Page 6 of Duke with a Debt (Wicked Dukes Society #2)

CHAPTER 6

R osamund didn’t have the opportunity to speak with Camden until Lord and Lady Sidmouth’s wedding breakfast was nearly over. Thankfully, the sheer size of the nuptials had meant that guests were spilling all over the town house, and now that everyone had feasted and the newlyweds were about to depart for their honeymoon, she seized her chance. Separating herself from Mother, she sidled near to Camden, who was looking grim as he stood alone near a potted palm in the hall.

“Weddings are supposed to be a cause for celebration,” she told him sotto voce .

As if jolted from deep thoughts, he turned to her, his expression shifting—softening a bit. “Rosamund.”

Their gazes had met and held more than once over the course of the morning, and each time, she had been reminded of the kisses they had shared. She wondered if he had been thinking of their heated embrace as well, or if he had not been as moved as she had. After all, he was an established rake with a notorious reputation. Her experience, by comparison, was painfully small.

The reminder made her all the more determined to tell him what she must.

“I was hoping I might speak with you for a few minutes,” she said.

His pale gaze flicked about, taking in the guests surrounding them. “Now?”

She surveyed the hall as well, hoping no one was paying them any heed; to her relief, their fellow guests all appeared distracted. “It’s rather urgent,” she told him. “But perhaps this is a conversation best held in private.”

He nodded, and his eyes returned to hers, searching. “The library is down the hall to the left. I doubt the other guests are making use of it. I’ll go first, and you can join me in a moment.”

“Thank you,” she murmured.

Camden slipped away from her, blending easily into the crush, though he was a head taller than many of the other gentlemen in attendance. Certainly, he was the most handsome and compelling. Her gaze followed him of its own accord as he disappeared down the hall and slipped into a room that must have been the library. After assuring herself that no one had seen him, nor were they watching her, she made her way to the periphery of the gathered guests. The wine had been flowing swiftly, and from the loud laughter echoing down the hall, it would seem that the guests were all halfway into their cups.

She moved with haste, holding her breath until she had reached the library. She crossed the threshold to find him awaiting her, hands clasped behind his back in a casual pose that made her heart pound. Good heavens, he was so handsome. His lips were unsmiling, and looking at them made her recall, for the hundredth time, how they had felt on hers.

Warm and knowing and skillful. Decadent and intoxicating.

Maybe this was a mistake, her madcap plan to ascertain whether they would suit. What had she been thinking, to even come to him with such a request? He had agreed to her stipulations. She wasn’t sure she could find the daring to make such a brazen request of him.

“Come, Rosamund,” he said. “Close the door behind you. We’ll have privacy here, for a few minutes at least.”

Rosamund did as he ordered, the door clicking closed with an ominous, if well-oiled, snick.

“How are you so familiar with the Duke of Arrington’s town house?” she blurted nervously into the cavernous room.

Bookshelves lined the walls around them, the comforting scent of leather and paper filling the air. Libraries ordinarily were one of her favorite places—so many possibilities, so many worlds within the quiet spines. And yet, she was not moved to investigate. Camden commanded all her attention.

He inclined his head. “The duchess is a good friend of my mother’s. I spent a great deal of time here visiting, getting lost in the halls and finding myself in all manner of trouble as she paid calls when I was a lad.”

Strangely, thinking of him as a young boy, filled with an adventurous spirit, exploring the same halls they had just walked, made warmth trickle through her.

She licked her lips, which had gone dry. “I didn’t realize that Lord Sidmouth’s grandmother was friends with your mother.”

During her betrothal to Lord Wesley, Rosamund had never met her. The Duchess of Camden had been ill, her health tenuous at best, and Rosamund suddenly recalled Wesley telling her something about Camden, as the heir, being his mother’s favored son. There had been bitterness in his voice, which she had ascribed at the time to hurt feelings. Odd how she had forgotten about that conversation until now, when she couldn’t help but see their discussion in a new, troubling light, given what Camden had told her about Lord Wesley.

