She curtseyed, unsmiling, doing her best to ward off a rush of tears pricking her eyes. It would not do to weep before him. And her emotions were foolish, she knew. Just as foolish as the rest of her was. He had warned her. For all her protestations, he was redeemable, here was evidence their union would not be an easy one.
Ewan had secrets and demons, but he had no intention of sharing them with her. That much was painfully, heart-wrenchingly clear.
Chapter Thirteen
Monty stared at the stacks of correspondence haphazardly strewn upon his desk and longed for a drink. Or some laudanum. He truly was getting itchy over it. The need was like an infection, curdling his blood. All because he had eschewed his morning ritual of a drop in his tea.
Because of Hattie.
His wife.
The memory of her questioning green eyes haunted him now, even more than the alluring promise of the laudanum he had foregone. She had wanted to know about the laudanum. Why he was taking it in his tea.
And he, heartless bastard that he was, had chased her away. They had been sharing a moment of exquisite passion. He had been jarred from sweet dreams of bedding his wife to the sound of said wife colliding with his writing desk.
Her muttered oath had made his already-hard cock even more rigid and ready for her. Teasing her had been too tempting to resist. There were words he might say under the guise of sleep which he would not have dared—debauched though he was—to utter to a lady.
He had been testing her, it was true. And she had passed. His Hattie was a wanton. She had been nettled by his morning—er, afternoon—torpor. He was not accustomed to having to answer to anyone. He was the Duke of bloody Montrose. The master of his household. He did as he pleased.
He told himself that was the reason for his curt words to Hattie earlier and not the intense desire to protect his laudanum consumption. And then he told himself he was a worthless, damned liar.
Everything he had said to her, every cutting word, had been a direct result of the need to continue on with his opium. The opium calmed him better than gin. It also brought him a more delicious level of oblivion. It enabled him to sleep through the night. Even better, Hattie could not smell it on his breath.
It had been her previous words to him concerning the spirits on his lips that had led him to decrease his reliance upon swizzle. He had no wish to die of barrel fever, after all. Especially now that he had undertaken the responsibility of a wife.
A decrease in gin, however, had seen an increase in laudanum. Particularly at night. After he had made love to Hattie, he had waited until she had fallen into a peaceful sleep. And then he had returned to his own chamber.
Just a drop, he had reassured himself. Only to help him sleep. If he was slumbering soundly, he had reasoned, he could not wake her with his nightmares. But one drop had turned into two, and finally oblivion had claimed him. As always, he had not wanted to wake this morning. Indeed, he had slept soundly, the sleep of the dead, until dawn. At which point, he had promptly taken himself in hand to thoughts of his beautiful wife, too sluggish to get out of his bed and find her in her chamber, before falling asleep once more.
Now, as he stared at all the epistles he had neglected over the last several months, he had to admit, Hattie was right. He ought to have read his damned letters. He had been neglecting far too much. Though he had entrusted the running of his holdings to his stewards, he was remiss not to involve himself directly. Not to take more care in the management of his estates. Not to take more care in the correspondence his own sister had sent him.
He was going to be an uncle, and he had not known. He still had no inkling as to when the happy event was to occur. He supposed he ought to have asked his mother but talking to the woman inevitably ended in a harangue, and he had no wish to listen to her nattering.
He drummed his fingertips upon his desk. The blasted thing was covered in a fine sheen of dust because he had forbidden the housemaids from entering. His excuse was that his study was his private domain, the one place aside from his bedchamber where he could truly feel at home. In truth, it was where he preferred to drink. Often until he passed out.
He had spent many a night sprawled on his chair, only to wake with a thundering headache and a mouth that felt as if it had been packed with cotton batting.
God’s fichu, what was the matter with him? Had he learned nothing from the night he had pulled himself from the wreckage of his phaeton? Hattie had been right to question him earlier. Right to wonder why he was yet abed at half-past two in the afternoon.
On a sigh of disgust, he began with the nearest stack of correspondence, opening them, conducting a cursory search, sorting. Scottish estate matters on the left. His sister, Cat, on the right. In the middle, business matters.
He had hurt her with his stupid words earlier as well. The knowledge did not sit well with him. Instead of making love to her as he had been about to do, instead of kissing her sweet lips and undoing the rest of her buttons, he had chased her away. Sent her running from his chamber with the back of her bodice gaping open from his thwarted efforts.
What a cad. A worthless scoundrel. He had warned her, had he not, that he was the devil? Foolish chit refused to believe him. Called him redeemable. Did she truly think he could change? He had not done so yet. Nothing could remove the scars from his soul, the darkness from his heart. Nothing had ever squelched the nightmares that claimed him in the night.
Nothing except for the poison he poured down his gullet, that was.
And she thought she might change him? Not bloody possible. She would see, soon. Recognize his worthlessness.
But he ought to find her. Apologize. The rest of these letters could wait…
Just as the thought occurred to him, he unfolded a letter penned in a familiar, dreaded scrawl. Hands shaking, an icy sword of dread stabbing him in the gut, he read. The sight of the penmanship alone was enough to bring back the ghosts. To take him back to that dark day.
