“Ewan, please,” she begged.
“Kiss,” he said.
Like vassals obeying the order of their king, the women on his desk embraced each other, their lips coming together. A husky moan curdled the air.
“No,” Hattie cried out.
It was as if she lost control of herself. As if her mind had completely broken away from the rest of her, like a runaway horse.
His gaze still pinned to her, Ewan slid his hands up each woman’s bare back, sinking his fingers into the skeins of their unbound hair.
“Go,” he said again, cruelly. Coldly.
And this time, she heeded him. She spun away, a sob choking her, pain lancing her heart, and fled. She ran. Ran from Hamilton House, past a grim Low. Ran from the Duke of Montrose, her shattered heart, and all his broken promises.
*
Two sets of feminine hands were all over him, caressing his chest, his abdomen, but Monty was scarcely aware of them. He was too fixated upon Hattie. Upon the horror and the hurt in her gaze, the paleness of her face.
He felt hollow. Ill. He felt as if all the light had suddenly been extinguished from his world. Because she was the light. She was the light in his darkness. His angel. His love. And he… He had just destroyed her. He had seen it in her eyes.
It is better this way, he reminded himself. What Parkross has to say cannot hurt her if she already loathes you. You are giving her the best chance to survive this scandal.
This was the only means to maintain Hattie would not suffer unduly because of him, aside from giving in to Parkross’s demands for the ten thousand pounds. But that he would not do. He would not pay his tormentor. Arthur Parkross would never again have power over him. When the hands moved over the fall of his breeches, he caught them. Two wrists in a manacle grip.
“No,” he bit out, shocking even himself with the suppressed violence in his voice.
The lightskirts Madame Marcheaux had sent him stared in astonishment, halted in their attempts at seduction.
The idea of any woman other than Hattie touching him was repugnant. She was all he wanted. All he would ever want. But he would have to settle for wanting her from afar now. He ought to have known the past would come back to haunt him, that the paradise he had with her had never been meant to last long. His glimpse into bliss had been gone in a flash.
“Your Grace,” objected one of the women—he did not know their names, and he could scarcely tell them apart for they were both golden-haired. The opposite of Hattie. Had they told him their names? He could not recall. He had been so bloody sick over what he must do.
“Show us your big, hard rod,” said the second. “I want to be able to say the Duke of Debauchery’s cock has been in my mouth. After I’m done sucking you, Henrietta will have her turn and get you all stiff again. Isn’t that right, love?”
“Oh, yes,” cooed the other. Henrietta, it would seem.
The name Henrietta was far too close to the name Harriet. To Hattie. His heart felt as if it were about to shatter into a thousand ugly shards.
“Hush,” he snapped, swatting at their hands, which had resumed their attempts to seduce.
Had such a thing ever made him randy?
Beelzebub’s earbobs, he could not recall how or why.
“Do not be coy,” said one of them, for he was already confused which was Henrietta and which was not. He had scarcely even looked at their faces.
“We have heard all about you and your insatiable appetites,” added her friend.
How much longer did he have to remain in here? He wanted there to be no doubt in Hattie’s mind that his betrayal of their vows was true, and to fully convince her, he could not emerge from the study with two unsatisfied lightskirts grumbling behind him. He had to wait until he was certain she was gone.
“I will give you each two hundred pounds if you will cease nattering,” he snapped, moving away from them. “And for God’s sake, clothe yourselves.”
They blinked at him, disbelief evident on both their faces. Once, he would have been incredulous at his own actions. The old Monty would have sought solace in their bodies, used them in the name of his attempts to forget. He would have quaffed enough gin to carry him away to oblivion.
But he was not that man any longer.
He was the man whose heart was owned by Hattie Montrose. She had shown him what love meant every day, forgiving him, trusting him, caring for him when he was ill. And that man understood all the gin, opium, and willing cunny in the land would never give him the solace he sought.
“Do you want to take us while we are wearing our gowns?” asked the first, her voice tentative. “If you would prefer it that way, Your Grace, we will be happy to comply. You can have Henrietta first, and I will lick—”
“Silence,” he cut in, interrupting her before she could finish her vulgar offer. “Three hundred pounds. Each. You speak of this to no one. I am not tupping either of you. I love my wife.”
Saying that precious word aloud—the admission—how wrong it seemed before these two women whose vocation it was to feign and imitate the true emotion. Fucking was not love. Nor was it a panacea any more than laudanum and blue ruin were.
Love was—damn it, there were tears blurring his vision once more. Sending Hattie away like this, pretending to betray her, it was akin to cutting off one of his limbs. He was losing the very best part of himself. But he loved her so damned much he knew it was a necessity. He would do anything, anything, to protect her.
“You don’t want to tup us?” asked the one he thought was Henrietta then.
“No.” He blinked furiously.
“Are you crying, Your Grace?” the other queried.
“Henrietta,” chided her friend.
Satan’s banyan, he had been wrong about who was Henrietta. Unless they were both named Henrietta?
“I do not want to tup you,” he confirmed, dragging a handkerchief from his pocket and dabbing surreptitiously at his eyes. “And I am crying. Yes, I am damned well crying. I just chased away the only woman I will ever love. I hurt her.”