“The two of them are old bosom bows,” Camden said easily, a wistful smile on his lips. “Mother would have dearly loved to attend Sidmouth’s wedding today. It’s a pity she wasn’t able.”

“I am sorry that her health didn’t permit it,” she said, her heart giving a pang at the raw emotion in his voice.

“As am I.” They stared at each other in silence, Rosamund’s heart beating ever faster as he moved toward her, closing the comfortable distance separating them. “But there is only so much we can control in this life of ours, and as much as I wish she were well, I am simply glad she is with us still.”

“Of course,” she murmured, feeling even more foolish about her request now that such important matters had been discussed.

As a daughter who had lost her father, she completely understood Camden’s emotions. Perhaps they could forget she had requested a private audience and return to the gathering. Surely the time would soon come for Lord and Lady Sidmouth to embark on their honeymoon and for farewells to be exchanged.

She opened her mouth to suggest as much when Camden spoke.

“What is it that you wished to speak with me about?” he asked.

Oh dear.

She was going to have to tell him. How else would she explain convincing him to take the risk of meeting in the Duke of Arrington’s library in the midst of a wedding breakfast?

She took a deep breath and then blurted what had been weighing on her mind ever since her discussion with Miranda. “I’ve been considering something else. A matter far too delicate to be enumerated in the marriage contract, but one that is important to me, nonetheless.”

“You signed the contract,” he reminded her.

Rosamund inclined her head, for that formality had indeed been observed between them. “I am aware of that, of course. But as I said, my concern is too sensitive to be bandied about by solicitors, regardless of their oaths and duties.”

He considered her, unsmiling, his jaw tense. “Go on.”

“Before we marry, I need to know whether we are…compatible,” she explained, feeling her cheeks go hot.

“Compatible,” he repeated.

One word. His expression was as blank as a new canvas, as if he was completely unaware of what she was intimating.

“Yes. As stated in my stipulations, one of the reasons I am amenable to this match is that it will allow me to have a family of my own,” she elaborated. “However, as it stands, I have no notion of whether the two of us would suit.”

“Suit?”

She grew impatient. “Are you toying with me, Your Grace?”

“I assure you I am not. I’m merely attempting to make certain I’m clear about what you are saying, Rosamund.” He moved toward her with sudden, purposeful strides, and she was so startled that she moved backward in response, until she was neatly trapped, a wall of books at her back and the Duke of Camden hovering over her. He braced his hands on the shelves at either side of her head and leaned close, the heady scent of sandalwood and musk igniting the fires of desire within her. And then he lowered his head, so that she was almost certain he would press his mouth to hers. Kiss her again.

But he didn’t.

He just stared at her with his pale, impenetrable gaze instead.

Finally, he spoke, his voice low and silken and unbearably intimate. “Because what it sounds like to me is that you are suggesting you want to know how we suit in bed. Is that what you meant?”

In bed. How sinful he made it sound.

Yes, it was what she had meant. But somehow, admitting it to him felt akin to stripping herself of all garments before him. Which, of course, she would need to do one day. But not now. Not yet. Not in the library of the Duke of Arrington’s town house in the midst of a wedding breakfast, where, at any moment, someone might walk in and find them.

She licked her lips. “I… Surely it’s not such an outrageous requirement. A marriage necessitates a certain closeness, does it not? We haven’t courted in the proper sense. I scarcely know you.”

“You know me well enough.”

“Not that well.”

“Are you saying you want me to bed you?”

Was she?

“I…well…I…”

The confirmation wouldn’t spill from her lips.

No man had ever spoken to her so bluntly. Was it Camden’s proximity, the suggestion in his tone, his decadent scent? His handsome face a scant inch from hers, his mouth so near? She couldn’t say, but there was a deep ache inside her. A restless yearning.

Did she want him to bed her? Yes.

Would such a concession be scandalous? Absolutely.

Could she help herself? No.

