Page 46 of Duke with a Lie (Wicked Dukes Society #4)

Duke with a Duchess

Wicked Dukes Society Book 5

When Everett Saunders, Duke of Riverdale, needed to marry in haste, he found the perfect duchess.

One who would grant him an heir and a spare and rusticate quietly at his estate, allowing him to carry on with his life of debauchery.

At least, that was the woman he thought he’d married.

Instead, he unwittingly leg-shackled himself to a cunning, fortune-seeking liar.

The only solution to his woes is abandoning the conniving baggage and simply carrying on as if he doesn’t have a wife at all.

Nothing in her life has ever gone according to plan, and her hasty marriage is no different.

But Sybil, Duchess of Riverdale, isn’t about to meekly allow her rakehell husband to abandon her and go on with his life.

When her letters to him remain unanswered, she takes matters into her own hands, determined to obtain a divorce by any means, fair or foul.

Riverdale, however, is unwilling to let her go unless she gives him an heir.

Sybil has no choice but to accept the sinful arrangement proposed by her husband.

She’ll submit to his desires in the bedchamber, but he’ll never again have the power to break her heart.

All she has to do is keep herself from falling back in love with the merciless rogue she married.

Chapter One

Sybil tipped the pitcher toward her sleeping husband’s head. A stream of cold, clear water poured forth, landing directly on the thick mahogany locks that were a great source of pride and vanity for him, splashing over his unfairly handsome face.

He sputtered and jolted awake, sitting up as water streamed down, his bedclothes falling in his lap.

His chest was bare.

Sybil intentionally averted her gaze. Because whilst the Duke of Riverdale was a terrible, faithless husband, his body, like his face, was as perfectly proportioned as any marble from antiquity.

At least he was the only one presently occupying his bed.

Otherwise, she might have broken the pitcher on his head instead of merely pouring water to wake him.

“What the devil?” he sputtered, shaking like a dog to dash the water from his eyes.

Sybil had imagined a reunion with her husband on many occasions. Never quite like this, however.

“Good morning, Riverdale,” she said coldly.

“Sybil?” He glared at her, his lip curling. “What are you doing in my bedroom? And why the hell did you pour water on me?”

She settled the pitcher in its basin. “Is that any way to greet your wife?”

“Is dumping a pitcher of water on my bloody head any way to greet your husband?” he snarled.

Water was streaking down his throat and rolling south in droplets over his chest now. Sybil told herself not to look, and yet her foolish eyes had a will of their own.

“Perhaps you ought to tell me the proper means of greeting a husband one hasn’t seen in more than three months,” she suggested. “A husband who abandoned one in the country and refuses to reply to any correspondence.”

He gathered up the counterpane and began using it to dry himself, continuing to glower as he did so. “I have nothing to say to you, madam.”

His words, like his ire, shouldn’t matter. Shouldn’t have the power to wound her. And yet, they did. He had made his disregard for her feelings known, just as he had made his dislike of her more than clear.

“Indeed, but I have something to say to you .” She kept her eyes pinned to his, intentionally not glancing down at his damp chest.

Or his muscled arms, flexing as he moved.

Curse the man. She was looking again.

“How nice for you.” His voice was cold, just like his wintry blue eyes. “I don’t give a damn.”

She hadn’t expected a pleasant reunion. Riverdale had made his opinion of her painfully obvious before he had left that awful day.

He hadn’t waited for her explanation, hadn’t bothered to listen to even a word she had to offer.

She hadn’t been able to defend herself. No matter now.

The worst was done. But his seething fury still somehow stung.

“Perhaps you ought to care,” she suggested.

“Too late for that.” He dropped the bedclothes and ran a hand through his hair, pushing it back from his high forehead. “Get out of my bedroom.”

She didn’t budge, her feet rooted to the Axminster. “Not until you hear what I’ve come to say.”

“More lies,” he snapped. “I have neither the time, nor the inclination to listen to a word you say.”

“Yes, I suppose you are eager to return to your carousing. No doubt you have some skirts to chase this morning. Do forgive me for keeping you from them.”

Sybil couldn’t conceal the bitterness in her voice, though she had tried her utmost. She was still every bit as furious with him as he was with her. But of the two of them, she was the only one with good reason.

“Is that why you’ve come?” he asked, smirking. “Are you jealous, darling?”

Yes, but she would leap out the nearest window before admitting it to him.

She tipped her chin up, scoffing. “Hardly. I have no claim on you.”

He had also made that more than apparent. The Duke of Riverdale had no intention of being a faithful husband.

“You are correct in that, madam. You don’t. Now get out, if you please. I need to take a piss, and I’d rather do it without you listening.”

He was being coarse and vulgar, trying to shock her. It wasn’t going to work.

“No. Not until you hear what I’ve come to say.”

He shrugged. “Suit yourself.”

