“I was weak then, but I have repented my sins.” His uncle started forward, as if to menace him.
But Monty was not the defenseless lad he had once been. He was taller than Parkross, far stronger, and age, all these years later, was a boon to Monty instead of a curse. His uncle was elderly. Likely ailing. He would have no hope of defeating Monty in a bout of fisticuffs. Indeed, the drubbing he could give him would likely end him.
Monty moved forward, warning in every angle of his body, ready to defend himself if he must. His uncle shrank back, apparently realizing the error in his judgment. It was a moot point. He could not murder Parkross, regardless of how tempting putting the sick bastard out of his misery was.
“I am not giving you ten thousand pounds,” he seethed instead. “I do not give a damn if you spend the rest of your miserable existence on the streets. Stay the hell away from my wife, and stay away from me.”
“You think I am bluffing,” Parkross guessed, his countenance serious. Grim. “I assure you I am not. If I lose everything, there will be no reason for me to keep my silence. I will not stop at Her Grace, either. I will go to the gossips with it. All the land will know what you are. You will be ruined. Shamed. Is that what you want, Montrose?”
Of course, it was not what he wanted.
He had not buried his memories, attempted to dull the pain by any means necessary, so that his bastard of an uncle would unleash the demons of his past upon the world. And especially not upon Hattie.
His sweet, angelic Hattie, who had always deserved better. If she knew the truth…
Nay, he could not bear to think it.
He needed time to think. To formulate a plan.
The desperation in his uncle’s gaze and voice could not be feigned.
“Get out,” he ordered hoarsely. “Get out of my house and do not ever dare to return, or I will beat you to within an inch of your wretched life.”
“You know where to find me,” Parkross said. “Three days, my boy.”
He had no intention of seeking his uncle out.
“The next time I see you, it will be in hell,” he vowed, hating the tremor in his voice.
Hating the reminder that, deep inside, he was still the same, scared lad whose uncle had defiled him.
*
As had become her daily habit, Hattie sought out Ewan in his study. Ordinarily, he did not receive callers in the later afternoon, for it was when the two of them reconvened after their day’s activities and shared tea. Often, he sketched her while they chatted. Or she read poems to him while he rested his head in her lap, and she strummed her fingers through his hair, as if he were a musical instrument only she could play.
What a fanciful notion, she thought, smiling to herself as she made her way down the hall, following her familiar path. But it pleased her. Their connection was growing deeper with each passing day, and she could not be more content.
She was about to knock on his study door when it flew open and an older gentleman bearing a walking stick emerged. She drew up short, taken aback.
“Forgive me, sir,” she apologized, dipping into a curtsey.
Her gaze instantly flew to her husband, who stood at the stranger’s back, a vicious scowl on his face. It was clear to her that whoever this man was, he was a most unwanted guest.
The man bowed. “Your Grace, I presume? I am Arthur Parkross, Montrose’s uncle.”
Uncle? She had not even known Ewan had one. Neither he nor the dowager had made mention of such a person. The enmity emanating from her husband was almost palpable, but polite manners dictated she treat the man as an honored guest.
“I am pleased to make your acquaintance, Mr. Parkross,” she offered, casting a questioning gaze in Ewan’s direction.
“Mr. Parkross was just leaving, my dear,” Ewan told her, his voice rigid as his bearing.
“Yes, forgive me for the haste with which I must pay my call,” said Mr. Parkross. “I look forward to seeing you again, Your Grace. Montrose.”
With another bow, he took his leave.
Hattie watched him go, confusion over her husband’s reaction swirling through her, along with misgiving. Something was wrong, though she could not determine just what it was with such a cursory meeting. She had never before seen Ewan so icy cold, so rigid.
“I did not realize you had an uncle,” she began hesitantly when they were alone once more. “You never mentioned him.”
Ewan’s gaze was so dark, it was almost black. He looked different—as if he teemed with fury. “I do not have an uncle. That excuse for a man is not my family.”
The biting ice in his voice shocked her. “You have a quarrel with him, then?”
“No quarrel.” He passed a hand over his tense jaw. “I hate him, and that is all. He is not welcome here, and he knows it.”
“Do you want to talk about it, Ewan?”
He shrugged away from her touch for the first time since they had wed. “No. I do not.”
Hattie tried to suppress the hurt that welled up within her at his curtness, telling herself the anger and coldness was not truly directed at her, even if she was bearing the brunt of it. “Of course. Forgive me.”
Ewan looked away from her, raking his fingers through his hair. “What do you want, Hattie?”
She flinched at the sharpness of his question. The sensual lover and caring husband she had come to know over the course of their marriage was nowhere to be found in the stranger before her. The little fears she carried, lingering with the doubts, rose to the surface at once. How many times had she worried he would grow bored of being a husband? That he would miss his life of debauchery and endless women and revelries?
That she would not be enough to hold him in the end?
She swallowed down a knot of trepidation. “Are we not going to take tea together today?”
His gaze jerked back to her, his expression still taut with anger. “Not today, I am afraid. I have many matters to attend to, and little time to play the milksop.”
Play the milksop?
