Page 1 of Daring with a Duke (The Jennings Family #2)

1

Felicity

Chesterfield Ball, London, England.

April 1817.

WHEN LADY FELICITY JENNINGS was told as a little girl she would grow up to be a duchess, it had felt like something plucked from a fairy tale. But now, leaning against the wall in a Chesterfield drawing room, watching her betrothed tup yet another woman, it was quite clear marrying the heir to a dukedom was far from a dream.

It had been four years of this. Well, not four years of watching her fiancé swiving other women against escritoires. But it had been four years of him bedding other women . And she had wanted to have a discussion with her fiancé about that little pickle. Not be subject to yet another one of his amorous pursuits.

Ironically enough, this was not the first assignation she’d stumbled upon tonight. It wasn’t the second, either. Apparently, the Chesterfield ball was awash with assignations. In seeking out her fiancé, she had stumbled across the Iron Duke with two women on their knees. One of those women happened to be her best friend, Lady Camoys—and while discussing Maribeth’s exploits was one thing, witnessing a man’s appendage down her best friend’s throat was a mite too much for her to handle.

So, she had fled to the next closed door. But still, no betrothed, just the Marquess of Dunmore stark-naked with Lady Torrington. It had been more difficult to pull herself away from that one. There was no naked-best-friend in that room. And…Lord Dunmore had been bound— bound —to the settee while Lady Torrington seemed to be using his body as her own personal pleasure play space. That had been enlightening. Felicity had tucked away those enticing observations for future fantasies

Then, finally, she had found her fiancé: Colborn Stuart, Lord Wessex.

Felicity sighed and stretched her stiff neck from side to side, rolling her shoulders. Was it bad that—as titillating as the assignations she had stumbled upon tonight were—she had no desire to attempt any of those activities with her own betrothed? She tilted her head, Colborn’s white arse clenching and unclenching as he thrust into the woman hidden from Felicity’s view. Unfaithfulness did a capital job at dousing sexual desire.

Four years betrothed. Four years of discovering her fiancé with women who were not herself. How many years were too many? Until she couldn’t take it anymore?

Four years seemed an apt number.

Especially considering what had come to light during her conversation with Mama last evening.

Something fell to the floor with a thud, the escritoire rocking wildly beneath the pair’s couplings. Probably Felicity’s hopes and dreams. Dear heavens, this waiting was becoming tiresome. She checked the clock on the mantel. Half-past eleven. She crossed her arms, and her foot picked up an impatient tapping.

Felicity had brought her mounting concerns about her impending marriage to her mother once again. This time, her mother must have finally seen Felicity’s concern for what it truly was—panic. Panic that had been simmering and brewing and intensifying into a monstrous presence over four years. Because of said bare-arsed cad in front of her. It was a pity. He actually had a nice arse. But the whole effect was ruined by the fact that the arse in question was attached to the prick currently inside another woman.

And that was when Felicity’s mother told her the truth. The horrible, heart-breaking truth. Her parents had not been the love match Felicity had always believed they were. It was not the rare, once-in-a-lifetime love hardly ever found amongst marriages in the ton. Not even close. It was a lie. A facade. A chimera.

It was the way of things, Mama had cajoled, and assured Felicity that marriage to Papa had been wonderful. She had loved Felicity’s father, just not in the romantic sense.

Felicity rubbed at the old, familiar ache that came every time she thought of Papa. Six years later, and she still felt his loss as keenly as ever. Perhaps that was part of what made her mother’s confession so hard to absorb.

Her parents had always been what Felicity pictured as the perfect marriage, the perfect example of love. The perfect Papa and Mama. Everything she yearned to have for herself.

But when it came to romance, her parents had both sought it out separately. With other companions. Outside their marriage.

Friendship in a marriage is much more important than love , her mother had said. You and Lord Wessex get along swimmingly. That is a great start for a marriage. You can find love elsewhere, darling.

How bloody lovely.

The woman hidden behind Colborn made an incredibly dramatic string of noises. Which was good, as it drowned out Felicity’s sardonic huff. Felicity was also quite sure the woman’s moans were feigned—either that, or they were cries of despair and not pleasure.

