“A single night’s excess will hardly be your ruin.” She frowned. “Even if it was, I would not be the cause.”
“Wouldn’t you?” Slowly, he rose from the chair, eyes hurling accusation with the same force he’d use to thrust one of the centuries-old Wynchester swords. “Every choice I made has been a sacrifice to the Worthington name and Wynchester title, the name and title you carry and have blackened without cause or feeling.”
Without cause? Without feeling? She inhaled sharply. My pregnancy ended in violence and pain because your loyalties lay elsewhere.
The words clanged against her teeth, straining to be spat in a final act of defiance that would, no doubt, result in a permanent rupture. She waited for the dark haze of anger, fear, and grief to dissipate, as she learned it would do with time and steadied breath. Old wounds may fester, but, right now, the slanderer Eustace was scheming his way back into their lives, and she believed he would be more than happy to see her husband in the grave.
She donned her most haughty expression, the one she used when returning a cut-direct.
“Well,” she said, “I never asked you to sacrifice for me.”
He held his breath as if he, too, struggled to restrain horrible words. Internally, she crumpled. Damnation. Even three sheets in the wind, he held sway over her spirit. She had courage and cunning but she hadn’t the strength. Truly, she hadn’t. And what deity in heaven or on earth would grant her angry heart Grace? The air was hot. Her skirts were heavy. Unattractive perspiration dampened her neck. She looked toward her mottled reflection in the night-dark window.
Run, her reflection ordered.
“No,” he said softly.
Wynchester’s quiet resignation slithered under her skin. Her fingers stretched and stiffened inside tight gloves.
“Pardon?” she asked.
“No,” he repeated, “you never asked me to sacrifice for you.”
Something in his tone forced her to turn. His gaze dealt a stunning blow.
“And if I had?”
He straightened. “Let us lay the past aside. I am here, aren’t I? I responded at once to your challenge. Have you no guess as to why?”
She held his words in mental hands as if they formed the last piece of a puzzle. She turned them this way and that, but no matter which direction she tried, his words did not fit the scene she’d painstakingly created during their years of separation. She knew he wished for her return—but believed he acted for propriety’s sake, not his own.
…Yet the yearning in his gaze was not just for the restoration of appearances.
A slanted smile lifted one side of his mouth as he touched the pewter cup on Sophia’s desk. “What say you, Decadence? Shall we rattle fate?”
“We have a wager,” she said, almost by rote.
“Yes,” he drew out the single syllable and dangled the word into the silence.
She moistened her lips. “If I win, we discuss a Parliamentary divorce.”
Such simple words for a public scandal that would, in truth, be Wynchester’s ruin.
He veiled his gaze with lowered lids. “And if I win, you return home for the summer, with further consideration to be given at summer’s end.”
Home, for her, had been with The Furies. She’d never once set foot in the fortress he’d built following the riots. She swallowed.
“If you win, I will return for the summer.”
“Well, then, we are agreed.” He dropped the dice into the cup and swirled. “Shall we?”
He tossed the contents on the table. Five and four.
“A respectable throw,” she said.
He picked up the dice, dropped them into the cup, and scowled. “If I win,” he said slowly, “you will not just return. You will make every effort.”
Request-framed-as-fact. Now there was the Wynchester she recognized.
“I will,” she echoed, “make every effort.” God help her.
He threw again. Two and six.
She exhaled with relief, her worst uncertainty allayed. Against those throws, her two sets of weighted dice—one three and two, one four and two—could only lose. She plucked the cup from his hands and then dropped her arm, rattling the bone against pewter to block her exchange of dice.
She applied gentle pressure to his chest until he sat back down. She circled behind his chair, trailing fingers along his shoulders. As she removed the non-weighted dice, she leaned down and placed her cheek against his. Then, she inhaled.