She frowned as the misgiving deepened, trying to understand the sudden change which had come over him. “Have I done something wrong, Ewan? Have I displeased you in some way?”
He exhaled on a sigh. “I think we have been spending far too much time in each other’s company. It is not natural for a husband and wife to be so oft together.”
Hattie could not shake the suspicion his abrupt sea change had been caused by the meeting with his uncle, but if he was not willing to confide in her, what more could she do? She did not want to push him.
“I will leave you to your many matters, then,” she said quietly, still unable to quell the hurt his brusque manner caused. “Perhaps I will pay a visit to Lady Searle.”
“Yes,” he agreed, sounding distracted. “Why do you not do that, madam?”
Ewan had never spoken to her so formally. The absence of endearment was glaring. Troubling. He was already turning away from her, going back to his study.
She caught his coat sleeve, staying him, knowing she had to try one more time. For his sake as much as for her own. She hated seeing him like this. Hated the distance he was forcing between them. “Ewan, wait. Are you certain you do not want to talk about whatever happened with Mr. Parkross just now?”
He looked back at her. “Quite certain. Give my regards to Lady Searle, if you please.”
With that, he shrugged free of her touch, strode back into his study, and slammed the door behind him. Hattie remained where she was, staring at the door, feeling suddenly, unutterably, alone.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Monty had never been so sick in all his life. Not even those horrible days he had spent casting up his accounts and shuddering beneath the wrath of fevers as he weaned his body from opium could compare. He had reached a bitter realization as he watched Hattie speaking to Parkross.
The juxtaposition had not been lost upon him, everything that was good in his life standing before the root of all the darkness. He could n
ot allow the evil to touch her.
He knew what he needed to do.
There was only one way to send Hattie away from him forever. To make certain he could never hurt her again, nor sully her with the sordid demons of his past. He was not worthy of an angel like her, and he never had been. All along, he had known it. And he was damned glad he had savored her whilst he had the chance.
Because now, he was going to set her free as best as he could. Hattie was stubborn, determined to always see the good in him. If she knew the truth, her disgust would be violent. Crushing. Of that, he had no doubt. No, he would spare her the horror of learning what her husband was.
When he had cleared away all his spirits and laudanum following his illness, he had hidden away a bottle of gin. Just one. He retrieved it now, pulling it from a drawer. Hand shaking, he opened the bottle, held it to his lips, and took a deep, burning draught.
Fire shot down his gullet.
Along with shame.
Self-hatred.
He closed his eyes and took another sip, then another and another. On a hoarse cry, he slammed the bottle back down upon his desk. The motion was so forceful, the liquor sloshed out of the bottle, raining upon the back of his hand. Another sound emerged from him, and he realized to his horror that his cheeks were wet, his vision blurred.
Tears.
He was crying, by God. And it was the first time he had cried since those long-ago nights. Since the first time…
“Fuck,” he bit out, pounding his fist into the desk. All these years, and he was still the same weak lad who had allowed Arthur Parkross to abuse him.
He snatched up the gin once more, held it to his lips, and drank.
He drank away the pain of knowing he was about to lose the only woman he had ever cared for. The only woman he would ever want. He drank away the loathing. Drank away the shame. Drank away the disgust at knowing he was breaking every promise he had made to Hattie, to himself.
And then, when he could bear no more, he rang for his butler.
Low appeared at the threshold. “Your Grace?”
“Send word to Madame Marcheaux that I require the presence of two of her freshest lovelies,” he said, his gut curdling at the request as much as the thought of what he must do.
Touching another woman made him want to retch.
Hurting Hattie…
“Madame Marcheaux, Your Grace?” Low asked, a frown creasing the loyal retainer’s brow. It was the only sign of his disapproval.
“Yes,” Monty said before he could change his mind. Before his courage flagged. “And be quick about it, if you please.”
The butler inclined his head. “As Your Grace wishes.”
With a bow, he was gone, looking as grim as any ghost.
Monty’s eyes slid closed after the servant was gone. Bile rose in his throat. Perhaps he did not have to do this. Perhaps there was some other way. Any other way.
No.
He knew the answer as surely as he knew his own name. He could not bear Hattie’s disgust. Or worse, her pity. If she learned the horrible truth of what had happened in his youth, it would be the end of him. He would drive her away the only way he knew how. And in so doing, he would be granting her the biggest favor he could possibly give her, freedom.
He would spare her the curse of ultimately hating him one day, should the truth ever arise.
Even if doing so felt as if he were tearing his beating heart from his own chest.
More gin was what he needed. Fortification. He needed oblivion to subdue his rational mind. To no longer think or feel.
He raised the bottle to his lips, took another sip. But how bitter it tasted on his tongue. His stomach was a sea of sick. He swallowed the gin, thought of hurting Hattie, and his stomach lurched.
God’s fichu, he was going to be ill.
He scarcely made it to the chamber pot he had long since kept in his study for just such a purpose before violently casting up his accounts.
