to woo her. And yet, when he told her she belonged with him, in his arms, how could she resist? She traced the sullen curve of his upper lip with the pad of her forefinger. “You are aiming to distract me.”
His lips quirked. “Is it working?”
Of course it was. The Duke of Montrose was the epitome of charm when he wished to be. In the past, she had not often been the recipient of that charm. Now, she could not help but to feel a keen prick of jealousy for every woman he had smiled at before her. And for every woman he would one day ply with his charms when he had tired of her.
For theirs was to be a standard society marriage, she reminded herself sternly. He had already warned her so. He would have his heir and then his freedom, as would she. But lying here in his bed, the heat of his body seeping into her skin, his mouth beneath her questing fingertips, freedom from him was the last thing she wanted.
“You cannot fool me,” she told him softly. “You never have.”
The smile fled his lips, and his jaw hardened, those changeable brown eyes darkening. “On the contrary, pet. I fool everyone, including you. You would do best to remember that.”
For a moment, she spied the shadows he kept hidden from the world. His mask of seductive, devil-may-care scoundrel slipped. She wondered what secrets he kept. Wondered if she would ever slip past his walls to the true Ewan.
She was not going to allow him to warn her off, however. Until she bore him an heir, he was hers. Alone. She trailed her touch over his jaw, the prickle of his morning whiskers a delight to her senses.
“You do not frighten me, Ewan.” She cupped his cheek, love for him beating with a life of its own in her heart.
How much easier their marriage would be to navigate if he did not own her heart so completely. But she could not change the way she felt. Her feelings were a part of her, even as she had done her best to keep them from overruling her.
“I should frighten you,” he said. “I am far too much of a sinner for a glorious angel such as you. But like any rakehell, I am also selfish enough to make you mine anyway.”
He had made her his, in word and deed yesterday. The knowledge hummed through her. How did he do this to her? Make her weak? Make her forget all her earlier ire and irritation? Strip from her every last defense she had against him?
“I do not think you are nearly as bad a man as you paint yourself to be.” She paused, studying his face, part of her rejoicing that she could be here with him like this, in his bed, in his arms. That he was hers just as surely as she was his.
He remained unsmiling, and beneath her touch, his jaw clenched. “I am everything you have heard about me, all the rumors and the gossip, and worse, Hattie. I will not pretend I am anything other than who I am. This is the man you married, irredeemable sot who sleeps until the day is half done.”
She did not like the manner in which he spoke about himself. “If I thought you irredeemable, I never would have agreed to wed you.”
“You see?” His tone was wry. “Only an angel would think a devil like me redeemable.”
She did not think he was a devil. Not at all. She thought he was a man who hid his pain well. A man with secrets. Could she learn them? Did she dare?
She should not dare. She should guard her heart instead. Yet, he called to her now, more than ever. He had been inside her last night. They had been as close as man and woman could be.
“You do not look like a devil now, Ewan,” she said, caressing his cheek.
“I feel like one with you in my arms, in my bed.” His gaze dipped to her lips.
Beneath her, she felt the rigid evidence of his desire. “Ewan,” she whispered. “It is the midst of the day.”
“Who gives a damn?” he asked, and then his mouth was on hers.
His kiss was slow. Velvet and silk. He coaxed her to open, thrusting his fingers into her hair, holding her still for his ravishment. But he need not worry. She was not going anywhere. He held her helplessly in his thrall, as ever.
Her tongue met his. This kiss was not just a meeting of mouths. It was not just about seduction. It was a possession, thorough, scorching. He deepened it, kissing her as if he meant to consume her. Kissed her until she was dizzy. Until passion once more beckoned. Until she was desperate for him to be inside her again.
Her core ached. She shifted her bottom, pressed her thighs together. The movement only served to wedge his hard length precisely where she wanted it. Such a pity bedclothes and her layers separated them. A deep groan hummed from his throat.
He broke the kiss, caught her lower lip in his teeth, then tugged. “What do you say to my initial offer, Hattie darling?”