He read on, rage warring with pain. That old feeling of helplessness was back, but he would not allow it to win. Rising, he crumpled the letter. Arthur Parkross could go to the devil with a burdened soul as far as he was concerned.
Monty stalked across the chamber and tore the letter to shreds before tossing it into the fire. The pieces turned to ash in the flames as he watched, hands clenched impotently at his sides.
Jaw clenched, hatred churning in his gut, he stalked from the study and called for his carriage. What he needed right now was to escape and to slam his fists into something. Anything. Anyone. Gentleman Jackson’s would do. And he needed a laudanum negus, which he knew he could procure at a seedy little East End hell with relative ease.
Violence.
Distraction.
Forgetting.
Stupor.
That was what he craved.
You also crave your wife, taunted an evil voice inside himself.
He banished the voice, donned his greatcoat and hat, and fled, much like his wife had run from his chamber mere hours before. The only difference between them was he did not know who he was running from more—himself or her. Hattie, however? She had been undeniably running from him.
And he could not blame her one whit.
*
Hattie was doing her utmost to find a means of distraction. She had abandoned half a dozen books purloined from the library, following her solitary dinner, piled on the floor by the hearth chaise. None of them had proven amusing or intriguing enough to hold her interest.
She had bathed. It should have had a soothing effect upon her ragged nerves. Instead, the solitude had only proven an opportunity to further wallow in her own misery. Now, she was busying herself with studying every aspect of the duchess’s chamber, from the crimson wallcoverings, green-papered walls, and the equally verdant bed hangings and window dressings.
There was an abundance of gilt. One satinwood writing desk. A table with a looking glass set upon it. A miniature statue of Ceres, the goddess of agricultu
re, stood on the mantel, watching her through sightless, marble eyes. Mocking her, she thought. For the only seed to be sown in Hamilton House was enmity.
Hers for Ewan, and his for hers. Already, she was regretting her hasty decision to agree to become his wife. In the span of a single day, everything she had feared had already come to fruition. She loved Ewan more than ever after she had given herself to him.
Her new husband, meanwhile, had returned to his old ways.
Heavens, what was she thinking? He had never even left his old ways. Yesterday, he had married her, bedded her, and then proceeded to sleep half the day away. The first drink he consumed when he woke was tea laced with laudanum. Hattie was not as naïve as Montrose would perhaps prefer to believe. She had heard stories of opium eaters, and she knew the ruin which inevitably came to their lives.
Her fear that he had become far too reliant upon laudanum had been confirmed by her dogged determination to interview some of his domestics. Though they were loyal retainers and feared for repercussions from their master should they be completely honest, she had been able to ferret out enough truth.
Hattie paced the length of her chamber for what must have been the hundredth time. Her back ached, her body throbbed in places she had not previously been aware existed, her feet hurt, and her heart was battered and bruised. Ewan had spent much of the day following their clash locked away in his study. When he had emerged, it had been to immediately leave in his carriage without even offering her an explanation as to where he was going or when he may return.
If ever.
Though she supposed she was being dramatic in such a thought. He had not given any indication he would abandon her. But then, he was the Duke of Debauchery. He had earned his moniker by years of misspent living. Endless mistresses and dissipation. Enough overindulgence to rival a despotic king. He was wild, untamable, reckless.
None of those traits were what had drawn her to him. Rather, it was all the parts of himself he did not often allow the world to see, the vulnerabilities hiding beneath his handsome, brash exterior. On the rare occasions when their paths had crossed, he had always been attentive. Unlike most gentlemen who did not bother to hear what she said, or only droned on about themselves and their estates, he had always listened. He had tried hard to win her laughter.
She thought about the moment she had fallen in love with him. It had been the Stanhope ball. She had been attempting to avoid the odious Sir George Bainbridge, who had been thrice her age and seeking a broodmare in the December of his life, when Montrose had rescued her by stealing her for a dance.
It had been years ago now, but she would never forget his mischievous smile. As if the two of them shared some great sally. Nor could she banish from her mind the tale he had regaled her with over lemonade, vividly describing the occasion upon which he had built himself a flying machine with the intent of leaping from the turrets of Castle Clare, one of the ducal estates in Scotland.
“Alas,” he had told her then, grinning that beautiful rascal’s smile he had, “on one of my trials, I was standing on the turrets when the wings, not fastened to me, were caught in a great gust of wind. They fell to the ground like my hopes and dreams, mangled to bits below. And that, my dear Miss Lethbridge, was the end of my attempts to fly.”
It had been those rare glimpses of the real Montrose, and the shadows in his eyes, which had thieved her heart.
But it was the Montrose she had witnessed earlier today—remote, cool, uncaring, locking himself away, desperate to lose himself to oblivion—who could break her heart. How easily he could crush it beneath his heel, leave it in dust on the floor.
One day into their marriage, and she was already fearing the only course of action she had, the only means of self-preservation, was leaving him. Perhaps an annulment could be secured, given the newness of their union. She had understood, on an instinctive level, that her love for Montrose, coupled with the incessant pressing of his suit and his infallible charm, had rendered her vulnerable to him. But she had failed to realize, in her naïve and innocent hopes, that he would grow tired of her so easily. That it would only take one day, one heated discussion, to send him back into his old ways.
