Duke of Debauchery

by Scott, Scarlett

  “Hattie?” her brother’s worried voice broke through her wild thoughts.

  “I need to go back to Hamilton House,” she said. “Now.”

  Torrie nodded. “I will see the carriage is brought for you. But if he hurts you any more than he already has, he will answer to me.”

  It was good to have her brother back. At least, in this small measure. She could only hope that in time, more of his memories would restore themselves to him.

  Impulsively, she embraced him again, then pressed a kiss to his cheek. “Thank you, Torrie. For everything.”

  *

  Monty was still sitting with Sir Toby in his lap.

  He could not see the ormolu clock on the mantel, and neither did he have his pocket watch at the ready. He had no inkling how much time had passed since the Henriettas had departed. Since Hattie had left him.

  His arse had fallen asleep.

  The effects of the gin had faded.

  His heart hurt.

  He was broken. More broken than the shards of the gin bottle he had smashed earlier. More broken than he had ever been. Without Hattie, he was a barren night sky without the sun to rise in the morning and chase away the emptiness of the dark. Without her, there was no laughter, no sweet kisses, no poetry, no fingers running through his hair, no soft body curled against his, no sweet scent of violets.

  Without Hattie, there was nothing.

  Without her, he was nothing.

  The door to his study opened. The damned butler had been checking upon him in steady increments ever since he had left his study in rubble.

  “Go to the devil, Low,” he said hoarsely.

  He had no wish for company now.

  “I am not Low.” The sweet, melodic voice of his wife reached him.

  For a delirious moment, he was convinced he must have imagined it. His head jerked toward the door. There she stood on the threshold, surveying the damage he had done. His stupid heart surged at her presence, but he tamped down any hope. She was probably here for the goddamn cat.

  With a half purr, half meow for his mistress, Sir Toby rose, stretched, and left Monty’s lap. He sauntered toward a nearby chair and leapt into it, settling himself for another nap. Or perhaps all the better to preside over Monty’s misery.

  “Why are you here?” he asked Hattie, forcing himself to keep his tone cool. To not allow her to see the rush of pure joy he felt at her return. To hide the love, burning for her, consuming him from the inside out.

  She glided into the study, closing the door behind her. At least, that was what it seemed to him. She was otherworldly perfection, her jonquil gown complementing her black hair in stark contrast, the return of the light.

  It was only when she neared him and sank to her knees before him, skirts pooling around her, that he took note of the puffiness about her eyes, the pink tip of her nose. Hattie had been crying.

  Because of him.

  And even if he knew it was for the best to push her away, he ached to take her in his arms. To beg her forgiveness. To tell her how much she meant to him.

  “Where are your friends?” she asked him, studying him with a calmness that unnerved him.

  It took him a moment to realize she referred to the Henriettas. He had already forgotten them.

  “I finished with them,” he lied. “Have you come back for the cat? Here he is, perfectly hale. I never cared for the creature anyway.”

  “I came back for both of you.” She leaned forward, cupping his face in her hands. “I love you, Ewan.”

  Agony seared him. He wanted to jerk away from her, and yet it was the sweetest gift, her warm, tender touch. But an even greater gift was her words, her love for him. He had never dreamed she might come to care for him so deeply, when all he had done was burden her with his sins.

  And there were far more than the ones she knew about.

  “You do not love me,” he bit out. “You cannot love me. You do not know my past, the wickedness. If you did, you would be disgusted. You would run from me, as fast and as far as you could go.”

  “I do know, Ewan,” she said, those eyes he had never quite been able to capture properly on paper burning into his. “The only running I am doing is to you. To your arms. You are home to me. You are where I belong.”

  Foolish, beautiful, angelic woman. She did not know what she was saying.

  “The truth is far worse than anything you can imagine.” He took a deep, shuddering breath, knowing he must forge onward. He had not wanted to, Lord knew, but she had a right to understand. She had come back for him, despite thinking he had betrayed her, and professed her love. “The man you saw today, Arthur Parkross…he…God, Hattie.”