It was difficult indeed to think whilst his mouth was so near. While he was doing such wicked things to her. While his cock was a stiff promise of sensual fulfillment beneath her. He kissed first one corner of her lips, then the other. What had he asked? She struggled to recall.
Ah yes, his offer.
He kissed the bow of her upper lip, traced the seam of her mouth with his tongue before dipping inside for another slow, thorough kiss.
What had it been?
Oh, dear heavens. He had asked her to sit on his face. The scandalous rakehell. The utter knave. If only the heat burning through her was outrage instead of curious hunger. As he kissed her, the buttons on the back of her gown were coming open. Sliding from their moorings.
More proof he was the devil he claimed to be, she supposed, intending to debauch her in the midst of the day when all of the servants would surely know what they were about. Thank heavens the dowager duchess was not currently in residence.
But before they could progress, the door to the chamber opened. Some part of Hattie’s passion-fogged brain acknowledged the sound. The rest of her, however, could not be bothered to care.
Until a throat cleared.
Hattie jerked her mouth from Ewan’s on a shocked gasp. Her eyes flew to the threshold, where his valet stood.
“Forgive me, Your Grace,” he said, sounding unexpectedly ruffled by the sight that was greeting him. “I did not realize Your Graces were both within.”
And, oh, what a sight it must be, the new duchess sprawled across the duke’s lap. In flagrante delicto. Her buttons undone. Mouth swollen from kisses. She was sure she was missing a hairpin or two…
Ewan was first to recover. He offered the valet an easy smile, as though he were interrupted in just such a thing quite regularly. And perhaps he was, though she could not bear to contemplate it.
“No trouble, Wainwroth,” he said cheerfully. “A tray would be just the thing, if you can manage it. Do knock first, however.”
“I will see your customary repast brought. Tea and laudanum as well, Your Grace?” Wainwroth asked, averting his gaze from Hattie.
Out of respect, she supposed. Mortification made her cheeks suffuse with color. All the passion that had been clouding her judgment moments ago was dashed, as much by the un
expected presence of the servant in the chamber as by his mention of laudanum.
“The usual, yes,” Ewan clipped. “That will be all, Wainwroth.”
“Of course, Your Grace.” On a bow, the valet made his hasty exit, leaving Hattie and her husband alone once more.
She turned to him, misgiving blossoming like an unwanted flower. “Why are you taking laudanum with your tea?”
His well-sculpted lips flattened. “My ankle pains me. The laudanum dulls the endless ache.”
She thought upon his response. He did occasionally favor the ankle he had broken, it was true. But he had been eschewing his walking stick. He had also demonstrated many feats of dexterity over the past few weeks. His need for laudanum did not make sense.
“And yet you climbed a tree to get into my window,” she pointed out. “You have not even been carrying your walking stick.”
Her hands had migrated to his shoulders, and she felt them tense now.
“As I said, it pains me. Do cease your inquisition, Wife. I already have one mother who is a deuced bore, and I most certainly do not require another.”
His words stung.
The moment between them was effectively ruined. She scrambled from his lap and the bed, not liking the way he had changed so suddenly. It was as if a door had been slammed, and she was on one side, he on the other.
“Forgive me, Your Grace,” she managed, attempting to gather the shreds of her dignity. “I would not dare to burden you. If you will excuse me, I am certain there are any number of household matters awaiting my attention.”
That was a lie, for the staff had been dancing around her all morning. It was clear they considered the dowager the lady of the house, and even in Ewan’s mother’s absence, Hattie felt like an impostor. She felt as though she were playing at duchess. But no one could make her feel quite as low as her own husband just had.
“Hattie,” he said, protest in his voice.
But she was not about to allow him to cozen her back into his lap. Nor would she be partaking in any more of his drugging kisses. He could not kiss her, make love to her, and then treat her as if she were a stranger for daring to ask him a simple question.
Duke of Debauchery Page 14