Somehow, she had believed, fool that she was, he would wait as he had promised. That he would not carouse until she had borne an heir. And somehow, she had placated herself that having Montrose some of the time—nine months, a year, perhaps two, however long it took to conceive a male heir—would be better than never having had him at all.
Tonight, she was no longer sure.
A soft rap at the door joining their chambers through their mutual dressing rooms disturbed her from her troubled musings. She froze, mid-stride, heart pounding. Surely it was not Montrose. She had not heard any sounds to suggest he had returned.
If she did not move, did not take a step…
The door opened with a click. Her husband stood on the threshold, clad in another of his silken banyans, this one a dark maroon to complement the mahogany of his hair. As always, he took her breath. Tonight, a new kind of awareness radiated through her, pooling in her center.
Drat her traitorous body, which did not know what her heart and mind already knew—that this man was akin to poison to her.
“Montrose,” she said, careful to keep her voice cool.
She could not bear to let him see the tumult into which he had cast her for the last, seemingly endless hours.
“Hattie,” he returned.
Instantly, she wondered if he was in his cups. Or if he had been with another woman. And then she hated herself for those doubts and fears. Even if history suggested they were not misplaced.
She drew herself up, attempting to be the indomitable duchess she wished she could be, the icy, cold pillar of strength. If only she could be as elegant and perfect as marble Ceres, incapable of being hurt, forever frozen in stone.
“You are home,” she observed lamely.
“Yes.” His gaze seemed to devour her then, dark and hungry, traveling the length of her body as if he could see through the modest night rail she wore.
Curse her weakness for him. She lit like a candle, from deep within, burning for him. Only for him. Always for him.
But she must not succumb. She tipped up her chin. “I am tired, Montrose. It has been a long day, and I am afraid I am suffering from a megrim as well. Was there something you wished to discuss?”
His jaw hardened.
It had been the wrong thing to say, she realized when, rather than driving him back into his lair, it propelled him forward. Into her domain. He was prowling toward her now, sensual menace in his air, his every step hewn into every sharp angle of his aristocratic face.
“As it happens, yes. There is something I wish to discuss, Wife,” he clipped, stopping just short of her. “It is your duty to provide me with an heir, and such a feat cannot be accomplished if you cling to your maidenly virtue and feign a headache.”
He was near enough that she could see the obsidian of his pupils, wide, dilated discs. The scent of smoke reached her, telling her he had been somewhere libidinous. Likely in a gaming hell. Or worse, a brothel.
“I am tired,” she repeated sternly.
She would not fall prey to his sensual onslaught as she had earlier that afternoon. Not after he had treated her so callously, as if her concerns were of no value, before abandoning her for the rest of the day. This time, her head would win over the rest of her.
But he needs you, taunted her heart.
Do shut up, she told the faithless organ. He also needs drink and opium. I will be none of those sources of distraction.
Moreover, there was the matter of where he had been.
And why he had gone.
“Too tired for your husband already, pet?” he asked, a sardonic twist to his lips.
“Do not call me that,” she snapped, striding away from him.
More distance was what she needed. And determination. She could and would resist him. His devilish charm and beautif
ul face would do him no good tonight. He could spin her a thousand charming stories about flying machines and dance with her until the moon turned into the sun, and still she would not give in.
She vowed it to herself. To her pride.
“Pet?” He followed her, chasing her down, like any hound bringing the fox to ground.
She reached the fireplace and stopped, the warmth of the flames on her face. She stared into the grate, into the crackling orange licks of fire. “Do not act as if nothing has happened,” she forced herself to say, her back to him. “You dismissed me earlier as if I were no better than a servant. And then you disappeared. If you think to share my bed tonight, you are sorely mistaken.”
Hands settled upon her waist. A tall, lean masculine form stepped into her, molding to her from thigh to shoulder. The unmistakable ridge of his hard cock pressed against her bottom. She resisted the urge to move, to bring him nearer still.
Lips found her bare neck, just behind her right ear, and she regretted not having removed her pins just yet. Even as his mouth upon her skin sent a prickle of desire down her spine. Longing pooled in her belly. Between her legs, she was wet for him. Aching. She could not quell the spark of hope his touch lit within her. Dear God, how she loved him.
Cursed body.
Stupid heart.
He kissed her ear, his breath falling hotly upon her. “How mistaken am I, sweeting? It seems to me as if you want me just as much now as you ever have, if not more.”
Again, the faint tinge of smoke, lingering atop his familiarly delicious scent, taunted her.
“Where were you?” she asked him.
Ewan found a particularly sensitive spot on her neck and nibbled there. “Engaging in gentlemanly sport.”
Sport. Surely, he did not mean what she feared he alluded to.
She stiffened, and would have moved away from him had not his hands slid from her waist to her belly, trapping her against him in an iron hold. Still, she squirmed, tugged at his hands. “Release me.”
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