Page 4 of Promised to the Worst Duke in England (Disreputable Dukes of Club Damnation #2)

June 24, 1815

Tattinger House

Berkeley Square

Mayfair, London

Alan scowled out one of the windows in his drawing room where his nuptial ceremony would take place in thirty minutes. Of course the skies were overcast; when weren’t they in England? The number of sunny days was largely crowded out by the dreary ones.

He largely ignored the guests who filtered slowly into the room, and he especially ignored his aunt. It was her fault any of this was happening, and since there was no way to avoid it, there he was, waiting for his doom to descend.

“I never thought I would witness this day.”

As another wave of annoyance pushed through Alan’s chest, he turned about at the sound of the Duke of St. Eggleton’s voice. Just as the gloomy skies were a constant in England, so was the duke being impeccably turned out in well-tailored clothing, including a tailcoat. He nodded. “Neither did I, on both counts.”

“Are you ready?” his friend wished to know with a raised eyebrow.

“No.” He kept his voice low. “Nor will I ever be.” He thought he was years ago, but since that proved a disaster, he didn’t think he would be put into such a position again. The one saving grace this time was that he didn’t love the woman he would take to wife.

Above everything, his heart needed to remain intact.

Eggleton raked his gaze up and down Alan’s person. “Are you sober?”

“Unfortunately, yes, but not for long, if there is a god.”

The other man’s expression remained impassive. “Perhaps this union will prove good for you both. When I married Abigail, I felt much like you, but eventually we compromised, and when we found common ground, we fell in love.”

Alan snorted. “Again, I am not doing that.”

“Fair enough. Have you decided if you are going on a wedding trip?”

“We’ll go to Kent immediately following the damned breakfast, which I will not attend, but she can, with my aunt.”

Eggleton blew out a breath. “That’s hardly romantic or even a show of support.”

“What do I care for either?” The fact was, he didn’t. On the one hand, his responsibilities to the tile pressed in on him a little more each day, while on the other hand, he didn’t want to give up his freedom or the life he’d managed to enjoy for himself since his father had died. And damn the memories that continued to plague him, for his father, though not the best man, wasn’t the worst either, yet he doubted he could ever do all the good his sire had managed during his time as Averly.

It was disheartening as well as disappointing.

“That is your prerogative, of course, but I would ask that you not intentionally try to hurt your new bride. None of this is fair to her either,” Eggleton cautioned in a low voice as even more guests came into the drawing room.

He lifted an eyebrow. “Thank you for that. I hadn’t given any thought to her point of view.” Not that it mattered or that he cared. In fact, he just wanted this day over with so he could get on with his life. “However, I can’t give her my heart, not after last time. I won’t be drug through the emotional quagmire again.”

“I am not certain you can avoid it,” Eggleton said in a soft voice. “It’s part of being a living, breathing human.” He glanced at the door. “Just remember, Averly, that you are not alone. Your club members, much like brothers, have come to show their support, with the exception of Ravenhurst, who is wrapped up in his new wife, and Steppingford, who is no doubt sleeping off the results of last night’s excess.”

Alan followed Eggleton’s gaze to the three men who occupied chairs near the back of the room. The Dukes of Nottingham, Udolpho, and Lincoln Collier, the Duke of Hawthorne were all present and watching him with varying degrees of interest or pity. “I suspect they are here to watch me suffer.”

“Perhaps that is some of it, but they are also here because they care. Since Ravenhurst’s recent foray into marriage has suddenly revitalized the members of Club Damnation, they finally have something to talk about besides the ennui we all apparently suffer from. Or so says my wife.”

“I don’t appreciate the additional scrutiny.” Which only made his hasty decision to leave London directly following the wedding breakfast the right one.

