Marquess of Mayhem

by Scott, Scarlett

“Tell his lordship the thought of strawberries makes me want to retch,” she relayed to the maid who bore the tray.

  If only it did.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Morgan told himself it was just as well his idyll at Westmore Manor—a false happiness, not meant to last—had come to an abrupt end. He told himself he did not miss her delicate floral scent or the soft, seductive sounds his wife made when she spent. He told himself he was on the precipice of garnering what he had wanted ever since he had burrowed his way out of the old stone barn in which he had been kept during his imprisonment, revenge.

  And then, he told himself to finish his claret and pour another.

  So, he did.

  What else was there to do, after all, awaiting the appearance of his scapegrace cousin, who was presently not at home according to the disapproving butler? If Monty was not at home, it meant he was probably still abed, even though it was nearly four o’clock in the afternoon. Not much had changed in Morgan’s absence while he was away at war, at least not where his cousin was concerned. Monty had become a duke early in life, and, blessed with the sort of looks that made the fairer sex swoon, he spent his days drinking and fucking his way through the demireps and dissatisfied wives of London.

  Morgan was halfway through his second claret when Monty appeared at the threshold, clad in what appeared to be the previous day’s evening wear. His breeches were rumpled, and he wore no coat, only shirtsleeves, waistcoat, and flattened cravat. His hair was mussed, and beneath his eyes, he sported the telltale bruises of a man who had spent the night carousing.

  “Seated upon my throne,” drawled Monty, raising a brow. “Drinking my bloody claret. What is next, Searle? Tupping my mistresses?”

  Mistresses. Naturally, Monty possessed more than one.

  But there was only one female he wished to tup, and it was the same female who had refused to dine with him, speak to him, and subsequently, ride in a carriage with him for the lengthy return trip to London the day before. Nor had she deigned to acknowledge him this morning, so he had promptly left Linley House in search of his errant cousin. He chased those thoughts from his mind, because he had not ferreted out Monty so he might pine over Leonie.

  Morgan stood, vacating his cousin’s chair. “You look as if you spent the evening swilling blue ruin and slept in your clothes,” he told Monty.

  Monty’s dissipation was an old story, but Morgan had spent the last few years staring into the face of not just his own mortality but that of everyone around him. As he traded places with his cousin, he could not help but to think Monty was getting older. Three-and-thirty now. Surely far too old to still be playing the young buck about town.

  “You sound like my mother,” Monty quipped, grinning unrepentantly. “She pecks me like a hen. Montrose, you need a wife. Montrose, you need an heir. Montrose, you must stop drinking to excess. Montrose, if you insist upon keeping company with slatterns, you will get the pox. It’s all deadly boring. I do not regret sending her to Scotland with my sister for a moment.”

  Morgan had just taken a healthy gulp of his claret when his cousin had begun his impersonation of Aunt Letitia. The falsetto, combined with the bit about the pox, nearly made him choke. “Good God, please tell me Aunt did not say anything so untoward.”

  “She did,” Monty confirmed, splashing some claret into a glass for himself and settling into his chair with an undignified plop. “Now tell me why you have come, daring to rouse me from my much-needed slumber. As you mentioned, I had not even the time to prepare myself, and I have been forced to greet you in the garments in which I slept. Dreadfully de trop, I am afraid.”

  Under other circumstances, Morgan would have laughed at Monty’s lighthearted dismissal of his indulgences the night before. But there was too much turmoil roiling within him. Too many important matters weighing upon his mind.

  “I need you to act as my second,” he blurted.

  Monty sobered instantly—as much as his cousin could ever sober, that was. “Your second?”

  “I am facing the Earl of Rayne on the field of honor. Will you stand with me?” he asked.

  His cousin frowned. “The Earl of Rayne is your wife’s brother, Searle.”

  He did not flinch. “Yes.”

  “You are facing him in a duel? Why? I thought you hadn’t even lifted the Forsythe chit’s skirts.”

  His blood boiled at Monty’s casual reference to Leonie. “You are speaking of my marchioness, Montrose.”

