Duchess Decadence (3 page)

…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.

“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.

Well, Thea’s astonished expression
and
the shooting pain of Randolph’s knuckles against his jaw.

Chapter Two

The damp air within the Dowager Duchess of Wynchester’s carriage clung to the insides of Thea’s lungs like wet herbs to an apothecary’s mortar. Emma—the dowager duchess and the stepmother Wynchester derided—held Thea’s hand. Lavinia sat opposite, biting her lip and glancing out the window.

…Not that there was anything to see. The walls surrounding Wynchester’s London residence blocked both light and view. Thea wagered that even from John Coachman’s perch, one would not be able to see over the towering bricks.

“This is a prison,” Thea said, “not a home.”

“Well,” Lavinia hesitated, “the better to confine Eustace, right?”

“There is that,” Thea replied.

The farce of Wynchester’s dramatic departure had not been the worst part of the prior night. After most of the soiree guests had taken their leave, Eustace had appeared. And, as Thea had expected, carnage followed.

As of this morning, Sophia’s house had witnessed not one, but two violent deaths—Sophia’s father three years past and, last night, her half-sister. That both her father and half-sister had been ruthless spies hardly mitigated the horror.

Thea shivered. She’d known Eustace was bad, but just as Sophia’s sister Helena was about to reveal the identity of the mercenary Kasai, Eustace had shot Helena through her heart. According to him, he’d shot her in defense of himself and those present.

“Has anyone told Wynchester that Eustace is alive?” the dowager asked.

Thea exchanged a look with Lavinia. “I am uncertain.”

“Mr. Harrison promised to break the news,” Lavinia explained, “but not until he was certain how the Privy Council wished he and Randolph to proceed with their investigation of Eustace’s past. The majority of the Council is inclined to believe Eustace’s story that Helena—Sophia’s sister—had been his jailer. According to Eustace, Helena had been working with the Under Secretary on a treasonous plot to give East India Company control of Parliament and use the Company’s armies to strip the Monarchy of power.”

“Heavens,” Emma breathed.

“The King,” Lavinia continued, “dissolved Parliament in March, primarily based on the failure of Fox’s East India Bill, so the possibility of a wider conspiracy cannot be dismissed.”

“Conspiracy or none,” Thea said, “last night, Eustace committed murder.” Murder without remorse.

“When I heard the shot, I thought we’d lost Sophia.” Lavinia winced as she curled in her shoulders. “If only Lord Randolph had been a moment sooner, Sophia’s sister would have been able to reveal the identity of the horrible Kasai.”

“I don’t need her proof,” Thea said darkly. “I know Eustace. If he has not been playing the part of the bloodthirsty mercenary, he is intimately involved. Power is Eustace’s passion.”

Lavinia turned to the dowager. “The Privy Council is inclined to believe that the Under Secretary was the one playing the part of Kasai—abetted first by Sophia’s father, then by her sister. Eustace
claimed
he had been their unwilling accomplice.”

“Was there any proof of his claims?” Emma asked.

“In part,” Thea reluctantly admitted. “Helena carried stolen documents. They indicate the Under Secretary met frequently with Company directors under the cover of a brothel, but there is no mention of Eustace.”

“Did the Under Secretary confess?” Emma asked.

Thea shook her head no. “He is missing.” The image of Sir Bronward Layton collecting her pile of gold coins flashed in Thea’s mind—but the Under Secretary and his nephew were not first in her concern.

“Poor Sophia,” Lavinia added, “Randolph’s superiors have instructed them to act as if another murder in her family was just a terrible accident.”

“Sophia will have her justice,” Thea vowed.

“I hope so,” Lavinia sighed and looked out the window, “but with the Privy Council hesitant to charge the duke’s only heir…”

Thea silenced inward bells of alarm. “I keep hearing Eustace’s warning, ‘Now you are the devoted wife,’” she mimicked Eustace’s tone, “‘Wynchester may have chosen you the last time, but you have since betrayed him. He will choose differently this time.’”