His was not the country-spring scent favored by men of the court, but a scent of richness and spice, a scent as expansive as the timbre of his voice was deep. It lingered, as did the vague presence of a thousand shared-and-forgotten moments. He’d been hers for a very long time. Longer, even, than they’d been wed. And yet, he’d never been hers at all. He’d been ice and crag, as distant and isolated and beyond her power to reach as the mass of glacier and rock known as Old Greenland.
“When my father pledged me to you,” she whispered as she tucked the honest dice he’d used inside her sleeve, “I was little beyond the cradle.”
A slight exaggeration, but not entirely untrue.
Their unusual childhood betrothal had been more of an honor-bind than a legal contract. Thea’s father had been indebted to the duke and the only possible payment was his deceased wife’s property, held in an unbreakable trust for Thea. A settlement had been proposed. Thea Marie had been presented. Thea’s bloodlines met the dying duchess’s expectation; her property met the duke’s need. The anticipated marriage brought a satisfactory resolution to all.
All but the two whose lives would be joined.
“You were well-beyond milk-and-toast. You,”—the duke made an indeterminate sound—“with your large, knowing eyes fixed on my every move, as if I’d been summoned solely for your entertainment.”
Thea’s memory was less visual—a queasy flutter that had spun in her heart when the serious, red-cheeked boy had grasped her hand in his and bowed.
“No matter what my age,” she said, “from the moment our fathers came to terms, I was raised by my family to belong to yours. I was drilled in duty, history, and practice until my greater loyalty belonged to the Worthington name and the Wynchester title.”
“Loyalty?” he out-and-out snorted yet again. “Was it loyal of you to abandon our marriage bed?”
She smoothed the wrinkles out of her gloves before sliding between his knees and perching on the desk. An encore of the queasy flutter-dance of long ago sped up in tempo until it reached a Bedlam-frenzy. Tonight, she may have lost a fortune, but she had guided Wynchester’s mental shuffle to her only ace. She braced herself with one hand, leaned forward, and caressed his tangled hair.
“What are you about?”
She smiled, faint. “I am proving my point: you have no cuckold horns.” She let her hand fall from his hair into her lap. “I abandoned our marriage home, Wynchester. The bed remains undisgraced…at least by me.”
His pupils expanded, turning dark orbs to India ink. Her gamble had paid returns. Good. Her chest-flutter settled—a sensation much like a caged bird abandoning hope of escape.
“Thea Marie,” his Adam’s apple bobbed, “do you mean to say you have not…?”
“Are you so perfect,” she narrowed her eyes, “you cannot even speak sin?”
He blanched and she cursed her penchant for sarcasm.
“I have been no saint,” she intentionally softened her voice, “but the answer is no, I have ‘known’ no other man.”
He took hold of the hand in her lap. The rough edges of his signet ring pressed into her thigh. “Why not?”
She read urgency in his gaze. “Your father’s affair—and subsequent marriage—caused irreparable damage to your family. And,” she spoke honestly, “I would not hoist on you a bastard duke.”
A wild light entered his eyes. “Is that why you proposed this wager? Do you wish for divorce because you have found another?”
“Many tried.” She silenced the
excited bird trilling in the hollow between her neck bones. “None succeeded.”
He rose to his feet. “Thea Marie…”
Bending down, he touched his forehead to hers. Wisps of their hair mingled, brown-to-black, like parted veins of a feather. Could they too, be smoothed together with just the right touch? Thea closed her eyes as her heart cried, please.
“Where those throws test throws,” she forced out, before she lost nerve, “or do you hold?”
…
Touched-starved and hungry for his long-absent wife, Wynchester tightened his grip on Thea Marie’s hand. If he hadn’t done so, he might have ripped away his cravat, torn open his shirt, and caught her cheek against his heart, just to feel the sensation of her breath snaking across his bared chest. Instead, he pressed his duchess’s forehead to his own and savored smooth heat passing from skin-to-skin—a sensation, if he discounted their passionate kiss a few weeks past, he had not experienced in several lonely years.