  “Erm, of course. Do forgive me.” Monty took a gulp of his claret and closed his eyes. “Ah, yes. Beginning to feel more like a gentleman than a dog again. Claret in the morning is just the thing.”

  “No amount of claret can turn you into a gentleman,” he could not resist pointing out. After all, it was true. He loved his cousin, but Monty was…Monty. “And I do hate to relay this information to you, but we are, in fact, in the midst of the afternoon.”

  “The devil it is. I’ve only just woken up.” Outrage tinged Monty’s voice.

  “Christ,” he muttered, raking a hand through his hair. “Will you be my second for the bloody duel, or do I need to find a substitute?”

  “Of course I shall, but you never answered me.” Monty paused, raking him with a searching glance. “Why Rayne? And since when is he returned to London? I thought the strange fellow did not like our cold and rainy shores.”

  Morgan downed the content of his glass and then held it out for Monty to replenish. “Rayne is responsible for my capture in Spain. I mean to kill him.”

  “Christ!” Monty’s hands shook in the act of pouring, sending claret running all over the desk. “You cannot mean to kill the man. You will be jailed for committing murder.”

  Morgan watched the red liquid spreading over the polished surface of his cousin’s desk, much like pooling blood, and he could not shake the feeling it was an omen of sorts. Blood would be spilled. His or Rayne’s. Either way, their duel would be to the death.

  The thought set his jaw on edge. Where once the thought of his vengeance costing him his life had seemed a paltry price to pay, he could not deny how much Leonie had changed him.

  “Are you prepared for such an eventuality, Cousin?” Monty pressed, surprisingly insightful.

  He thought of Leonie’s beautiful face. Her voice. Long waves of white-blonde hair, kisses that stole his breath, a touch that was so tender he could not help but to feel it in the deepest recesses of his black soul. He thought of picnics by the stream at Westmore Manor, of flowers and strawberries, of pleasure and passion.

  I love you, Morgan.

  She could be carrying his babe. Could he leave a child behind in the world? Could he leave Leonie?

  And then cold realization intruded. None of that mattered, for she would not forgive him for his betrayal. He thought of the manner in which she had looked upon him, as if he were a stranger. As if he had broken her heart. And perhaps he had.

  The words of the servant who had sent her the second dinner tray returned to him, just as vicious now as they had been then.

  Forgive me, my lord, but her ladyship says to tell his lordship the thought of strawberries makes her want to retch.

  “I am prepared,” he said grimly.

  *

  “I am prepared to put a stop to it however I must,” Leonora told Freddy.

  Shock rendered her dear friend’s expression slack. “Rayne and Searle cannot truly intend to duel.”

  “I am afraid they do.” She took a deep, calming breath lest her upset once more take control of her. After having relayed the entirety of her sad tale to Freddy upon her return to London, she was desperate for her friend’s advice. “I have asked my brother to reconsider, and he will not.”

  “What of Searle? Have you confronted him?” Freddy asked, anger coloring her voice. “How dare the rotter ruin you, my best friend, at my very own ball, with the intention of using you in such a nefarious manner? Why, I would like to duel him myself for hurting you.”

  “Oh, Freddy.
” Tears welled in her eyes on a sudden, fresh wave of emotion. But she refused to allow them to fall, and so she furiously blinked them into submission. “You cannot duel on my behalf, though I do appreciate the vehemence of your affections. Would that others would feel so inclined to care for me.”

  “Surely Searle cares for you, at least in some fashion,” Freddy argued then. “You seemed so happy on your last visit, and then you left for your honeymoon. I had such high hopes for you.”

  “As did I,” she admitted, dejected. “I am hopelessly confused, for I have lost my heart to him…or at least, to the side of him he showed me in the last fortnight. It was a different Searle, Freddy. He was tender and sweet, as if his only task in the world was to please me. I felt as if I had come to life for the first time in his arms. Does that sound foolish?”

  “Not at all, darling.” Freddy shook her head. “It sounds like what a wife ought to feel for her husband. Indeed, it sounds precisely like the way I feel whenever I am with Mr. Kirkwood.”