“Having difficulty finding the words, my dear?” he taunted, a smug smile on his lips.

“Yes,” she blurted. “That is what I want.”

He stilled, his countenance taking on a harsh yearning she’d never seen from him. It was as if his icy mask had slipped, revealing the man beneath.

“You’re certain?” he asked softly.

Here was her chance to tell him no . To regain what remained of her sanity.

“Yes,” she said.

He straightened abruptly, grasping her hand in his. “Come.”

Camden didn’t bother to wait for her to reply either. He began striding away, taking her with him.

“Where are we going?”

“Somewhere we can be alone,” he said enigmatically. “I came here with the Duke of Brandon. We’ll take his carriage.”

“Take his carriage without his permission?”

“I have his permission to use it as I please.” He cast a hot look over his shoulder at her that stole her breath. “Have you a better plan?”

“Can this…whatever it is…not wait?” she queried, breathless now from the haste with which they were decamping from the library.

They made it to the outer hall, where the voices of the guests filtered from the dining room and ballroom where the breakfast was being held.

“No,” he said simply. “It cannot.”

He tugged her down the hall and through the entry, where they gathered her wrap, hat, and gloves along with his overcoat, and then into the outdoors. Some of their fellow revelers had flocked to the street where Lord and Lady Sidmouth were preparing to say their farewells and step up into their carriage for their honeymoon. They were all too preoccupied to take note of the Duke of Camden hauling her across the pavements.

“You can’t spirit me away with Mother in attendance,” she protested, scandalized at the prospect.

She hastened her pace until she was at his side, matching his long-limbed strides.

“I didn’t reckon I would bring Mrs. Payne along with us for your debauching,” he murmured in her ear as he led her down a line of parked carriages.

Debauching.

Oh dear heaven. She stumbled over her own feet, stepping on her hems. Why did it sound so right and so wrong all at once? She had to put a halt to this sheer madness. They stopped before a gleaming carriage marked with the Duke of Brandon’s crest.

“But—”

“No buts, Rosamund,” Camden argued sternly. “Get in.”

The urgent command in his voice, coupled with the fear that someone would see them entering the carriage together, had her moving. Up into the carriage she went, settling on a Moroccan leather squab.

But to her alarm, he didn’t follow her. Instead, he turned away from the carriage.

“Where are you going?” she demanded.

“To tell your mother that you’re feeling ill and I’m taking care of you, so she needn’t worry. She can take the carriage to your town house on her own, and I will bring you there later.”

“Oh,” she managed, deflated and rather guilty that she had neglected to think of informing her mother of what was happening in the pell-mell retreat from the wedding breakfast.

He nodded. “I’ll be but a moment.”

Camden didn’t give her an opportunity to respond. He simply stalked in the opposite direction, leaving her to wait. A servant closed the door to the carriage. She sat there staring at the interior of the Duke of Brandon’s carriage, telling herself that she should go. That remaining here was a mistake.

She had noticed a sensual shift in Camden that had been nothing short of dangerous in the library. Her heart yet pounded and her nipples were still hard, but their state had nothing to do with the chill in the air and everything to do with the Duke of Camden crowding her into a wall of books and asking her if she was saying she wanted him to bed her.

Bed.

Camden.

These two words together brought sinful thoughts to mind. Thoughts she should not be thinking. But then, wasn’t this her idea? Hadn’t she been the one who wanted to know whether they would suit each other in the bedchamber?

It had seemed somehow simpler then, when the overwhelming reality of Camden hadn’t been before her, around her. When his eyes hadn’t been burning into hers with undeniable desire. When his mouth hadn’t been a breath away from hers and when she hadn’t needed to fret over being whisked from a wedding breakfast in a stolen carriage.

Borrowed, perhaps. He had permission. So he claimed. Oh, what if the Duke of Brandon leapt into his carriage at this very moment and found her here, alone, waiting for Camden to return? Would he raise a cry amongst their fellow guests? Would she be ruined? Perhaps that was Camden’s goal. Had she allowed herself to be neatly led into a trap of her own making?