Before she could protest or avert her gaze, he flipped back the bedclothes and rose, naked. Her eyes dropped of their own volition to his long, thick shaft standing proudly erect.

He was hard.

Heat flew over her. He stalked across the room, his buttocks flexing as he went.

“I want you to divorce me,” she blurted.

Want more? Get Duke with a Duchess now!

Maid for the Marquess

Miss Maddie Smythe

My callous father wagered me to a brooding stranger during a hand of cards, leaving me terrified.

But Lord Wheaton was nothing like the baron who’d forced me into servitude and gave me away.

The handsome marquess was compassionate, honorable, and my only hope for a future.

I married him to save myself, not intending to lose my heart.

Never thinking of the danger that loomed, threatening to tear us apart forever.

Alexander, Marquess of Wheaton

The last thing I needed was an innocent to protect, but I couldn’t leave the frightened maid to her vile father’s mercy.

It didn’t take me long to realize Maddie was everything I never knew I needed, sweet and caring and lovely.

She made me whole.

When her villainous father tried to take her from me, I vowed to do everything in my power to save my wife.

Even if it meant sacrificing myself…

EXCERPT

“I will add one more thing,” the baron said abruptly.

I frowned at the unexpected offer.

“Which is?”

“A servant for you.” Something in his voice set my teeth on edge. He looked delighted, as if he had suddenly thought of a plan.

“I have no need of any servants.”

He waved his hand. “This one is special. Been in my house her whole life.” He paused. “Untouched. She will be yours to do with what you want. In fact, I hope you use her then cast her aside when done.”

I was shocked at his callous tone. Horrified at his suggestion. I met Edward’s eyes, who also looked dismayed.

“I beg your pardon,” I snapped.

He held up his hand. “I mean no disrespect. I know you are a man who prefers experience. Consider this a gift. Whether you win or not.”

I realized he fully expected to win. That in his twisted mind, I would accept a servant in lieu of funds, never suspecting his fraud.

“Bring her in,” he ordered his butler.

Once again, I met Edward’s gaze, a silent conversation flowing between us. Whoever this servant was, it was obvious Barnett despised her. Wanted her gone and wished for her to suffer.

Nothing prepared me for the young woman who was dragged into the room and pushed in front of me.

I automatically rose to my feet as any gentleman would do when a lady entered.

I had to grab the edge of the table to remain standing.

It was the chit I had seen scurrying away—the one who had captured my interest for some reason. Seeing her fully was a shock.

Draped in a gown that was threadbare and far too large on her small frame, she shrank into herself, as if used to hiding. Her head was bowed, her shaking arms wrapped around her torso. Small feet peeked out from under the useless garment. It did nothing to hide her form or protect her.

I wondered what the greatest motivation behind her trembling was.

Cold or fear?

I noticed how tiny her hands were that clutched her gown.

Surprisingly long fingers gripped the material—digits so slender they were noticeable even through the gloves she wore.

That oddity caught me off guard, making me wonder why she would have gloves on at this time of night.

Her arms were rail thin—in fact her entire body seemed more childlike than that of a maiden.

With her head lowered, her unbound, wild, dark hair hid her face. I crossed my arms, feigning disinterest.

“I have no need of a child,” I growled, furious.

Lord Barnett leaned forward, his voice dripping in anger.

“Show yourself, girl. Push that horrid mane behind you and look up. Or bear the taste of my displeasure.” When she didn’t move, he stood. “Your father is speaking,” he roared.

Another jolt of shock hit me.

This was his daughter ? Why was she being treated as a servant?

Slowly she straightened her shoulders, using one hand to push away the heavy tresses. She lifted her head, and our gazes locked. I stepped back in disbelief, barely able to hide my horror and shock.

The face she revealed was that of a beautiful skeleton.

White skin, beyond pale, stretched taut over high cheekbones.

A perfectly formed nose. Small ears. A swan’s neck.

In contrast with her paleness, her lips were full and red, akin to a slash of crimson on snow.

Hers was one of the loveliest faces I had ever beheld with my eyes.

Her hair tumbled past her slender shoulders, and my eyes were drawn to her bosom.

Her breasts were large, heavy. Far too large for her tiny frame. Even standing straight, she tried to hide them, obviously ill at ease.

Her trembling increased as I drew closer. Our eyes met, and I felt the stirrings within my chest as I took in her weary, ancient gaze.

Her eyes were blue—but not the simple blue of the sky or water. They were a shade I could not even describe, that of the ocean on a stormy day, blues and grays mixing and crashing together. Framed by long lashes, they were filled with pain and trepidation.

And pure, abject terror.

I had seen that terror in one other set of eyes. It was a memory I carried close to my heart—that after all these years still had the power to bring me to my knees.

I hadn’t been able to comprehend what I was seeing then, but I recognized it now. And I refused to turn my back on that fear.

“She’ll do.”