*
The hour was late, approaching dinner, by the time Hattie returned to Hamilton House following paying a call to the Marchioness of Searle. But after a reassuring talk with her new friend, Hattie was ready to seek out Ewan once more. Her determination was renewed. She would not allow him to drive a wedge between them because he did not want to discuss troubling matters.
Make him speak to you, Lady Searle had advised. Do not allow him to hide away.
Hattie was heeding her advice. She handed off her hat, gloves, and pelisse.
“Where is His Grace, Low?” she asked the butler, deciding she would not waste another moment in seeking Ewan out.
One way or another, she would discover what was troubling her husband. Lady Searle had a tremendously happy marriage with her husband, for theirs was a love match. Although it had not begun as such, Lady Searle had confided. Which gave Hattie hope.
Perhaps one day, Ewan would return her affections. Or perhaps her heart was foolish to hope.
“His Grace is in his study, Your Grace,” Low informed her.
“Very good, thank you.” She set off down the hall, her thoughts already traveling to what she would say.
“I would not recommend entering His Grace’s study just now, Your Grace,” Low said, following in her wake. There was an edge to his tone that was not ordinarily present.
She paused and turned to the servant. His countenance was not as stoic, as bereft of emotion as it usually was, either. Something was wrong. Worry knotted in her belly. Fear made her cold. There was only one reason for the butler to suggest she avoid her husband’s study. To look and sound so disturbed.
Was Ewan drinking gin again? Or consuming laudanum? Had that been the reason for his coldness earlier?
The moment the suspicions hit her, she hated herself for them. How dare she think the worst of him when he had worked so hard, when he had suffered to rid himself of his vices? He had come so far. And they had come so far together. Of course, he would not jeopardize what they shared by getting into his cups or eating opium again.
Of course, he would not.
Guilt made her cheeks go hot.
“I need to speak with His Grace,” she told the butler. “Is he having a private meeting?”
She could not otherwise fathom the butler’s resistance to her calling upon her own husband in his private domain.
“Yes,” the butler said. “His Grace is otherwise occupied with a matter of import. May I take the liberty of having a bath drawn for Your Grace? Sir Toby has yet to enjoy his midday repast. Shall I inquire with Monsieur Tremblay as to what treats may await him?”
Hattie was about to answer when a distinctly feminine titter echoed through the silence.
Everything within her froze. And the dread she had been holding at bay for the entirety of her union to Montrose surged forward like a deluge. Drowning her. She held herself still, listening, praying she had misheard, that her imagination had somehow conjured the sound of her greatest fear.
More sounds reached her. Laughter. Moaning.
She felt sick.
Low’s expression shifted. There was no denying the pity in his gaze. “Shall I have the bath drawn, Your Grace?”
He asked the question as if they had not just both heard the evidence of her husband’s adultery. As if the reason Low was attempting to keep her from Ewan’s study was not painfully obvious.
“No bath,” she managed past numb lips.
She turned toward the sound, knowing at once that she must verify the source. That she must see for herself. Knowing, too, the sight would be the end of her. Her heart would be forever broken. She could not bear…
Her feet were moving. Dragging her toward the abyss. The study door loomed. More sounds assaulted her, but she scarcely heard them over the pounding of her heart.
Low was calling after her, his tone pleading.
“Your Grace, do not, I beg of you…”
But nothing would stop her from finding out the truth. Oh, Ewan, how could you? They had found su
ch happiness together. Though he had never said the words to her, she had been so certain he at least cared for her. That his feelings for her were every bit growing. Moreover, he had vowed to remain faithful until she gave him an heir.
She had trusted him with her heart. Trusted his word.
You promised me, Ewan.
She reached the door. More low, keening moans split the air. She opened it with such force that it crashed into the wall within. But she did not care about the damage to the plaster. Nor she did care about the spectacle she was causing.
All she cared about was the sight greeting her.
Ewan was seated at his imposing study desk. Two women she had never seen before were seated upon it, their gowns pooled at their waists. Half-naked. They were both golden-haired, both undeniably beautiful. Everything Hattie was not.
There was a horrible moment of silence as she stood on the threshold, taking in the scene before her. Ewan’s gaze met hers from the space between the strumpets seated upon his desk. His expression was cold. Emotionless.
It was as if she were facing a stranger.
“Ewan.” His name left her, strangled, part curse, part question.
“Whatever it is you require, I am afraid it must wait. I am currently occupied,” he said coldly.
Those words hit her like a physical blow.
The women’s gazes were upon her, their expressions undeniably curious. They looked as if they were enjoying this spectacle.
“Quite occupied,” said the one on the right.
Ewan’s hand was on the woman’s bare spine, gliding up and down.
But his eyes had never strayed from Hattie.
How she hated that woman, hated that she knew her husband’s touch. Hated her husband for what he was doing. For what he was destroying, not just her love for him but everything they had shared together. Had it all been a lie?
“Go,” he ordered her.
Still, she stood there like a fool, begging him with her eyes to stop this madness. To move away. She noted he was fully clothed, his cravat perfectly knotted. Not a hair was mussed out of place. Surely he had not been debauching these wretched females. She thought she could even forgive him this. If he stopped now…
Duke of Debauchery Page 23