  “I know, Ewan,” she said, tears shining in her eyes. “I know. Torrie’s memory is returning slowly. He recalled you telling him about your uncle.”

  Horror seized his chest, rendering him incapable of taking a breath for one brutal moment as he reacted to her revelation. She knew. She knew and she was still here.

  He told himself it was because she did not know the full, sordid truth. If Torrie’s memories were not completely returned…hell, even if they were, it seemed unlikely he would tell his gently bred sister about the true evils lurking in the world.

  Monty would have to tell her himself.

  “One summer when I was down from Eton, my mother, father, and Catriona were in Scotland at Castle Clare,” he began slowly. “I was given the choice of attending them there or remaining with Parkross in London. He is my mother’s brother. It was to be a grand adventure in Town without my overbearing father, the duke.”

  “Oh, Ewan, my love,” she said, stroking his cheeks, “you do not need to tell me. I understand.”

  He needed to tell her, he realized. To unburden himself. He wanted her to know the complete truth. “It started innocently enough. He took me to gaming hells, plied me with spirits. For the first time, I had escaped from my father’s iron rule, for Eton was nothing more than an extension of that. But then, one night, he…he touched me. Asked me to touch him. He said it was part of becoming a man. I was so deep in my cups, I was seeing two of him. I…I did what he asked, and then I retched all over him. The next day, he apologized, said we must never speak of it. But that night, it happened again.”

  His cheeks were wet. Old tears, tears he had not shed in many years, emerged. Tears for the terrified lad he had been. Tears for all he had lost. For all he would lose still.

  “One night, he attempted to force me. I was a skinny lad, but I fought him off, and I fled into the night…”

  “Oh, my darling,” she said softly. And then she was in his lap, her arms around him.

  Somehow, she had not left. There was no disgust on her beautiful face. Only sorrow. He searched her gaze, looking for censure. For a sign she was repulsed. For pity.

  “I should have told you before,” he continued. “I had no right to keep it from you. To saddle you with me and all my demons. I have always told you that you deserve better than me. Now you can see for yourself, truer words have never been spoken.”

  “No, Ewan,” she said, still holding his face captive. “Your past has no bearing upon the way I feel for you. How could you ever believe I would love you less because of what happened?”

  “Because it is shameful, damn it.”

  His hands covered hers. He intended to push her away, but once his flesh touched hers, he could do nothing but hold her there. He loved her so much. Part of him was desperate to keep her, part of him knew he had to put her ahead of himself. He was at war, within.

  “The only thing that is shameful is that a man you trusted—your own family member—would abuse you,” she countered. “It was not your fault, Ewan. You were a boy. An innocent. Knowing what you have endured only makes me love you more.”

  “But you do not know everything,” he persisted, because he had to. “What you saw today—him calling upon me—it was to threaten me. He is heavily in debt, and he is demanding ten thousand pounds from me. If I do not gi
ve him the funds, which I have sworn not to do, he threatened to tell you and to spread this putrid scandal all over Town.”

  “That spineless coward. How dare he?” Hattie frowned through the tears which had tracked down her cheeks. “You cannot let him win, Ewan. I will stand by your side with pride. Nothing he says or does will make me love you any less.”

  Just when he thought he could not love her more.

  “Do you mean that, Hattie?”

  “Can you doubt it?” She smiled then, through her tears. “I have loved you for so long, Ewan. Before you ever noticed me. Before we were married. And my love for you has only grown deeper and stronger with each day.”

  He slammed his lips on hers in a kiss. There was no sensual art in this kiss, no sweet seduction. It was not even gentle. It was brutal. A claiming and a declaration all at once.

  He tore his mouth from hers, holding her gaze. “I love you, too, Hattie. Those women…I sent them away. I was desperate to make you leave me, and I knew you would never do so without good reason. I could not bear for you to stay, knowing what was going to happen. I thought your learning my sins would have been easier on the both of us if you already hated me. I still cannot bear the thought of the scandal and shame this may bring upon you, if Parkross carries out his threats.”

