Page 1 of Heartbreaker of the Ton (Misfits of the Ton #6)

London, August 1815

“I ’m pregnant.”

Etty clenched her hands into fists as she uttered the revelation. The only sign that he’d heard was a slight hesitation in his arm as he raised the brandy glass to his lips. He drained the glass, set it aside, then leaned back, fixing her with his gaze.

“Is that so?”

“I’ve been wondering for some time now,” she said, “but I realized this morning when my maid said that I’d not asked for extra…”

The ruby on his ducal ring winked malevolently as he held up a fleshy-fingered hand.

“I have no wish to know the details, Miss Howard. You may not have the breeding of a lady, but that’s no reason to act like the commoner that you are.”

The tone of his voice had hardened until it was neither the throaty, seductive drawl that he’d employed to persuade her into his bed, nor the strained grunts as he took his pleasure, his sweaty body heaving over her while the bedposts hammered against the wall.

Grunts that always served to turn Etty’s stomach.

But momentary nausea was a price she’d been willing to pay if it secured her position as the Duchess of Dunton and thereby proving, at last, her worth to Mother.

And to Papa, of course. Mother might rule the family, but it was her father that Etty sought approval from. Mother had always valued Etty’s beauty and social graces—Papa’s approval was harder won, and therefore the more prized. But Papa only valued Etty’s older sister—the ungainly Eleanor, whom the rest of Society derided. Yet Eleanor, as well as having secured Papa’s love for doing nothing more than being her own, awkward self, had now secured the hand of the most alluring duke in England. Eleanor had succeeded where Etty had not. Which raised the question—what was so wrong with Etty such that a man of his quality preferred the Oddity of the Ton over her?

Etty placed her hand over her belly, pleading to the Almighty that it would be a boy.

Dunton poured another measure of brandy and drained the glass. “Well, I suppose that signals an end to my pleasure,” he said.

Etty’s heart fluttered with relief. If he left her alone until her confinement, so much the better. He could take a mistress for all she cared.

But it wasn’t the done thing to tell the man she was about to marry that she found his body, his company—even the merest thought of him—utterly repugnant.

Instead, she curved her lips into a smile that her suitors had always described as angelic . It was a smile that, together with her beauty, had rendered her the most desirable woman of the Season, and had broken countless hearts.

But men’s hearts were easily mended. A man’s needs were simple—a pretty wife to adorn his arm, and a fat dowry with which to indulge in the pleasures that London could offer—in most cases, wine, gambling, and other women.

As to a woman’s heart…

It served Etty’s purpose best not to have one. Better to be the heartbreaker than the brokenhearted.

Heartbreaker…

It was a title she welcomed. Each broken heart she left in her wake strengthened the armor around her own heart, until her emotions had been numbed to the point of immunity.

Nobody would break her heart. Her objective wasn’t to be loved. Love came hand in hand with betrayal. No—her one, defining objective was to become a duchess. A duchess was untouchable. She could live her life as she pleased, safe from the predators who resided in the waters of Society.

She only need play her part a little longer to secure her prize—the prize that sat before her.

She fluttered her eyelashes and widened her eyes. It was a gesture that had earned her countless suitors and filled her dance card.

“I am not so ungenerous, Your Grace,” she said. “I understand the duties of an obedient duchess. I will not demand that you deny yourself the pleasure a man in your position deserves. Even if I’m carrying your heir…”

His eyes narrowed, and she caught her breath. Had she reeled the fish in before he’d been properly hooked?

“A man often wishes for more than one son, does he not?” she said.

He stared at her belly, and his tongue flicked out, moistening his lips. Nausea rippled through her once more—the sickness that had plagued her for almost a week now, together with revulsion at the memory of that thick tongue thrusting into her mouth, tainting her senses with the taste of sour wine and cigars.

Then he threw back his head and laughed.

She rose to her feet. “You would mock me, given the love we share?”

“Love? Ha!” he cried, not moving to stand. “Our difference in rank renders you so far beneath me as to be hardly worth my notice, but I will concede that we are alike in one aspect.”

Why was he not standing? Throughout their courtship he’d been the epitome of gentlemanly grace—offering her his arm while they promenaded, barking orders at his footmen to fetch an umbrella for her when it had begun to rain, dismissing the same footman when he’d failed to show her due reverence. He’d even draped his jacket over a puddle to save her having to veer onto the wet grass.

So why, then, was he not standing in the presence of a lady?

“Are you not pleased, Your Grace?” she asked.

“Pleased?” he scoffed. “I ought to be affronted, but I am disposed to be amused.”

Affronted? Amused?

And he was still sitting!

“Your Grace, I don’t intend to amuse,” she said. “Perhaps you should request an audience with my father.”

“What for?” He laughed. “Do you wish me to commiserate him on his misfortune?”

“His misfortune?”

He leaned back in his chair and crossed his ankles. “The whole of London knows that Sir Leonard Howard’s elder daughter is an imbecile, for all that she attracted the hand of a duke—out of pity, no doubt. And now, the younger daughter is proven to be a whore.”

She recoiled at the insult. “How dare—”

“Spare me the indignation, madam,” he said. “Do you think me a fool? Did you think I’d offer for you merely because you spread your legs and offered your cunny?”