Saint-bloody-Swithin. He’d sworn never to be as his father had been—a man driven by base urges, but he wanted Thea Marie the way a child yearned for spun sugar. He wanted her more than he needed to get-the-bloody-hell out before he sold the pale-skinned Fury his soul.
Again.
Since their first night together, his body had yearned to tumble her like a trollop. He’d used all his control to submerge his desires and treat her with the deference due a lady. He’d been careful to guard his response to her, careful to protect them both. Nonetheless, she had rejected him.
Justly so, apparently. For after mere minutes in her presence, he’d become a panting panther.
Sentiment. He cursed inwardly.
Sentiment beaconed like a siren. But sentiment was an ugly, grasping beast who lent men like his father temporary comfort while demanding heavy payment from the next generation—disgrace.
A single chance to regain his honor shined between alive-and-smitten and alone-and-shamed and Thea Marie’s esteem had never been part of the devil’s bargain. He’d come here tonight with the will and the means to take her home, no matter what the outcome of her blasted wager. If she won, he’d be honor-bound to discuss divorce, but he intended to have those discussions in his home. Preferably in his bed.
Despite what she believed, however, he was no monster. If she so desired, he would allow her to continue her separate life, after he had a legitimate heir. An heir was his duty and hers. How could he allow the Wynchester title to revert to the crown after all he’d sacrificed?
But to have his heir, he needed her compliance. And for that, he needed to be balanced more carefully than a salt-seller’s scale. The last draught of Armagnac had been a mistake.
…And probably the three before that.
“Duke,” her stern voice shoved him back into the present and the skin of his balls tightened in answer. “I asked if you hold.”
His head swam. What had he thrown? An eight, then a nine. Seventeen altogether. That meant… damn. He couldn’t recall, exactly. But to throw again he’d have to release her. He would not release her. Especially now, after her admission had shifted the ground beneath his feet.
She had not sought comfort in the arms of another. There was hope for more than just an heir, damn it all.
…Hope. The word was alien.
“Throw.” His throat burned with the barked command.
With her free hand, she picked up the cup. Bone rattled against metal and fell silent after her toss. She turned her head to the side.
“What,” his voice cracked, “did you throw?”
“A three and a two.”
Five. He summoned what remained of his concentration. Seventeen minus five. His heartbeat quickened. The cup clinked against the desk.
“The odds are against me, Wyn.”
She’d spoken the nickname he’d always hated, but without her usual malice. The single syllable skid through his drunken thoughts like a lifeline cast to an overboard seaman.
“Two sixes,” he said, “could save you.”
“What are the chances?” she asked.
“Throw again,” he said roughly. Fate was on his side. He would have her justly. He would have her whole. And this time, he would not give her an easy out. She would lose. And she would be honor-bound to be his—at least for the summer.
She craned her neck to drop the dice back into the cup, swirled and tossed.
“Well.” She set down the cup and looked into his face.
He placed his finger against her mouth. “Swear there has been no one else.”
She nodded, forcing his finger to slide against her silken lips. “There has been no one but you.”
He drank in the contrast of her sky-colored eyes and peat-black hair as he lifted her jaw. He’d been enchanted by her face, called by the mystery in her pale, intelligent eyes. But in their youth, infatuation hadn’t been enough against the challenge of marriage and the horrible sting of grief.
“The loss of the babe could have been brought on by shock,” the doctor said. “Or the injuries she sustained when the crowd attacked the house.”
Have you forgiven me? He hadn’t spoken the caustic question, but he read her answer in her still-wary expression. She was right; he was ultimately responsible for their pain. He did not know what poultice could draw out the fester from such a wound, but surely one existed.
“Tell me,” he requested gently, “what fate has decreed.”
“I threw another five.” She did not look disappointed. “By one point, fate decrees you victorious.”
“I win.”
In an invisible mind-cup, he twirled the black dice of their future. His rudderless ship could reach only one port—he had to choose. He could open to the invitation within her parted lips. They would have a second chance.