  “Do you mean it, Ewan?” she asked, awe in her voice. “You love me?”

  “Desperately.” He smiled back at her, joy bursting open inside him, like a bud transforming into a blossom. “You are the only woman for me. You always have been.”

  “I want a real marriage.” She grew solemn. “I cannot bear for you to only be faithful to me until I bear you an heir.”

  “I demand a real marriage.” He kissed her again, lingeringly. “I will not share you, and I want you to bear me at least half a dozen bairns.”

  “I would love nothing more,” she told him.

  “Even if Parkross attempts to ruin me?” he could not help but to ask. “There is every possibility it will be ugly, should he resort to such tactics. We could become social pariahs. I would never want that for you.”

  “Whatever happens, we will face it together.” This time, she kissed him. “We will overcome it together. Ewan and Hattie.”

  “Hattie and Ewan,” he agreed, so damn grateful for the woman in his lap. For this wife he still did not deserve. This magnificent angel who loved him in spite of all his flaws and sins. With her at his side, he knew he could face anything.

  Epilogue

  Castle Clare, Scotland

  One year later

  The state dining hall at Castle Clare was truly a sight to behold. Its elaborate plasterwork had been painted by a supremely gifted German artist in the previous century. The table and chairs had been commissioned by Monty’s grandfather during a visit to France and had cost an impressive fortune. The crystal chandelier was blazing, bathing the massive room in a warm glow. The portraits of generations of Hamilton ancestors watched over every gathering.

  But for all the majesty of this impressive room, there was one sight that drew Monty’s eyes more than all the rest—his glorious wife. His duchess. His heart.

  His Hattie.

  She was seated at his side, dressed to rival any queen, with the diamond-and-gold filigree parure he had gifted her upon the birth of their son glistening from her throat, ears, and bodice. Her luxurious black hair had been captured in a soft style. Her green eyes caught his and held. The smile she gave him warmed him to his marrow. As always, she was the sun in his sky.

  “This was a capital idea, Montrose,” Crispin, the Duke of Whitley said, interrupting the maudlin bent of Monty’s thoughts, “bringing all of us sinners and scoundrels together for a house party in the wilds of the north.”

  “Here now, Cris, speak for yourself,” said Mr. Duncan Kirkwood, owner of the Duke’s Bastard. “We are not all of us scoundrels any longer. I, for one, am quite reformed. Am I not, my dearest?”

  Kirkwood directed his question to his wife, the famed novelist Lady Frederica Kirkwood, who had written The Silent Duke and Lady Honoria’s Revenge. Lady Frederica gave her husband a secretive smile. “Entirely reformed, of course.”

  Kirkwood grinned back at her, and the two shared a silent exchange, which made Monty deuced uncomfortable. He flicked his gaze to Searle and his marchioness, also in attendance. “Well, Searle, what say you? Are you a reformed sinner and scoundrel as well?”

  “You know I am.” Searle flashed him a grin. “All it requires is the love of an excellent woman to bring a sinner to his knees and make him repent. If I did not have my Leonie, I shudder to think where I would be.”

  “Oh, my love,” his marchioness returned softly, eyes filling with tears—undoubtedly because she was once more breeding. “I feel the same.”

  Monty had learned all too well that a delicate condition led to one’s pragmatic, rational wife turning into a watering pot. And an insatiable bedmate. But he did not want to think about the last in relation to his cousin and his cousin’s wife. Beelzebub’s earbobs, the notion was enough to make him want to retch.

  “For once, we are in accord, Searle,” the Earl of Rayne chimed in wryly, his Spanish accent less pronounced now than it had once been since he had become domesticated and since he spent most of his time in either Wiltshire or London.

  Although Searle and Rayne had once been bitter enemies, their feud had diminished over time, leaving them reluctant friends.

