Page 10 of Duke with a Debt (Wicked Dukes Society #2)

CHAPTER 10

I mpossible as it was to believe, Rosamund was a married woman.

Not just any married woman.

She was now the Duchess of Camden.

No longer Miss Payne. No longer a spinster. What a whirlwind of change after so many years.

The morning had been a personification of the past few weeks—a mad rush of indecision followed by an inevitable, final choice. Rosamund had decided upon a different gown for the ceremony at the last minute, resulting in her lady’s maid having to help her remove the gown she had initially selected with all its myriad buttons and hooks, then to frantically dress her in a new gown. As there hadn’t been sufficient time to have a gown made for the occasion, Rosamund had chosen a striking red silk ornamented with blonde lace and velvet bows, forgoing a more subdued morning gown of ecru silk from the same Regent Street dressmaker.

Her decision had been worth the frenzied struggle to don a new gown when she had joined her husband in the church and his gaze had all but devoured her. She had felt, for the first time in as long as she could recall, as if she were truly beautiful. As if she were capable of commanding the admiring gazes of every man who had joined them.

They had spoken their vows in what seemed a dream for how quickly it had passed, before pews filled with their closest friends and family members. And now, she was seated at her husband’s side at their wedding breakfast. As a point of pride, they were holding the affair at Stuart’s town house. Evidence of his reduced means was the hallmark of the once-grand edifice. She had not dared to call attention to the threadbare carpets, the faded wall coverings bereft of pictures, or the alarming lack of domestics. These matters would need to be addressed, however, now that she was the mistress of the house.

“You aren’t eating the Poulets gras au Cresson ,” her new husband observed softly at her side. “Is it not to your liking?”

The food was excellent, and that was thanks to Stuart’s willingness to allow her own chef to aid his cook in the preparation of the morning’s many courses.

“It is delightful,” she murmured, making a show of cutting off a bite-sized piece.

The problem was not the quality of the offerings. Already, there had been decadent asparagus soup, lamb cutlets, lobster salad, and an assortment of meats in aspics.

To emphasize her response, she brought the forkful of meat to her lips.

His gaze settled on her mouth, and all the misgiving that had been churning in her stomach since she had risen that morning was banished by an instant spark of awareness.

The way he was looking at her. Good heavens , it was positively sinful.

At least the consummation of their marriage would come soon enough. It was a wicked thought to entertain before all their happily chattering and eating guests, and she hoped none of them would spy the flush she felt creeping over her cheeks.

She swallowed the chicken and watercress cream, then licked her lips.

His gaze jerked back to hers. “We have a journey ahead of us. I don’t want you to be hungry.”

“Yes, of course.” She shifted on her chair, trying to ignore the liquid heat pooling between her thighs by distracting herself.

Tomorrow, they were off on a honeymoon in Hertfordshire at Stuart’s country seat, Gilden Hall. It had been a surprise, but a welcome one. She would have an additional fortnight to prepare herself for living under the same roof as her former betrothed. Stuart had warned her that the house was not in its finest form, but given his lack of funds, that was to be expected. Rosamund was eager to explore the land and house.

Best of all, the general proximity of Gilden Hall to London meant that she and Stuart could travel by carriage instead of train, and Megs could accompany them. Rosamund had made the mistake of bringing her beloved parrot with her in a private train car once, and she would never repeat the error. Poor Megs had been terrified of all the sounds and bumps and swaying. She had scarcely spoken for days after their return, having spent the entirety of the journey huddling in a corner of her cage.

“Is something amiss?” Stuart asked her, his voice hushed, his hand settling on her lap beneath the table.

The heavy fall of his hand on her upper thigh had her inhaling sharply. Her entire body was so acutely attuned to his. She’d spent the morning not far from his side, breathing in his heady scent, admiring the breadth of his shoulders in his elegant coat, the lean lines of his long, muscular legs in his trousers, admiring how very handsome he was. More than once, she had caught herself wondering how this beautiful man had come to be hers.

It seemed an impossibility. Her old feelings of never being sufficient had returned with relentless determination, telling her she was not pretty enough, not smart enough, not interesting enough. That, aside from her fortune, there was nothing truly outstanding about her.