And hurting her was killing him.
He spun away from his confused audience and rang for Low, who appeared promptly at the door, his expression carefully blank.
“Has the duchess left?” he asked.
“She has,” confirmed his butler, a tiny note of disapproval creeping into his voice. He took care to avert his gaze from the Henriettas, who were in the process of tucking their bosoms back into their gowns.
Low had certainly seen far worse in his tenure as Monty’s butler, however.
“Thank you,” he told Low, taking pity on him. “That will be all.”
Low bowed and was gone.
Monty strode back to his desk, extracting some notes, and giving them to the Henriettas. “Here you are. Do not, I beg of you, give this to your abbess. You deserve better in this life than what you have chosen for yourselves. Believe me, for no one has learned that bitter lesson better than I.”
They each accepted the notes with solemn care, their gowns restored to proper order. “Thank you, Your Grace,” they said in unison.
Lord knew what had driven them to their current path—desperation, hunger, ruination, lack of work in their villages? Shame on him for never wondering before with any of the women with whom he had taken his pleasure.
“My carriage will see you to wherever you desire,” he told them. “My felicitations, ladies.”
Looking bemused, they left, clutching their small fortunes. He hoped to hell neither one of them returned to the brothel from whence they had come. When his study door closed on their retreating backs, the true enormity of what he had done came falling down upon him, nearly crushing him beneath the weight.
He had lost Hattie.
Without ever telling her he loved her.
He had pushed her away in the cruelest way he knew how.
And he had never hated himself more.
He tossed his handkerchief into the fire, and then he went
on a mindless rampage, hurling pictures from the walls, smashing the bottle of gin to bits, sweeping the entire surface of his desk clean. He kicked his chair. He slammed his fist into the wall until he had managed to destroy the wallcovering and the plaster and had bloodied up his knuckles quite badly.
Cursing himself, he sank to the floor, his back to the wall. His arse thumped on the carpet as he surveyed the destruction, symbolic of the charred ruins which had so suddenly become his life. It seemed a dream that just this morning, he had risen with Hattie in his arms. That he had rolled her onto her back and made love to her as the sun rose over London with the indefatigable promise of another day.
Suddenly, a purr and then a tentative meow interrupted the deafening silence which had descended. In disbelief, he turned to find a fat, white feline sauntering toward him.
Sir Toby.
Somehow, she had left behind her cat, who had taken to stealing into his study for lengthy afternoon dozes. God’s fichu, she would have been in a hurry to leave him if she would abandon her precious Sir Toby. The cat must have been hiding in his study for a nap and gotten caught in the fray.
He and the feline had reached a pax of sorts, recently. The feline adored him. Monty was still hesitant. But the cat was all he had left of Hattie at the moment, and he was damned well going to take comfort.
“Come on, then,” he told Sir Toby, who paused and watched him hesitantly after all the commotion Monty had just caused. He patted his lap. “Up. I shan’t hurt you.”
No, he would only hurt the woman he loved.
But that was why hurting her was a necessity. Pushing her away, forcing her to leave him, was the better option. Far preferable to making her stay after Parkross made good on his threats. She would never be able to hold her head high in polite society again. As it was, the scandal would taint her because she was his wife, separated or no.
However, if the full details were made known as his uncle threatened to do, Monty hoped Hattie would have a chance to obtain an exceedingly rare divorce, thanks to his sins. He would not argue they had not been committed during their union. No, he would allow her to make whatever accusations she must.
Sir Toby, perhaps sensing a creature in great need, at last crawled into Monty’s lap. He stroked the cat’s luxurious fur, grateful for the solace, and steeled himself in preparation for what he must do next.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Her brother pressed a glass containing an amber-colored liquid into her hand.
Through the tears blurring her vision, Hattie frowned at Torrie. “What is it?”
“Brandy,” he said grimly. “Drink.”
She was seated in the salon where she had so oft done her needlework before she had married Ewan. When she had suddenly arrived at Torrington House, devastated and in tears after fleeing the undeniable evidence of her husband’s infidelity, she had been dismayed to learn her mother was not at home. Only her brother was.
Her brother who did not remember her.
She had stood in the entryway, crying, feeling utterly alone, when Torrie had come to her, sweeping her into a comforting embrace. For a moment, it had been as if she had her brother back. He smelled the same, he felt the same.
Until he had called her Harriet.
She lifted the glass to her lips, taking a tentative sip of the brandy. It tingled on her tongue, and she did not care for the flavor, but she swallowed it, wincing as it singed a path down her throat.
“It will help to calm you,” Torrie told her. “Drink more.”
She did as he ordered, but the despair was still a heavy weight upon her chest, threatening to crush her. She would need far more than brandy to calm herself. To survive this agony.
“Another,” her brother said. “Hattie, I have not seen you this distressed since your fat old cat died.”
She swallowed a third sip of brandy and froze. “Torrie?”