Felicity had not been inspired to make any such noises when Colborn had taken her virginity. Well, not taken… She had willingly given it. She winced at the memory. It had been very unpleasant.

She glanced around the horribly colored drawing room—it looked like someone had tossed up the most unappealing colors of the rainbow all in one room. Now that she thought about it, taking in the phlegm-green wall coverings and regurgitated-salmon pillows, it might have happened in this very drawing room. Ah, yes, there was the putrid mustard-yellow settee he had tupped her on.

Colborn’s grunts grew in volume and frequency. This should be over soon. Thank the bloody gods. She wanted to get this conversation over with already.

She sighed. Giving him her virginity had not had the effect she had hoped—the scene before her proof of that. Felicity had foolishly thought if she slept with Colborn, he would stop sleeping with other women. She hadn’t wanted to anticipate their vows, but if it meant gaining the fidelity of her soon-but-not- soon -to-be husband—because at four years, could one still even say soon-to-be husband?—she would do what needed to be done.

Perhaps that was a bit of a lie. Felicity had been curious about what all the fuss was about. The noises resembling a fatal animal attack filling the chamber she now stood in, being case in point. What could possibly inspire such noises?

Her best friend Maribeth had had a long line of lovers since she had married—Felicity walking in on Mare with the Iron Duke earlier being a prime example. Mare constantly raved about relations and what Felicity was missing out on.

And back when Felicity had lost her virginity—goodness, was that three years ago?—she had still been somewhat enamored of Colborn. Thought him quite handsome and dashing. But all of that had been quite literally dashed after their quick joining. Either Felicity was broken, or Colborn was not as talented as his reputation led one to believe.

She tended to lean toward the latter.

An odd, high-pitched squeal mixed with a muffled, hoarse yell. She wrinkled her nose. That had sounded deuced awkward.

Felicity pushed off the wall. That would do it. Finally, the twosome was done.

She brought her hands together in a slow, mocking applause. The woman’s gaze flew to Felicity’s—ah, Lady Ashton this time—and Colborn spun around to face her, breeches still around his thighs, certain parts of himself…swinging about. Dear Lord, could this be any more farcical?

“If you would excuse us, Lady Ashton. I would like a moment to speak with my betrothed. I will be sure to keep him detained long enough that no one will see you two leaving the room too close together.” Felicity shot the woman an exaggerated wink. “Your secret is safe with me.”

The woman’s eyes stretched comically wide, like she had just seen a ghost—or perhaps her lover’s deranged fiancé. No one would ever expect the demure Lady Felicity Jennings to be sarcastic. No one would expect her to be anything but poised and polite and perfectly put-together. She was always perfectly in control—of everything except for her own future. So essentially, everything except for what mattered.

The woman hastily tugged and pulled her outrageously pink gown into place as she fled the drawing room.

Felicity turned on her fiancé and planted her hands on her hips.

“It’s not what it looks like, Felicity.” Colborn’s tone was sickly earnest, his face reminiscent of a pure-hearted cherub.

She couldn’t stop herself. She burst out laughing.

“It’s—It’s not what it looks like?” she said through gasps. “Oh, heavens, Colborn. That’s a good one.” She fanned a hand in front of her face and tried to get a hold of herself. But it was just too ridiculous. This situation. Her life. Her future.

“Let me guess, you just happened to fall, and your prick quite accidentally landed in Lady Ashton’s lady bits. Thank goodness her quim was there to catch you.”

Colborn’s eyelids fell heavy over a quickly darkening gaze. “Well, well, well, fiancé. I had no idea you knew of such language.”

He wouldn’t have, because Felicity’s inner monologue was always held in strict reserve. Her family and close friends were the few who witnessed the true Felicity. One didn’t win husbands with a crude mouth, even if creative cursing was an art form Felicity excelled at.

It was one of the things her father had often reminded her of. She could be as wild and free as she wanted in the privacy of her own home as long as she knew what was expected of her out in society.

Sometimes she wondered if she took the wild and free a bit too far because of how composed she was required to be so much of the time. But that was too much self-reflection for a moment such as this.