That Stuart was only marrying her for her wealth.

She tamped down such thoughts yet again to answer him.

“Nothing is wrong,” she said. “I am merely weary after all the preparations for today.”

True, there had not been as many preparations as most society weddings would have possessed. Their nuptials had been hasty. Rosamund didn’t fret over details such as flowers or the wedding breakfast menu. Mother had quite thankfully commandeered those tasks. Stuart’s mother, meanwhile, had been notably absent from all planning and the wedding itself. Nor was she at the breakfast. Stuart had explained that she was feeling too ill to join them. Rosamund had decided she would pay a visit to her new mother-in-law’s quarters when she was strong enough for companionship. How lonely it must be to spend life as an invalid, confined to a chamber. Rosamund didn’t think she could bear it, not even with Megs to entertain her.

“Has my brother caused you any trouble?” Stuart asked quietly next.

It had been very strange to see Lord Wesley again, sitting in the pews at her nuptials to his brother. Not, to be certain, the wedding day she had once imagined for herself. But she was wholeheartedly glad that she had not married Wesley, that she had discovered what manner of man he truly was before she had been tied to him for life.

“He hasn’t spoken a word to me,” she reassured Stuart, taking note of the tension in his bearing, in the tight clench of his jaw.

She had known that there was no love lost between the brothers. Stuart had been candid about Wesley seducing the woman he had loved and intended to wed, about the vicious jealousy that ruled his brother. But there was more, she suspected, behind Stuart’s apprehension. She wondered now if the brothers had exchanged words.

Over her?

Surely not, she thought. That was fanciful musings on her part.

“Good.” Stuart nodded, reaching for a glass of wine and looking unaccountably grim. “See that he doesn’t. I don’t want him bothering you. Should he do so, come to me, if you please.”

He spoke with quiet care, making certain that his words didn’t carry beyond the two of them at their private table.

“Has he done or said something to make you think he would?” she asked, searching her husband’s expression.

Husband.

Yes, he was that now.

How little she knew of him. There would be much to learn.

“We can discuss it later, my dear,” he told her calmly. “I should hate to ruin the meal by lingering on such an unpleasant subject.”

“Of course,” she agreed, subtly removing her hand from above the table and placing it upon his on her lap.

She had meant the gesture as one of wifely comfort. But the moment their bare hands touched, awareness swept over her. Stuart’s expression suggested he had felt the same potent response. She laced her fingers through his, feeling a curious sense of tenderness rushing up from deep within her, melding with the desire.

But just as quickly as she felt it, she banished it, removing her hand and turning her attention back to her plate. She mustn’t make the mistake of allowing herself to become too vulnerable. Today was the first day of the rest of their lives, and she would need to become more adept at guarding her heart if she was to make the most of this marriage of convenience.

She wanted a family, she reminded herself. Children of her own. She did not want to lose her heart to a man who was a notorious rake and had only married her to save his estates from ruinous debt. All she had to do was remember that.

Needing a moment of quiet, she excused herself from the table and rose, slipping from the wedding breakfast, in search of the lady’s withdrawing room. But she had scarcely made it into the hall before Lord Wesley waylaid her, quite as if he had followed her from the room.

At such proximity, the signs of three years’ worth of dissipation were evident. He was yet handsome, as she had remembered, but there were notable changes in him now. His face was thinner, his cheekbones slashing in stark relief beneath his eyes, where dark half-moons and lines marred his formerly youthful skin. His blond hair was too long, and his suit—not nearly as elegant as Stuart’s—hung on his tall frame.

Her reaction to him was one of visceral contempt.

She eyed him warily. “What is it that you want, Lord Wesley?”

He gave her a slow smile, his gaze raking down her body in a way she did not like. “I think you know what I want, Rosamund. What I’ve been starving for.”

Surely he was not suggesting what she thought he was. What manner of man would accost his newly wed sister-in-law in the hall outside her wedding breakfast and make an amorous overture to her? Lord Wesley Gilden, it would seem.