The carriage door swung open, and to her relief, it wasn’t Brandon climbing inside but Camden. He settled on the bench opposite her, the servant closed the door once more, and then the duke gave the roof a simple rap, indicating he was ready to take his leave.

All while holding her stare.

Rosamund could scarcely breathe.

Or think.

Yes, that is what you must do , she reminded herself. Think.

“Did you find my mother?” she asked as the conveyance lurched into motion.

“Yes.” He stretched his legs across the carriage, crossing them at the ankles. In his elegant black suit, he was wonderfully handsome. But she could see wear at the seams. His garments were not new. Indeed, at his left elbow, a clever hand had made an excellent effort at restoring a tear. The only sign was a small pucker, catching Rosamund’s gaze for a moment.

She didn’t like this evidence of his reduced circumstances. The Duke of Camden was a beautiful man. He should have been dressed in the newest and best fashion, not in a suit slightly faded from laundering, the evidence of repairs everywhere a discerning eye could be cast.

Belatedly, she realized he had offered her nothing beyond that single-word reply.

She jerked her gaze from the flaws in his suit, which seemed somehow magnified in the close quarters of the carriage. “What did you tell her?”

“I told her that a megrim had come upon you and that you needed to rest, but that she ought to proceed home with the carriage the two of you brought.”

She closed her eyes for a moment, her stomach twisting into a knot of worry. “What if she tells everyone?”

“I do believe she will hold her tongue.”

“But she blurts things sometimes, Camden. She has done for some time now. Inappropriate truths. Something like Megs, now that I think upon it. For all we know, she is announcing to everyone at the wedding breakfast that you have run away with me to assuage my megrim.”

He leaned forward, resting his forearms on his thighs as he did so, his regard impossible to avoid. “And if she does?”

She ran her tongue over her bottom lip. “Then I shall be ruined.”

“You will also be ruined after I bed you.” His tone was conversational despite the sinful nature of his words.

Did nothing move him? Had that naked hunger in the library been naught but her imagination?

“I never said that you should…that we ought to…that…”

Her words trailed away, chased by an acute fit of embarrassment. What she truly meant to say was that even if he did bed her, no one would know. But she kept tripping over bed . A three-letter word laden with so many wicked implications.

A slow smile curved the corners of his sensual lips upward. “My goodness, Rosamund. Never say that my brave, fierce, determined woman cannot speak plainly with her future husband.”

He was baiting her. But worse, he was enjoying her discomfiture. His unrepentant grin said so. And truly, what was wrong with her that a part of her deep within stirred to the way he had called her his woman? How positively primitive.

“If you will recall, I haven’t decided you are to be my husband just yet,” she reminded him sharply, vexed with herself for being charmed.

For apparently having learned nothing from her disastrous betrothal with this infinitely more dangerous man’s brother. She needed to keep her wits about her. To make certain that she made the right decision. She couldn’t afford to be swayed.

“Ah,” he said, drawing the word out as he straightened, settling back against the squabs. “If you are undecided, then I will have to do my utmost to persuade you. However shall I do it?”

She took a shallow breath. “Camden.”

“My given name is Stuart. Perhaps you might try it.”

Stuart. She hadn’t known. But it suited him. She liked it. She liked the way he was looking at her now as well, as if she were a sweet he intended to devour. Slowly. And with great deliberation.

“Stuart,” she repeated, the name feeling foreign.

Intimate. Far too intimate for this confined space when his heated gaze was threatening to send her up in flames.

His smile faded, and he became utterly serious. “There. That was not so difficult, was it?”

“No, I suppose not,” she conceded. “However, the rest of it is a mistake. Perhaps I was being hasty in thinking we needed to make certain we’re compatible.”

“Oh no,” he said, his tone smooth. “I think you were absolutely right, my dear. We owe it to ourselves to do so.”

“I didn’t intend for it to happen today,” she blurted, frustrated.