She feared the truth behind Eustace’s words. Wynchester had sent his brother to India
after
Eustace had accused Thea of theft. His brother’s death had weighed heavily on Wynchester and the joy of discovering Eustace was alive could blind Wynchester to the man’s faults and to her presence. Would Wyn ultimately choose Eustace over her?

She bit down on her lips. It was her responsibility to make certain he did not. If Wynchester remained as passionate as he’d been last night, she had a chance.

…But the infuriating man shunned passion. When he sobered, he’d be mortified by the way he’s acted and would likely withdraw back into his rock-like shell of reserve.

Emma patted Thea’s hand. “Your duke has more of his father’s passion in his veins than he will ever admit. The best of his father, in my opinion.” Emma sat back against the cushions. “Eustace will never understand what drives his brother.”

Thea snorted. “Do you think
I
understand what drives Wynchester?”

Emma’s eyes softened. “I believe you could, if you put your mind to the task.”

Thea fluffed a ruffle from her petticoat. “And I believe you have misplaced your faith.”

“Remember, my dear, you are not returning to the man you left. You have both changed…for the better and, I hope, the wiser.”

Of all the names Thea could have used for her current state,
wise
was not one. Was it wise to return to a husband one had left for good reason, even if there could be a plot against his life? Was it wise to have been just the smallest bit deflated after Randolph had rescued her last night? Not at all, but she fortified her resolve none-the-less. Even if she held conflicting feelings for Wynchester the man, she would not allow Eustace to win.

“Well,” Emma sighed, “at least Eustace cannot claim you have returned to Wynchester simply because you bear him malice. You are returning with your pride intact, thanks to the rouse you and your fellow Furies concocted.”

“Yes,” Lavinia agreed. “And should you have need, send word and the Furies will be by your side.”

Thea smiled weakly. “It’s the only thought that gives me strength.” For so long, the Furies had been inseparable—sharing each others triumphs, soothing each other’s pain. Already, she missed Lavinia and Sophia. She would miss Emma, too, since she, Lavinia, and Sophia had been living with Emma since the trouble at Lavinia’s house. “After the way Wynchester acted, I will need all the strength I can muster.”

Emma smothered a smirk. “Lavinia told me Wynchester came to your soiree a few sheets in the wind…”

“A few sheets?” Thea lifted her brows. “Wynchester was dead drunk.”

Lavinia winced. “I daresay the duke will be a bit worse for his wear this afternoon.”

“Really?” Thea replied with intoned sarcasm. “He humiliated himself in front of men he believes beneath him. I sent him home in a coach with orders for all drink to be locked inside the cellar. I will pay for both, I am sure.”

“Do not anticipate the worst,” Emma said, “or you will encourage the worst to happen.”

“So,” Thea quipped, “how do
you
propose I proceed?”

Emma grinned. “Start with,
Good afternoon, Wynchester
. Move on from there.”

From there
. Memory pressed the ghost impression of Wyn’s hand against her chin. He’d been flushed. A fine sheen of sweat had wet the hair at his temples. Why did he have to be so terribly tall—and intense?

Her heart stopped along with the carriage.

She was no young miss to be dazzled by the presence of a duke. She’d earned her own title after all—Duchess Decadence—even if it was a title of infamy. This time, they would meet as equals. She would protect him, yes, but the duke would also learn he had met his match.

Show me, will he? Well, I will show him, too.

Two liveried guards opened the massive iron gates. They entered a cobblestoned courtyard anchored at the center by a marble statue of the goddess Diana with bow drawn and aimed at entering guests. Thea shivered. Clearly, the duke’s intent was to awe and terrify…and he had spared no expense.

“Intimidating, no?” Emma asked.

“Almost as much as the man himself,” Thea turned to the dowager. “Are you sure you cannot remain here as well? Clearly, Wynchester has room to spare.”

Emma’s smile was kind, but resolute. “You know my presence can only impede your progress.” She cupped Thea’s cheek. “I see courage in you. Courage that has long been missing.”