She forced a cool smile. “There is ample food at the wedding breakfast. If you are hungry, I suggest you begin there.”

He laughed. But where once she would have thought the sound so very charming and irresistible, she now knew it was not genuine.

“I don’t think I’ll find what I want within the ballroom when you’ve run out here into the hall,” he said, stepping closer.

The scent of wine emanated from him. The reason for the glassy look to his eyes, she thought, and moved to put more distance between them.

“I have no notion what you’re speaking about, my lord,” she told him, frowning to discourage his further unwanted attentions.

“I think you do, Rosamund.” He started forward.

“And I think you are soused, Lord Wesley,” she told him sharply. “I will be generous and forget this exchange ever happened.”

When she made to skirt around him, he placed a hand on her forearm, staying her. “I’m not so drunk that I don’t know what I want. And you want it too. You always have, have you not? I do recall your pretty words of love and all the tears you later shed over me quite well, Rosamund.”

She shook free of his hold. “You do not have leave to speak with me so freely, Lord Wesley. In future, I suggest you exercise restraint and hold your tongue. Excuse me.”

Without bothering with the pretense of manners, she whirled away from him, seeking refuge in the lady’s withdrawing room, her stomach knotted. Little wonder Stuart possessed such disdain for his brother. Lord Wesley had just propositioned his sister-in-law on her wedding day. Thank heavens she had thrown him over years ago. He would have made her life an utter misery.

She could only hope her life with Stuart would turn out far, far differently.

It was late afternoon by the time the last of their guests had departed and Stuart had performed the customary introduction of Rosamund to his domestics. Mother would have to wait as she had been napping when they had stopped together at her room. Now, their tour of his dilapidated town house had at last brought them to the room that would henceforth be hers. He almost dreaded the presentation of the room, which had gone unused for the better part of a decade after Mother had chosen to take a different chamber upon his father’s death. It was in as dreadful a state as the rest of the town house. But together, they would rectify that.

He opened the door for Rosamund, allowing her to precede him into the chamber, which had been aired out and thoroughly cleaned, if not decorated in proper style, in preparation for her arrival. “After you, my dear.”

“Thank you.”

Rosamund crossed the threshold in her magnificent red gown, the one that had been taunting him all morning and afternoon long. The brilliant color brought out the sparks of fiery cinnamon in her hair, and the way it hugged her waist and emphasized her breasts was nothing short of criminal.

He followed in her wake, the intricate train of her gown necessitating more distance between them than he preferred. But never mind that. He couldn’t very well shag her the moment he had her alone in a bedroom.

Could he?

His conscience warred with his desire for her.

As he closed the door behind them, a familiar voice cooled the lust in his veins considerably, siding with his conscience.

“Gormless shite.”

Fucking hell. The bloody parrot.

“Megs,” Rosamund chided, gliding across the chamber to where her damned feathered beast preened on its perch.

“We meet again,” he drawled, pinning the nettlesome creature with his sternest ducal glare.

Megs stared at him, unperturbed, those silvery eyes unwavering. “Walk the plank. What a good bird.”

“Megs, you truly must learn to get along with the duke,” Rosamund said, taking up a small velvet pouch that was near the bird’s perch and shaking a pistachio into the palm of her opposite hand.

“Megs want pistache,” the bird declared, fluffing her feathers.

“Somehow, I hadn’t thought she would be finding her new home in your bedroom,” he said dryly.

“She has always slept in my bedroom from the time she first came to me,” Rosamund told him as she offered the undeserving bird a nut.

Megs took the pistachio in her beak, nibbling on it while continuing to glare at him.

He turned to his new wife, who had just declared that an African grey parrot who despised him would be an omnipresent fixture in her bedroom. “Perhaps she would be more comfortable in the adjoining sitting room. With the door closed.”

And locked, he thought uncharitably. Better yet, back in Rosamund’s town house, keeping her mother company. The solution seemed an excellent one.

“I’m not sure if she will settle there,” Rosamund said, turning back to him.