“Rosamund?”

She eyed him warily. “Yes?”

He extended a gloved hand. “Come here.”

There was nowhere to go that wouldn’t involve being pressed against him. And she didn’t trust herself. Or him, as it happened.

“I am perfectly comfortable as I am,” she declined primly.

“If you don’t come here of your own volition, I’ll haul you onto my lap. If that is what you’d prefer, I’m happy to oblige. However, if you would like to sit by my side, then now is the time to do so.”

She raised her eyebrows. “Is that a threat?”

The corner of his mouth kicked upward in a half grin. “It’s a promise, sweetheart. Now, which will it be?”

She settled her hand in his, and he tugged her across the carriage, allowing her to seat herself at his side. “There. Are you well pleased now?”

“Pleased enough, if not well pleased.”

Rosamund huffed a sigh. “Have you forgotten that I am the one who is truly in control in this situation of ours, Camden?”

The grin faded from his lips. “Of course I haven’t. Have you forgotten to call me Stuart?”

His scent was once more wrapped around her, his sinful mouth all she could look at, recalling what his lips felt like, demanding and knowing, moving over hers. Yearning rose within her, the flesh between her legs aching, her breasts feeling heavy and full.

“Stuart,” she said again.

“Better,” he praised.

And then before she could say anything else, he cupped her nape and angled her head, his mouth descending in the same moment. She tilted her face up, welcoming his kiss with a sigh, feeling as if she might burst if she didn’t have his lips on hers. This was new, this sensation that she was unraveling inside, like a tightly wound skein of yarn rolled down a staircase, coming wildly undone. His lips were hot, firm, and demanding, his tongue seeking entry.

She surrendered, opening, giving him what he wanted, forgetting about her hesitation, the wariness fading. This was Stuart, the man she was marrying, the man who kissed her and made the world around them fade. The man who would be her husband, the father of her children.

Did she want that?

Yes.

Their tongues moved together, teasing, tasting, and she found her answer. She very much did want that. This was an exercise in futility. Those kisses in the sitting room of her town house had not been an aberration.

The carriage rocked over the road, taking them to their destination, and all her fears vanished. No man had ever kissed her as he did. And she knew somehow that none would. Something unique was burning brightly between them. Something that belonged only to the two of them.

But then, there was more.

His mouth left hers to explore her jaw, to string a thread of kisses all the way to her ear and then lower, traveling down her throat. He stopped at the decolletage of her modest bodice, his mouth lingering there as if he were reveling in the moment, his breath hot through the layers of her gown and undergarments. She suddenly wished that her gown were open, that her chemise and corset were gone. That his mouth was on her bare breasts or the sensitive peaks.

The notion was shocking yet thrilling, and it sent a rush of molten desire to the very center of her, where between her legs she was already damp and aching. He kissed the upper swell of her breast, then the full curve, then finally laid his mouth over her nipple. She gasped, wishing the boning and silk and cotton did not separate her greedy skin from his.

He tipped his head back, slanting a glance upward at her. “Compatible?”

Rosamund swallowed. “Y-yes.”

Would he forget this mission of his now that she had shown herself so humiliatingly susceptible to his advances? Likely. He had made his point, had he not?

Apparently not, for he slid from the bench at her side and lowered himself to his knees on the carriage floor. “You sound a bit uncertain, Rosamund. I think I must proceed if I’m to convince you properly.”

Holding her gaze, he calmly removed his hat, settling it on the squabs, followed by his gloves. The removal of each finger—slow, deliberate—seemed itself a seduction, even if she had seen and touched his bare hands before.

“What are you doing?” she asked, her voice sounding slightly breathless, which aggrieved her even as she was helpless to stop it. “Why are you on your knees?”

“To test how compatible the two of us are,” he said calmly, before reaching for the hem of her gown.

With painstaking care, he raised it a scant amount, to her ankle. Cool air slithered beneath her skirts.