He frowned, looking as perplexed by what he had just said as she was. “I…I remember Miss Pudding. She was black and white. She always hissed at Father…”
Hope rose within her. “Yes, Torrie. She was. She also once brought that headless mouse to Mother. Do you remember?”
“During tea.” He blinked. “I do. Mother screeched. She demanded you keep Miss Pudding in the nursery from then on. You have always liked cats and mischief, haven’t you, Hattie?”
Thank God some of his memories were returning at last! Despite the sadness drowning her, she smiled, tears of bittersweet relief pricking her eyes. “Yes, I have.”
“And you have always loved Monty.”
His observation shocked her, for even before her brother had lost his memory, she had not known he suspected. There was no sense in denying it now. She bowed her head, stared into the glistening brandy in her glass. “Yes.”
“He is the reason for your tears now, is he not?” Torrie prodded.
“He…” She struggled to give voice to what he had done. To make sense of it. Indeed, she could not, for it made no sense. This morning, they had been happy.
“Has he hurt you? Has he raised a hand?” her brother asked.
She shook her head. “No, he would not. His uncle paid him a call today, and he was suddenly a stranger. Rather the same way you were after your accident. He looked at me as if he did not know me.”
Hattie could not bear to put into words the rest of what Ewan had done. The half-naked women on his desk, his hands on them…dear God. She closed her eyes against another rush of desolation.
His betrayal was more than she could bear.
If he had been untrue from the moment they had wed, it would have been easier than his defection after so many weeks of shared bliss.
“His uncle,” Torrie repeated then, his tone contemplative. “Parkross.”
“Yes.” She forced her eyes open, glancing up to her brother, searching his face. “Do you know him? Can you recall?”
It seemed too much to ask, that her brother’s fragmented memory could provide her the information she sought. She was still trying to understand what had happened, she realized. Still trying to make sense of Ewan’s actions.
“I recall something.” Torrie’s face was a study in concentration. He raked his fingers through his hair. “Monty told me something. I know he did.”
With shaking hands, she deposited her brandy glass on the table at her side, for she could not bear to consume another drop. “Have your memories been returning to you?”
“Slowly,” he admitted. “In dreamlike pieces. At first, I thought that was what they were—nothing more than slumber’s delusions. But more and more, they return.”
“That is wonderful, Torrie,” she said, relieved for him. “I want my brother back.”
“I am changed.” His countenance was somber. “I will never be the Torrie I once was.”
She knew the feeling, for she, too, had changed. And neither would she ever be the same Hattie she had been when she had left Torrington House as Miss Hattie Lethbridge. She returned as a duchess with a broken heart.
Unless…
Hope, ever foolish, would not loosen its hold upon her.
“You do not have to be the Torrie you once were,” she told her brother. “The most important thing is for you to remember your family, your friends.”
“The doctor says I may never remember everything.” Torrie scrubbed at his jaw, frustration evident in his voice, his bearing. “But I must try. Tell me what else Monty has done. I do not believe you would have arrived here as a watering pot merely because he treated you coldly after Parkross paid him a call.”
“He told me he wishes to be free to pursue the life he once led,” she embellished, avoiding confessing all.
She was sure what she had witnessed earlier had been the return of the Duke of Debauchery. Damn him to perdition. She wanted Ewan back. But how could she fight for him when he was, even now, with those two horrible women, touching them, kissing them, making love to them as he had to her…
A shudder wracked throug
h her.
“Then he should not have damned well married you,” Torrie bit out. “I am sorry, Hattie, that I encouraged you to make this match. If Monty is a faithless bastard, your misery is on my head. I did not think he would ill treat you.”
“I did not think he would either,” she said, her misery threatening to overwhelm her. “Torrie, would you mind if I were to stay here for a few days, at least until I determine what I am to do next?”
“Of course not.” Torrie frowned. “This will always be your home. The doors are always open. I…”
His words trailed off, his expression shifting.
“What is it, Torrie?” She searched his gaze. “Have you remembered something else?”
“Monty’s uncle,” her brother said suddenly, frowning. “I remember Monty telling me he was sick. That he was the sort of man who preyed upon lads. We were in our cups. He swore me to secrecy. I remember it now—we were at the Duke’s Bastard, in a private room, drinking gin.”
“Preyed upon lads,” she repeated, struggling to comprehend. “What does that mean, Torrie?”
Torrie’s expression was stark. “There are some vile villains, Hattie, who misuse children.”
Shock made her mouth go dry. She had not even known such a horrible thing existed. Hattie felt as if all the breath had been stolen from her. As if she had been punched in the stomach. Dear God, if what Torrie recalled was true, Ewan’s hatred of his uncle made terrible sense.
Everything made awful sense.
The visit from his uncle. How withdrawn Ewan had seemed. His suggestion she pay a call on Lady Searle. He had plotted the entire bawdy scene with such care, knowing she would take one look and flee. He had wanted her to run. Because he had been chasing her away.
And she had left him. She had done exactly what he had known she would do, and she had believed the worst of him. How easy he had made it, arranging for some lightskirts in his study. She thought back to his expression. To the dullness in his eyes. He had not kissed either of the women. He had merely acted the part of marionette.
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