And with the full force of her gaze on him, it was almost impossible to recall there was a parrot in the room at all. Rosamund stole his entire attention. She was nothing short of stunning in her regal gown, rubies and diamonds at her throat and ears, red silk roses tucked into her elaborate coiffure. Every man in attendance today had been unable to look away from her, including his bastard of a brother.

But Stuart didn’t want to think about Wesley now. He could only hope his brother had gone in search of his usual amusements and that he wouldn’t return until after Stuart and Rosamund left for their honeymoon tomorrow morning.

“Perhaps it wouldn’t hurt for her to try spending the evening elsewhere,” he suggested, trying to keep his rampant cock under control.

It wouldn’t do to ravish his new wife at the first opportunity. And particularly not before a damned bird.

“Megs can be rather noisy when she’s distressed.” Rosamund was busy fretting, nibbling on her lower lip. “She has already had the upheaval of new surroundings. I fear she’ll be distraught if she isn’t with me as she is accustomed.”

Was there a polite way to tell one’s wife that one wanted to fuck her senseless without an audience? To explain that licking her cunny whilst her pet bird watched on was decidedly unappealing?

Not for the first time, it occurred to Stuart how woefully inept he was at being a husband. A proper man. Not a lover, not a rake carrying on with his mistress or whatever experienced woman had tempted him for the night. No, this was different. A whole new world. One in which he had never existed before, nor dreamed he would.

He scrubbed a hand over his jaw, still searching for a means of conveying his opinion without causing her insult or distress. “Rosamund.”

She was fussing over the parrot now, cooing at her and rubbing the bird’s head with her thumb. Was it wrong to be jealous of the feathered menace? Because he was, just now. He wanted to be the sole recipient of his glorious wife’s attention. He wanted her to be desperate with desire for him, throwing her arms around his neck, kissing him wildly. He didn’t want her to be caressing her parrot.

“Rosamund,” he said again, his tone intentionally firmer this time.

She turned to look at him over her shoulder, still stroking the African grey. “What is it?”

He felt foolish. He felt as if he were bursting with raw, feverish lust. He felt as if he had waited a lifetime for this moment without previously realizing it, only to be standing there now like a dolt in a borrowed suit, second to a parrot.

He stared at her, unable to think of a single way he might convey the whirlwind of emotion and passion writhing within him. “I don’t think the bird likes me,” he said stupidly instead.

This earned him a tinkling laugh from his new wife, and that didn’t help to assuage his hardening cock one whit. Rosamund’s laugh was husky and beautiful. He wanted to kiss her while she was smiling, to drink the joy from her lips. He wanted…so much that it frightened him.

“Come here,” Rosamund invited, extending a hand to him, smiling softly.

He settled his palm in hers, their fingers entwining, and he felt the connection deep within. There was a feeling of rightness, of possession, of his body recognizing that this was his woman. The future mother of his children. The thought made his prick thicken, much to his dismay. When had the notion of having a babe ever made him randy?

What was happening to him?

The answer appeared in the next second. He was allowing his new wife to pull him to her pet bird, and he was essentially no better than the feathered nuisance, adoring her, preening for her, desperate for her slightest touch. They stood side by side, their fingers still linked, and then she raised their hands as one.

“You must introduce yourself to Megs properly,” Rosamund said, “and show her some affection. Show her that you mean no harm.”

“Gormless shite,” the bloody parrot announced.

He gave Rosamund a meaningful look. “As I said, the thing doesn’t like me.”

“I cannot blame her at the moment.” Rosamund frowned, looking adorably cross with him. “ She is Megs, not a thing and not a bird. She is my companion, and for years now, she has been my steadfast champion, in times of grief and times of pain, just as in times of happiness and joy.”

He wondered what had caused her happiness and joy, having an inkling of what had caused her grief and pain. This revelation was not helping to abate the ridiculous jealousy he felt toward the feathered thorn in his paw.

Stuart cleared his throat. “My apologies. I know she is your companion and that you love her. Clearly, she returns your feelings.”

The parrot was currently bending her head sideways in a ridiculous fashion, just so that she could receive the touch of Rosamund’s free thumb beneath her neck. Damned bird.