“Stuart,” she protested, not certain what she was protesting, only that she should.

“This was your idea, sweetheart,” he pointed out, his voice deep and sensual, laden with promise. “I am merely fulfilling your requirement.”

He lifted her hems a bit higher, exposing her lower calves.

“You are the one who dragged me from Lord and Lady Sidmouth’s wedding breakfast in a stolen carriage.”

Stuart wasn’t finished, however. Her skirts and petticoats had continued to rise.

“Not stolen,” he said calmly. “I had permission. Just as I have permission to do this.”

His head dipped, and he pressed a searing kiss to her inner right knee.

She inhaled at the contact, never having imagined that a man’s kiss on such an unimportant place might feel so very good.

“What do you think you’re…”

Her words trailed away as his mouth flitted over her left inner knee as well. He grasped her skirts in fistfuls of elegant fabric and pushed them into her lap. “Hold this here, won’t you?”

“Why?”

“Because I’ve asked you to,” he answered, kissing higher, his lips on her drawers instead of her stockings.

She wanted to press her knees together for modesty’s sake, aware that he was growing ever nearer to the split in her drawers, but he had already inserted his broad upper body between her legs. Thankfully, the heavy weight of her gown and undergarments remained pooled, shielding her from his gaze.

“Hold them, Rosamund,” he repeated, an edge of ducal authority in his voice that had previously been absent.

Keeping her skirts raised seemed like a dreadful idea. What was it that he intended to do? She failed to see why baring her legs to him would show either of them how compatible they were.

“I don’t think this is a good idea,” she cautioned, frowning down at him.

Goodness , he was so handsome. So commanding and stern. His hands glided along her outer thighs in caresses that lit something within her, his gaze leaving hers to settle on the sight before him.

“This is what you asked for,” he reminded her. “I aim to see how compatible we are.”

“But this is a carriage. Should there not be a bed?” Her mind whirled. She was confused. Needy. Wanting. Nothing made sense.

His touch swept higher, beneath her skirts entirely, his hands disappearing, his unusual eyes flicking back to hers. “Rosamund?”

It felt good, his hands on her. Better than good. It made her feel as if she were melting inside in the most delicious, exquisite way.

She caught her breath. “Yes?”

“Hold your skirts and your tongue, darling.”

She bit her lip and at last did as he asked. Stuart shocked her by gently nudging her legs apart. But he had told her to hold her tongue, and a raw, potent curiosity came over her. She couldn’t look away. Made no effort to stop him. Just what did he intend? She was no na?ve miss, but she most certainly had never…

His head dipped beneath the mound of skirts on her lap. Between her legs. And oh heaven , there was the brush of his lips over that aching part of her. He kissed her once. Slowly, delicately, in a way he had not kissed her mouth. But she felt it so acutely, because she was so sensitive. There was no question of what he was doing.

“Compatible?” He wanted to know, his lips grazing her folds as he spoke the lone word.

The scoundrel. He was seducing her. Proving a point that he could make her burn with desire.

“Y-yes,” she forced out. “You may conclude your…efforts of persuasion.”

“Oh, no,” he murmured, his voice deep and mellifluous, his breath coasting over her intimate flesh as he spoke. “I’ve hardly just begun.”

Her modesty made her protest. “But?—”

He kissed her again, there . Her words died. And then his tongue flicked over her, unerringly finding the bundle of flesh that only she had ever touched before. The one that gave her so much secret pleasure in the midnight solitude of her bed. Again and again, his tongue traveled, swirling over her, bringing her flesh to life.

“Oh sweet heavens,” she murmured, fingers clasping her skirts in a death grip.

The gray, late-morning light filtered in through the blinds, enveloping the carriage in a cozy, cool glow as they rumbled along, the two of them seemingly the only souls in existence. Wickedly, he played over her, licking and then sucking until her hips jumped from the bench and she cried out before biting her lip hard to stay further noise. It wouldn’t do for the Duke of Brandon’s coachman to know what they were about in here. Bad enough that Stuart had spirited her away alone. But if anyone were to know…

He licked down her seam, his tongue finding her entrance and sinking inside her, and the last of her coherent thoughts fled. She was a woman ruled by sensation alone. Reason, caution, concern were banished. The Duke of Camden’s sinful mouth between her legs was all she knew. All she felt.