“At some point, you will need to decide if being bitter and angry is what you wish to cling to for the remainder of your life or if you might wish to try embracing different outcomes and possibilities.” Eggleton rested a hand on Alan’s shoulder. “Give the union a chance before you attempt to destroy it. Who knows? You might find it surprisingly interesting.” He nodded toward the drawing room doors where the rustle of fabric announced new arrivals. “It seems your bride has arrived.”

“Damn.” Half of him had hoped she would have run away instead of joining him. As murmurs went through the room, Alan’s pulse accelerated, not with anticipation but with aggravation. As his gaze landed on the woman in a pale blue gown, he frowned, for she was indeed making a statement. The silk garment featured a black satin ribbon about the waist, the bottom hem had been trimmed with the same and so had the bodice, with careful ruching, which drew his gaze to the tops of her creamy breasts.

“At least she has decent tits,” he said to Eggleton in a barely there whisper.

“There is that, and you are fortunate, indeed, for bedding her will prove satisfying even if nothing else is.”

Alan grunted. It was a sad truth, but what set her apart from other women was the fact that she wore a shallow straw bonnet, trimmed with black and blue ribbons, with long, trailing black veils of a thin, diaphanous fabric. People could still see her face because the veils were symbolic—she considered her life over and was in mourning due to marrying him. “Well played.”

Eggleton snorted beside him. “At least she’ll prove an interesting challenge.”

“Do shut up.” Since he’d never laid eyes on the woman he would take to wife, Alan stared while her father escorted her through the room toward where he and Eggleton stood. Blonde hair peeked out from the bonnet, and she was of average height, perhaps four inches over five feet, shorter than he by at least six or seven inches. The viscountess trailed silently behind the two, and the only one of the trio who didn’t wear a wide grin was the bride.

Clearly, she had as much enthusiasm for this ceremony as he. That only cheered him slightly. “The theatrics are not amusing,” he whispered to Eggleton.

“Truth be told, they are, and I like her already,” he whispered back. “Regardless, you are out of time to muse about it, my friend.” Then the duke went to sit next to his wife as the viscount led his daughter over to Alan.

“Fine morning, isn’t it, Averly?”

Alan made a show of glancing at the windows, where it was still overcast. “I wouldn’t go that far, Marchfield.” He frowned at the man whom he’d only met once when the viscount had called years ago to make certain the marriage contracts were still in place. For the moment, he ignored the woman in the veils. “I’m surprised you haven’t tried to manipulate more coin or properties from me. Or has your greed finally been appeased?”

A soft gasp came from Miss Mattingly. Had she not been aware of any of the business dealings her father was involved in? Perhaps she hadn’t, which meant the mystery surrounding her deepened.

“I’m sure I don’t know to what you are referring, Averly,” the viscount said with narrowed eyes. “However, the terms of the contracts were quite clear, and I expect you to uphold your end.”

Before he could form a response, a man of indeterminate years dressed in black approached. He was no doubt the clergyman.

“Can I assume you are the Duke of Averly?” the man inquired in a voice as smooth as glass but with absolutely no personality.

“I am.” And damned annoyed to be here.

“I’m pleased to meet you. I am Mr. Biddle, the reverend who will oversee your nuptial ceremony.” The clergyman gestured with his chin to a young man who’d gone to sit by the Duchess of Eggleton. “That is my clerk, Mr. Vine. The register will be handled by him.” He transferred a worn copy of the Book of Common Prayer as he glanced at Miss Mattingly. “Good morning. I assume you are the bride?”

“I am.” There weren’t enough words there to know what her voice truly sounded like. She neither looked at the reverend nor at Alan. The symbolism wasn’t lost on him, so she undoubtedly wanted to be anywhere else than here.

The viscount cleared his throat. “Well, since my part is done here, my wife and I will find seats.” Awkwardly, he touched his daughter’s shoulder. “Remember your role in all of this, Imogen,” he whispered, even though Alan could still hear. “I want that payout.”

Miss Mattingly didn’t answer, but her lips downturned into a frown behind the sheer black veil.