“I have to say I find it quite…exciting,” he said. His previously softening prick bobbed in her direction. Blech . “Perhaps you would like a turn, then?”

And Felicity’s amusement evaporated. In its place: a stampede of snorting, enraged, and quite possibly dangerous beasts.

“Oh my God,” she said, her words barely audible through her clenched teeth, surprised she even managed to form words. “You are disgusting, Colborn. Truly.”

He frowned at her and opened his mouth, but she continued before he could spew something else idiotic.

“I am not here for that . I sought you out to discuss our marriage and your…amorous activities. I have been assured over and over by others that this is normal. You are just sowing your wild oats. But we have been betrothed for four years, Colborn. At this rate, you have planted your seed in every field and grove in England. I want to know. From you. Will this stop when we marry? Or will this continue?”

She almost asked when in the blazing ballocks they were going to get married—because four years —but she didn’t truly want to know. Because she truly didn’t want it to happen.

“Stop?” His beautiful face contorted as if he were attempting to translate Ancient Greek. “I suppose I could slow down a touch in the beginning. But it’s not the way of things, Felicity.”

He tilted his head, his fashionably pomaded light brown hair slicked to perfection, and he had the nerve to look at her like she had grown two heads. Like she was the fool here.

She supposed she was.

Felicity sucked in a deep breath before letting it pass slowly through her lips. All right. So, it was to be a marriage like her parents. That was fine. Not what she had dreamed of. That wasn’t a small piece of her heart breaking off and sinking to the bottom of the filth-infested Thames. Why she had even bothered hoping only highlighted how bacon-brained she truly was.

Because how silly of her to dream she would love her husband, and he her. One could not be a duchess and have once-in-a-lifetime love. That was clearly too much good fortune for the fates to bestow on one person. But her parents had been unbelievably happy. So, Felicity would find a way to do that as well.

“I see. I will provide you with the heir and the spare. And after that we will be…friends of a sort, lead separate lives, have separate lovers.” She nodded, as though the motion would convince her this plan had merit, make her future taste more palatable. Not chalky and dry and requiring a full glass of wine to wash it down.

She did like spending time with Colborn. She could see herself being friends with him. It would be just like with Maribeth, always teasing her friend about her sexual escapades. Except with her husband.

She almost laughed. Teasing one’s husband about his sexual escapades—what a farce.

And then Colborn was laughing. Her gaze shot to his, and he was not nodding in agreement. He was shaking his head.

“No, no, no. You cannot take a lover, Felicity. It’ll look poorly on me to be cuckolded.”

“I would be discreet, my lord.” She frowned at him, barely preventing the eye roll desperate to escape. “A skill you seem utterly unfamiliar with.”

The amusement left his face in a slow wave, and he clenched his jaw. A petulant child minutes from a tantrum. “The answer is still no, Felicity. I saw you across the ballroom all those years ago, and I knew I had to have you. You are to be mine, and mine alone. I will not have my wife sullied by another man.” His face softened slightly, a sly smile curving his stupidly full lips. “You have nothing to worry about. I will give you all the attention you need. Trust me,” he purred.

She ground her teeth. The man was impossible. He was a child, and she was his treat he refused to let go of from sticky, chubby fingers. She hadn’t liked his attention three years ago and didn’t require any more of it. She didn’t care how pretty he was. She didn’t care he was going to be a duke. She didn’t care that he was drowning in money.

She strangled the fabric of her skirts in her fingers. He wouldn’t give her, nor allow her, the things most important to her: love, affection, safety, security. Yes, she would have safety and security based on title and wealth, but her heart in Colborn’s hands? Her children’s lives in Colborn’s hands? Would one give a fragile marble bust to a two-year-old?

“I do not want to hear talk of this ever again, Felicity. Are we understood?”

Oh, unquestionably.

Irrefutably.

In-fucking-dubitably.

“Yes, Colby,” she said, her honey sweet voice at odds with the contempt coursing through her veins. “I see very clearly what our marriage will look like now.”

There was nothing to see—because it was decidedly not happening.