Her desire built into a frenzied pinnacle, the pleasure of his lips and tongue sending her into a delirious cloud of pure, unadulterated need. She was going to explode any moment. To come apart beneath his knowing mouth. Right here in a carriage in the midst of the morning, on her way home from a wedding, of all things.

It didn’t matter.

Nothing mattered.

He suckled her harder, and it was too much. She lost control, throwing her head back against the squabs and gasping as bliss exploded deep inside her like fireworks in a night sky. But still, he wasn’t done. As tremors of her release rippled through her, he lapped at her, making her squirm on the bench, sounds that she scarcely recognized falling from her lips. Another crest hit her suddenly, furiously, and she spasmed again, a strangled moan tearing from her.

So much for remaining quiet and keeping the coachman from hearing. It was too late to care. He ravished her with his tongue as she quaked and trembled, and pleasure washed over her like a warm, welcoming wave from the most beautiful ocean.

Until finally, he relented, withdrawing from beneath her skirts and rocking back on his knees to look up at her.

Her heart was pounding from the force of her release, and she was sagging against the Moroccan leather, her entire body having turned to India rubber, limp and malleable. He caught her gaze, his lips glistening in the light with the evidence of her desire.

“Do you reckon we’re compatible, sweetheart?” he asked, still on his knees, his expression desire mixed with smug masculine satisfaction.

It took her a moment to form an answer to his question, for her mind was a jumbled mess. “Er…yes, I do think we are.”

He smiled slowly. “Good. Then there are no further obstructions to our marriage, and the announcement can be made in The Times .”

How final that would be. It was the last step, aside from the nuptials themselves. Could she do this?

The answer was there, in her heart. Yes. She could. And indeed, if she wanted to seize her dream of having a family of her own, she must .

“The announcement can be made,” she allowed.

He kissed first one knee, then the other, before tenderly taking her hems from her and smoothing out her petticoat and overskirt. As if it were the most ordinary act in the world and he spent every carriage ride beneath a lady’s skirts, he rose and seated himself on the bench at her side once more.

But then, for all she knew, he did spend every carriage ride beneath a lady’s skirts. He was the Duke of Camden, after all, part of a fast set of dukes who were rumored to do very bad things. The thought sent ice chasing after the heat. Rakes were dangerous and devastating. If her doomed betrothal with Wesley had taught her anything, it was that a rake was never to be trusted.

It was no different with his brother, even if the connection between them seemed so much stronger than what she had once known with Wesley.

“I’ll see that it’s done with all haste,” he told her, before pulling at the blinds with one long finger. “It looks as if we’ve arrived at your town house.”

He gave the roof a discreet tap, signaling they were ready to disembark, and her face flamed. The coachman would know what they had been about.

Suddenly, Stuart’s words punctured her musings.

They had arrived at her town house, he had said. Not his, as she’d assumed.

“Did you have any intention of taking me to bed?” she asked quietly.

He settled his hat back on his head. “I had no wish to ruin you, at least not by taking you completely. I wanted the choice to be yours, rather than forcing your hand.”

Or perhaps he had simply been that assured of his abilities when it came to sensual persuasion. Maybe he had known that she would be so moved by what he did to her in the carriage that she would agree to anything.

If so, he hadn’t been entirely wrong.

Her chin went up. “What will the neighbors say when I alight from the Duke of Brandon’s carriage?” she asked.

“I instructed the driver to deliver us to the mews. Hopefully, no one will be the wiser.”

He truly had thought of everything.

She wasn’t sure if she should be reassured or alarmed. Either way, one thing was more than clear. Rosamund was going to marry the Duke of Camden.