Tears stung her eyes. “I-I did no such thing!” She blinked, and a droplet splashed onto her cheek. “You seduced me. You told me I was the most delectable…”

“Oh, spare me the tears, please!” he huffed. “A woman should know when to keep her legs open and her mouth shut. There’s nothing more distasteful to a man than a slut who clings on like a leech.”

“I’m not a…”

“By your own admission you are , Miss Howard,” he snarled. “A filthy whore who, no doubt, thought she could entrap me into marriage by offering her body, then decided to up the ante and fuck her way through London in an attempt to appeal to my desire for an heir.”

He gripped the arms of his chair, then heaved his body up until he stood before her. She cringed at the stench of sour breath and the distaste in his eyes.

“You’ll find me the superior player, madam. I have no intention of shackling myself to an ambitious little slut whose lineage is tainted by the stench of the shop.”

“My mother was a viscount’s—”

“It matters not whose daughter your mother is,” he said. “She tainted her family name by shackling herself to a commoner. I’ve no intention of tainting my name by doing the same. Now, I think it’s time you left.”

“But—”

“Leave, madam, or I’ll have you thrown out like the blackmailing tart that you are.”

“I’m no—”

“You spread your legs to entrap a duke into matrimony, hoping to establish some other man’s by-blow as the future Duke of Dunton. Imagine what the gossipmongers would have to say about that?”

Her gut twisted in horror. “You wouldn’t!”

He smiled, his eyes glittering in his fleshy, pasty face. “I’ll be generous and refrain from warning my acquaintance of your sinful ways, provided that you leave now, and make sure that I never set eyes on you again.” He sauntered toward the bellpull by the fireplace, his ungainly body rolling from side to side with each footstep. “I’ll have Thomas show you out.”

Thomas—the brutish footman who always lingered about Dunton’s lodgings, whose eyes darkened with lust each time he looked at Etty.

“Thomas might be disposed to take my leavings,” Dunton said. “What do you say? I daresay there’s a shilling in it for you.”

“You’re disgusting!” she cried. “To think I’d take money for—”

“Ah, of course,” he said, nodding as he reached into his waistcoat pocket. “How remiss of me.”

He fished out a coin and tossed it to her. It struck her arm, then fell to the floor.

“For services rendered,” he said. “Pick it up.”

“I wouldn’t sully my hands with—”

“I said. Pick. It. Up.” His voice came out in a low growl as he stepped toward her. A ripple of fear coursed through her veins as he raised his hands. Those hands—those fat, fleshy hands—had already violated and ruined her. What else might they be capable of?

Trembling, she crouched and reached for the sovereign. Before she rose again, he tossed another coin at her.

“Consider that a little extra,” he said, gesturing toward her belly. “To rid yourself of the bastard.”

She palmed the second coin then rose to her feet. The world slipped sideways, and her vision blurred for a moment, then she righted herself.

“Of course,” he added, “it’s not my place to recommend anyone to deal with your… little accident —but I can instruct Thomas to take you to a bawdy house where there’ll be plenty of whores who have availed themselves of such a service.”

She caught her breath at another wave of nausea.

“Careful, Miss Howard, we wouldn’t want you soiling my Aubusson rug, would we?”

Before she could reply, the door opened, and the thick-set footman entered.

“Ah, Thomas,” Dunton said. “Do escort this”—he wrinkled his nose—“doxy out. Make sure she never returns.”

“But…” Etty began, but the footman grasped her arm.

“Come along now, miss,” he said. “There’s no need to pester the duke anymore.”

“The back entrance, if you please, Thomas,” Dunton said. “I have my reputation to think of.”

Waves of shame engulfed Etty as the footman steered her out of the parlor. Her life was ruined.

What would Mother say? Would she turn Etty out due to her failure to secure Dunton’s hand? As for Papa…

Etty’s heart clenched at the thought of the disappointment in her father’s face. The chances of his being proud of her had always been slim, but nevertheless she’d harbored the secret desire that, one day, he might turn the same tender expression of love that he gave her sister each day onto her. But now, all hope of being loved—much less liked —by her father was gone.

The glittering future set out before her had crumbled to dust. In reality, that future had been an illusion. The rumors about Dunton had been true—that he relished debauching women, taking their maidenheads as trophies. In all likelihood, he kept the soiled bedsheets to mark his prowess.

Her stomach lurched at the notion—and at the metallic stench of blood that had beset her after Dunton took her for the first time, his chest puffing with pride as his lustful gaze settled on the smear of blood on her thighs.

As the footman shoved her out of the back entrance, she lurched forward, almost tripping on the steps. Her stomach finally succumbed to the nausea and she vomited over the pavement.

“Filthy whore!” the footman growled. “I s’pose I’ll have to clean that up.”

Etty pulled out her handkerchief and wiped her mouth. Then she straightened her stance and, with as much courage as she could muster, fixed him with a cold stare.

“Who else but you should clear up the evidence of your master’s sins?” she said. “I daresay I wasn’t the first, and I doubt I’ll be the last woman he’s ruined. I hope you take pride in your work, Thomas .”

Then, biting her lip to stem the tears, she turned her back on him and fled.