Or, he could declare her false north, and proceed as he had drunkenly resolved—the production of an heir and then a return to quietly separate lives thereafter.
The latter would keep the Wynchester title from oblivion and keep him safe from the danger in her eyes. The spirits he’d ingested burned in his stomach.
Haddon!—unbidden, a dormitory-taunt using his youth’s courtesy title rose in his mind—heard your mama died and your father married a whore. You think she likes your mama’s bed?
With determined effort he’d risen above such taunts. No one had dared besmirch the Wynchester title since he’d become the duke. No one except Thea Marie. She’d shunned him and joined her friends on the edges of respectability, leaving him a laughingstock.
I hear the duchess has a gift with cards, Wynchester. Why don’t you wager her for a night in her bed?
His cheeks grew as taut as a spring-trap. Tonight, in a manner of speaking, he’d done just as the fools suggested. Although she—not he—had issued the wager. A wager he’d won. Which meant she would have to return…and she would have to make every effort.
“I will show you,” his words came out murky and low. “I will show you.”
Her eyes grew wide. “Show me?”
He nodded, not trusting his voice for more. He had no idea—no idea—what would become of them. Between here and his black-dice future hid recriminations with teeth as sharp as iron leg-traps. All he knew was that he must show her he was—
“My dear Duke,” she said, “there is no need—”
“Yes,” he interrupted. He was her dear duke—hers to have and to hold, for better, for worse—and he was going to take her home. Now.
“I will not let you forget this time, Duchess.”
She shrieked as he swept her off her feet. She was surprisingly light for so tall and troublesome a creature.
“What,” she yelped, “do you think you are doing?”
He stalked to the door. “Open!” he yelled, as if the door itself would heed his command.
Lady Vaile swung open the door and took a swift step back. “Oh dear,” she cried. “Max!”
He strode out into the larger room, ignoring both lady and guests.
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br /> “Wynchester!” the duchess pleaded. “Good God, everyone is looking.”
“Let them sketch the image and take it to Grub Street, for all I care.” He ignored the sudden silence in the room and headed for the hall and beyond that—his carriage. “I am taking,” he said loudly, “my duchess home.”
On the far side of the room, Lady Sophia stood on her toes, stretching toward the Earl of Randolph.
Bah. First Harrison, now Randolph. And, worse, he had bet Harrison a cask of his best brandy Lord Randolph and the fiendishly pretty little Fury would never come together. Then again, losing his cask was not the worst—he swayed as he pressed onward—he’d had enough brandy for quite some time.
“Sentiment,” he spat with disgust.
“That’s it,” the duchess said with a look of pure horror, “put me down.”
“No.”
Sentiment may be a weasely creature with ferret-sharp teeth, but at the moment he rather enjoyed its effects. Strength surged though his limbs and his intent was startlingly clear—bed. Thea Marie let out a wail loud enough to pierce heaven’s veil. It rang in his ears as he increased the length of his stride, knocking over an inconvenient chair in the process.
“I said, put me down.” Thea pummeled his back and shoulders—blows that matched the burgeoning pound in his head. “Help!”
“You lost,” the duke said hefting her higher. “That means you’re mine—no further negotiation.”
“Wynchester!” Harrison’s call cut through the noise, but Harrison was too far away to reach him in time. The door was just five—four—three—
“Wynchester,” Randolph’s voice froze his steps, “The duchess has requested you unhand her.”
“The duke,” he paused to take a slight bow, “declines.”
“Wynchester,” Harrison skidded to a stop on the hall’s marble floor. “You are not yourself.”
Sophia and Lavinia rounded out their cozy circus act.
“Put down your wife,” Randolph said, with threat intoned.
Enough. Wynchester swung around, accidentally knocking Sophia from her feet.
Shit. Randolph was not going to like that. Now he must help the interfering Fury. He lowered Thea to the floor. Lavinia whisked her aside. Thea’s astonished expression was the last thing he remembered.
Duchess Decadence Page 2