  Somehow, her friend’s revelation only increased her sense of dejection. “But what you and Mr. Kirkwood share is a true and real love. What I shared with Searle was one-sided, built upon lies and manipulations. He only married me so he could provoke Alessandro into dueling with him and gain his revenge.”

  “Revenge is an ugly and dark beast, is it not?” Freddy asked quietly, her expression pensive now. “But if you will recall, Duncan and I fell in love under similar circumstances.”

  That much was true. Mr. Kirkwood had been determined to gain vengeance against the father who had abandoned him in his youth, and in so doing, he had used Freddy to gain what he wanted. In the end, he had done everything in his power to win Freddy back.

  Leonora swallowed thickly. “But you and Mr. Kirkwood were in love. Searle does not love me. I am not even certain he cares for me.”

  “Angry as I am at him for his mistreatment of you, I cannot help but to wonder, Leonora,” Freddy surprised her by saying. “I think back to the manner in which he was aiding you at the ball. He seemed genuinely concerned for your comfort. And knowing you as I do, I am certain you would not have fallen in love with a man who never showed you any kindness or affection. Surely you had inklings that he cared?”

  Her friend’s words gave her pause, made her search through her mind for a re-visitation of all her interactions with her husband. He had made love to her for the first time with gentle care and beautiful consideration. He had gifted her the Searle rubies and told her she was an angel. He called her Leonie, and his kisses melted her. When he made love to her, he worshiped her—there was no other word for the glorious manner in which he made her body come to life.

  How could the Searle she had come to know in the last few weeks be the same man who planned to destroy her?

  “I…” she allowed her words to trail away, realizing she had no idea of the manner in which she ought to answer Freddy. Had Searle given her reasons to believe he cared for her? Yes. Had he also betrayed her brutally? Yes. “I do not know what to think or believe or trust, Freddy. As terrified as I am that he fooled me, I am more afraid I fooled myself. That I was so desperate for the husband and family I have longed for, I was too blind to see what was plainly before me.”

  “No.” Freddy’s response was as instant as her frown. “You are not to blame for the situation in which you find yourself. Searle is.”

  “But I am a fool, am I not?” This time Leonora could not contain her tears. “Because I love him still, even after realizing what he has done. I cannot simply stop my heart from feeling.”

  Her misery rolled through her, pouring out as sobs. How could she love him after his betrayal? How did he retain the power to make her so weak? Why did she long for him, even now? It made no sense. Her heart was a confused, hopeless mess.

  Freddy sat beside her on the settee, drawing her into an embrace. “You are not a fool, darling. Searle is. Shall I box his ears for you now?”

  She hugged her friend tightly, sniffling into Freddy’s shoulder. “No.”

  “Are you certain? I would like nothing better.”

  A laugh bubbled up inside her. Ridiculous, but there it was, levity in the midst of great sadness. Only true friends could accomplish such a feat. “Thank you, but no. If anyone shall box Searle’s ears, it will be me.”

  Freddy’s hand moved over her back in a soothing circle. “Very well, I shan’t box his ears. But I do have a different tactic in mind. One that, if Searle feels for you the way I suspect he does, will put an end to this duel nonsense. Do you want to hear it?”

  “Yes.” She sniffled. “Oh dear, Freddy. I do believe I am leaving an indecorous stain of tears and, well, perhaps even snot upon your sleeve.”

  “I do not mind, my darling,” her friend assured her. “That is what friends and sleeves are for. Now, do listen to my plan…”

  *

  Morgan returned to Linley House just in time to dress for dinner.

  He had gotten thoroughly sotted with Monty, and then the two of them had engaged in a bout of sparring in Monty’s ballroom rather than Gentleman Jackson’s, which left him in possession of a bruised jaw. Monty had fists like great, meaty ham bones. Morgan was not nearly as quick-witted and responsive when he was in his cups. The result had been disastrous.

  But, as his valet Carr shaved him—Morgan winced when the man’s razor skated over his freshly bruised flesh—and then helped him to slip into evening wear before tying a cravat at his neck. He had to admit he felt strangely numb. Almost as if he were trapped within the body of a stranger, going about his day, no inkling of what he ought to do or where he should be.