Megs straightened and stared at him, unblinking. “Feelings, feelings. What a pretty bird.”

Excellent. The little intruder was taunting him now.

“I’ll help you to pet her,” Rosamund said, bringing their linked hands to hover over the parrot.

He half expected the creature to peck him.

“I don’t know if I ought to…”

“Nonsense,” she countered. “All you need to do is be gentle. Use one finger or your thumb, and stroke her feathers as I’ve done. She will adore you in no time.”

Surprisingly, Megs held herself still as Rosamund guided his hand to the feathers atop her head. Using his forefinger, he lightly stroked the bird as Rosamund had demonstrated. She released her hold on him, and then he was petting the dratted parrot himself. And the bird was looking into his eyes with her silvery gaze, and for a moment, he thought they’d formed a truce.

Until Megs chirped, “Gormless shite.”

He withdrew his finger and turned to Rosamund. “You see? I made an effort to call pax, and she threw it in my face.”

His wife was clearly struggling to contain a smile. “Perhaps she needs to grow more accustomed to you. The only gentlemen she has known thus far during her time with me are my butler and some of the footmen. You are new to her.”

“She may have all the time she requires,” he said reasonably. “In the adjoining sitting room.”

“But she sleeps in my room.”

“That was before you had a husband.”

She drew back her shoulders, her eyes narrowing. “Are you saying that since I have married you, you now have the right to issue an edict on where Megs shall sleep?”

This woman.

He wanted to kiss her. To get her out of that dress. To taste every inch of her luscious form.

“Put to point,” he drawled, “I don’t recall the many stipulations in the marriage contract discussing where the feathered menace would sleep. But that’s not why I’m objecting to her presence in your bedroom, Rosamund.”

She planted her hands on her waist in a defensive pose, a woman ready to go into battle. “Why, then?”

“Because I don’t want to make love to you with an audience,” he told her, holding her gaze.

Her lips parted. “Oh.”

“Yes, oh .” He reached for her hands and pulled them from their positions on her waist, then used them to tug her against him. “I want you all to myself. No interruptions. No gormless shites .”

“Gormless shite,” Megs chirped, fluttering her wings.

He raised a brow. “The feathered demon simply cannot behave herself.”

“You might have simply said so,” Rosamund countered, her voice low. “I thought you were being overbearing. Although calling Megs a demon is rather a bit much…”

He ignored the last. Because the bird was nothing if not demonic, at least in his estimation.

“I have no intention of being overbearing with you.” He lowered his head, nuzzling her ear and inhaling the sweet scent of her deeply into his lungs. “But I do intend to be inside you. As soon as I’m able.”

He kissed her throat, absorbing the ripple as she swallowed hard at his words.

“That is…you are…”

Stuart smiled against her silken skin. How he adored when she grew flustered and couldn’t complete her sentences. Ordinarily, Rosamund was so composed and capable and buttoned-up, almost to the point of frostiness. But he knew the heated passion burning hotly beneath her prim exterior. And her complete lack of control made his cock hard.

“We can leave Megs as she is for now,” he murmured. “Come to my room.”

To emphasize his invitation, he placed a series of openmouthed kisses down her neck, sucking gently, tasting some of the floral essence she must have dabbed there when she dressed that morning. Sweet, she was so sweet. And after waiting what had felt like an eternity to make her his wife and then go through the formalities of their wedding day, he had her alone at last.

Well, save the bloody bird. But he’d improvised.

Rosamund made a low sound in her throat, tilting her head back to grant him greater access. “I…we…yes.”

He kissed her neck again, holding her to him, his eyes closing as he savored the moment, the feeling of her in his arms. He hadn’t expected to be so moved, to want her so much. Stuart straightened and, still holding one of her hands in his, drew her to the door adjoining their chambers. The parrot fluffed her feathers on her perch but didn’t offer further objection.

Which was just as well, because he would have ignored it.

He crossed the threshold into his bedroom, drawing Rosamund into his territory, and shut the door firmly at her back. They would have no audience here. No interruptions. And by God, he couldn’t wait to make her his wife in deed as well as in name.