“What do you see in him?” she asked.

“Heart,” Emma answered.

Thea frowned. “That, I cannot believe.”

“I loved his father, remember? I was his mistress and a well-known madam, and yet he married me. He risked much to have me by his side.” Emma sighed. “Wynchester would do the same for love, if he believed the sacrifice would be accepted.”

The skin on Thea’s neck tingled.
No, you never asked me to sacrifice for you
.

“I am,” she said defensively, “not yet convinced he has a heart.”

“Are you not?” Emma asked.

“He was aloof the whole of our marriage,” she said. “And after I left, he forbade his close friends and staff from speaking with me.”

Emma’s expression remained tolerant and kind. “What he did not know could not hurt him. And the farther apart your worlds, the less likely he was to do something shocking or maudlin. Something like he did last night.”

“Ah,” Lavinia murmured with sudden understanding.

Thea pushed aside a flare of hope. “What if you are wrong, Emma?”

“For the sake of your marriage,” Emma asked, “why not believe I am right? Besides, he did not do the one thing that could have shut down the Furies in a day.”

“What was that?” Lavinia asked.

“Thea’s credit, dear. He did not blacken her name with creditors—and he could have.”

“But coverture—” Lavinia started to argue.

“Yes, I know he was legally responsible for her debts. His rank protects him from Bailiffs but if he had let it be known he did not wish credit to be extended to his estranged duchess, who would have challenged him?” Emma angled in her seat to directly address the duchess. “
Trust
me. You wield more power with the duke than you believe, though you must never let him see how much you know. A man in love is a vulnerable thing.”

Thea had shivered at the word Bailiff, but the word love brought on a scowl. “In love?” She shook her head. “It will be a cold day in hell before I believe Wynchester harbors any true affection for me.”

Emma’s eyes turned sad. “I will admit his actions speak in whispers as opposed to shouts. Yet I believe there is cause to anticipate your future happiness.”

Thea grimaced. “I did not know you were of such a romantic nature, Emma.”

“
I
knew she was,” Lavinia said. “And I know you have a romantic nature, too.”

Thea snorted. “I haven’t a romantic bone in my body.”

…

The fifth Duke of Wynchester managed to reach the end of his estate account reconciliation despite the incessant pounding in his head. He scratched the final number into his ledger and dusted the page with pounce. A quick twirl in the sand well cleaned the nub and he returned the shaved quill to its box.

His stewards—he had more than one—kept records for various properties, but only he had a master record. He kept that record because there were times when his quill’s soft scratch was his only comfort. Black numbers in neat lines never failed to restore a sense of order and continuity. And today, over all other days, he needed comfort.

He leaned back in his chair and templed his fingers under his chin. As had become his habit in the past few weeks, his gaze settled on Thea Marie’s portrait. Unlike his companion portrait hanging on the wall—and everything else in his pristine mansion—a thick layer of dust coated Thea’s portrait’s frame. No servant had dared touch the thing from the moment he’d ordered the workmen handling the colossus to
drop that—now
. He’d failed to give further direction, so they’d left her on the floor. And there she had stayed for four years.
Duchess Decadence
. The beautiful, haughty, infamous gambler who was both his bane and his wife.

He stood, rounded his desk, and leaned in for a closer inspection. Her fathomless eyes—the painter had perfectly matched their ocean-cold hue—stared out from the canvas as if daring him to touch. He put up his hand, letting his fingers hover just a breath away from the line of her chin.

Thea Marie…

He curled his fingers into a fist and pressed his knuckle against his lips. He hated the way his heartbeat tripped at the mere thought of her name. This past winter, he had almost convinced himself the yawing wound she’d ripped open when she left had sealed.

Then, a month or so ago, he’d discovered Harrison, the former MP of one of his districts and his most dependable friend, had been seen with Thea at a Fury soiree. Jealousy had bubbled up in a frothing stew of need and frustration. The mad broth remained, even after Harrison explained that he had gone to the soiree in search of his former love, Lavinia.