  Monty was relieved the stubborn lords had worked through their differences, for he adored his sister Cat, and he considered Searle more a brother to him than a cousin. Searle and Rayne at odds was no damned good.

  “I think the same can be said for the love of an excellent man,” Cat said then, giving her husband a look that made Monty positively bilious.

  Truly, what a group of milksops they all were. They had traveled here with their growing families, and they sat about at dinner drinking lemonade and talking about love and being reformed. There was a time when he would have sooner leapt from the turrets than enjoy such a dinner. Without wings attached.

  Though his poor flying machine never had functioned. Perhaps one day. Lord knew he had not given up his love of adventure. Next year, he had every intention of taking Hattie and their son, Titus, on a tour of the Americas. Supposing Hattie was not increasing again by that time. And with as much time as they spent in each other’s arms, such a happy occasion was certainly a possibility.

  “We are so happy you could all join us here,” Hattie announced, smiling to the gathering. “Each one of you is very dear to us, and we treasure your friendships, be you sinners, scoundrels, angels, or something in the middle.”

  He loved her so. Beneath the table, he surreptitiously ran his hand up her thigh. She clenched them through layers of silk and petticoats, casting him a sultry look from beneath her lowered lashes. Part of him had expected a subtle scold, for he ordinarily behaved himself in front of company. But his angel was being wicked tonight. He could already tell by the subtle curl to her full lips.

  The party descended into happy chatter once more, and Monty was content to sit as he was and listen, slowly inching his caress farther up his wife’s thigh. She had seen him through his darkest days, plucked him from the abyss, nursed him through his opium sickness, and then, when he had thought her lost to him forever, she had courageously stood at his side, ready to go to battle for him.

  It had been Hattie who had informed his mother of the sins of her brother, and whilst Monty and his mother were not precisely on excellent terms, the old wounds between them had finally begun to heal. Aided, of course, by both her request for forgiveness and the demise of Arthur Parkross.

  In the end, all Monty’s fears had been for naught. After he had sent word to his uncle that the ten thousand pounds was not forthcoming, Parkross had not spoken a word of his sins, likely fearing he would implicate himself. Instead, he had drowned himself in the Thames the very next day. It had been assumed the devil had fallen into the waters in
the darkness whilst in his cups, but Monty knew better. Parkross had either been pushed, or he had waded in himself, his desperation leading him to put an end to it all.

  As far as Monty was concerned, the means by which his uncle had perished mattered not. What did matter was that he was gone, and he was no longer capable of hurting either Monty and his family or anyone else ever again.

  “I love you,” he could not resist murmuring to Hattie then.

  He spoke the words often, but they never grew tired.

  Beneath the table, her hand caught his, their fingers lacing. “I love you, too, my darling. So very much.”

  *

  Hattie had just returned to the duchess’s chambers from the nursery, where she had wished both her beloved baby Titus and her beloved Sir Toby each a good night. Since Titus had been born, Sir Toby had taken an instant liking to him, which meant Hattie made certain a small, soft bed was laid out for him in the nursery at all times.

  Her husband was already awaiting her, dressed in nothing but a dark silk banyan.

  Her heart beat faster and her breath caught. He was so unfairly beautiful, and the way his molten-brown gaze slid over her body was like a caress. She closed the door behind her, feeling terribly overdressed in her evening gown and diamonds.

  “You look divine in that gown, my love,” he told her, giving her a slow smile that was pure seduction as he sauntered forward. “But I cannot stop thinking about taking it off you and bedding you while you wear nothing but those diamonds. What took you so long to get here?”

  As usual, he was deliciously wicked in his words. They had their intended effect upon her, liquid heat pooling between her thighs. The delicious man knew she loved it when he said naughty things to her.

  Two steps, and she reached him, belatedly recalling he had asked her a question. “I kissed our darling lad goodnight, of course.”

  “I did as well, and yet here I stand, ready for you.” He held up his hands, palms toward her, grinning. “And do not lie to me, my darling, I know you kissed that arrogant little sack of fur, too.”