  Because all he wanted to do was seek out Leonie. It was a dreadful impulse; one he would be wise to banish with as much haste as possible. But there it was. He was at home, and somehow, home had come to mean his wife. His body ached for hers. His heart thrummed for her. His eyes had looked for her everywhere.

  He did not even know if she was at home, for his pride had not allowed him to inquire with Huell. And if she was, he knew without a doubt she would not deign to dine with him. But he had nowhere else to go. No social engagements, for he had begun summarily refusing all invitations sent him following his marriage to Leonie. The social whirl was not for him, and he had only suffered the various balls and musicales he had endured because he needed her as his bride.

  He did not wish to go to the club, for Kirkwood would likely have heard of his actions by now. Morgan did not doubt his wife had instantly run to Mrs. Kirkwood’s side upon her return to town, divulging everything. Which meant Kirkwood would either toss him out on his arse or challenge him to a second duel.

  Both of which he deserved.

  He thanked Carr and dismissed him, lingering for a few moments in the dressing room of his chamber, staring at himself in the looking glass. He scarcely recognized the man looking back at him. Jaded, harsh, all ugly angles and tired skin, he looked weary. And angry.

  He looked like the man who had hurt Leonie, and he hated that man. He hated himself. The Duke of Whitley’s words returned to him suddenly, echoing in his mind, landing somewhere in the vicinity of his chest.

  Let the past die. Let it go, or it may well kill you.

  He thought of Leonie, of how alive he felt whenever he held her in his arms. When he touched her. When he kissed her and made love to her. And he wanted that feeling, wanted it more than the hollowness of vengeance.

  But if he let go of his need to exact revenge upon Rayne, what did he have left? Retribution had been his driving force, the only emotion to propel him forward. He had been raised by two strangers who hated each other, and then he had spent the last few years mired in the hell of war. He did not have gentleness in him. He could not be the man Leonie needed. The man she deserved. She loved him, and he…he did not believe in love.

  Did he?

  Of course, he had most certainly killed whatever it was she felt for him. Lust, longing, desire, regardless of the name, he was sure he had repla
ced it with hatred instead. How fitting. Perhaps the son was forever doomed to repeat the mistakes of his father.

  Disgusted with himself, he left his chamber and descended to the dining room. His head was aching with the after-effects of the claret he’d consumed with Monty, and no doubt the blow he’d received as well. He needed some of Monsieur Talleyrand’s rich French cuisine to take away the edge, or else he needed more claret. Whichever he could get his hands on first.

  But as he reached the main floor, he forgot about sustenance and drink, and his pounding head altogether. Because there stood his wife, dressed in a blue evening gown with gossamer net, Forget-me-nots woven through her white-blonde curls, and she had never been more lovely than she was in that moment.

  “My lady,” he said, his tone roughened by the burst of longing shooting through him.

  Did the flowers in her hair hold a deeper meaning? Something within him dared to hope. Two days had passed since their picnic by the stream at Westmore Manor, but it may as well have been a lifetime.

  “My lord.” She dipped into a formal curtsy as he reached her.

  He bowed, her sweet scent overwhelming him. Her expression was guarded, her lovely pink lips compressed. “You are a most welcome sight this evening.”

  And she was. He could not deny it, regardless of how impenetrable he wished to be. She melted the hardness inside him, purified the ugly, jagged shards into something better. Something worthwhile. Replaced the darkness with her brightness, even though he did not wish the transformation.

  “Thank you, Searle.” Her gaze traveled over his face, lingering on his jaw. “Have you been engaged in a bout of fisticuffs? I do believe you have a bruise.”

  He rubbed the sore area gingerly. “A bit of sport with my cousin, Monty, nothing more.”

  She surprised him by raising her hand and gently tracing his jaw with a tender touch. “It looks as if it must hurt.”

  Morgan swallowed against a sudden knot in his throat at the caress of her fingers over his skin. Longing slammed into him. He had not allowed himself to admit how shaken her defection had left him. Without thought, he clasped her hand in his, holding it to his freshly shaven skin.