How odd, but it answered his question. She was furious. Her taut posture and the way her fingers curled into fists also indicated that. At least he wouldn’t be alone in his outrage.

The reverend cocked one eyebrow. “Shall we begin?”

Alan snorted. “Best have this over with before the family attempts to swindle even more coin or property from me.”

From beside him, a gasp issued beneath the veils and his soon-to-be bride stared at him with wide eyes. Had he offended her? Well, good. She had to know that none of this was fair. If only she’d begged off so he wouldn’t need to go through with this.

With a speculative glance at them both, Mr. Biddle led them to the top of the room, pausing before the cold hearth, but it would make for a charming backdrop. “If everyone could please take a seat? The nuptial couple is ready to begin.” As guests settled into sofas and chairs around the room, the reverend included them both in his gaze. “Your Grace, Miss Mattingly, please face me.” When they did, he opened his book to the appropriate page. “Dearly beloved, we are gathered together here in the sight of God, and in the face of these witnesses, to join together this Man and this Woman in holy Matrimony; which is an honorable estate, instituted of God in the time of man’s innocency, signifying unto us the mystical union that is betwixt Christ and his Church…”

Alan forced a hard swallow into his throat and attempted to concentrate on the pulse pounding in his ears. Perhaps it would drown out Mr. Biddle’s words. Dear God , in minutes he would say vows to this woman—this stranger—whose hand he’d been given when he was all of twelve years old. Who the hell did that to their child? He would be expected to begin a life with her, get her with child so that he could have his heir. Pain welled in his chest and sent sharp pricks of bitter hurt through his heart. If fate had been kind, he would have already been married to the woman who’d he’d actually loved… until she’d betrayed him with a scheme invented by his sister. Yet now, he was being forced into this, a life with a woman he knew not at all. Hell, he didn’t even have a clue as to what her Christian name was, but he did hear her father say it earlier.

And why? As a sign of respect to his dead sire? Merely because the title demanded it? Surely he could stand up for himself and put a stop to this before both of them would regret the union. A wave of panic rose in his chest. What the devil was wrong with hiding within his many vices in order to keep reality at bay? And what of his mistress? For too many years he’d depended on her to keep him sane, yet now he would be expected to give her up, at least for the first year or two of his marriage.

Dear God, I cannot do this.

The woman at his side must have heard or suspected part of his distress, for she turned her head. Through the sheer veil, he met her gray-blue gaze, but her emotions were hidden.

The vicar continued before either of them could speak, his voice a pleasing timbre as he talked about the holy state they were about to embark upon. Alan wished he had brandy in hand, but that hardly seemed proper during what should be such an important event, yet these days, it was one of the ways he’d found to cope with his existence.

Mr. Biddle held the prayer book in his hands, the black leather spine cracked and worn, while he addressed him. “Wilt thou have this Woman to thy wedded Wife, to live together after God’s ordinance in the holy estate of Matrimony?” His lips curved with a smile. The poor sot assumed this was a wanted union, that they were a bridal pair excited to embark onto this life. “Wilt thou love her, comfort her, honor her, and keep her in sickness and in health; and, forsaking all others, keep thee only unto her, so long as ye both shall live?”

No, I fucking won’t!

A knot of emotion formed in his throat. I most certainly will not love this woman. Never again would he allow himself to become that vulnerable, that hopeful—that stupid. “I…” How could he say those words when he didn’t mean them? This was a momentous time, and though his parents didn’t fight all the time, neither did they have a deep, loving, unbreakable union. Then he cleared his throat; this was his lot, and he’d known that since he was old enough to realize he was a duke’s heir. “I will,” he uttered from around clenched teeth.

“Very good,” Mr. Biddle said, as if he’d expected that answer the whole time. He put a forefinger to the words on one page as he addressed Miss Mattingly. “Wilt thou have this Man to thy wedded Husband, to live together after God’s ordinance in the holy estate of Matrimony? Wilt thou obey him, and serve him, love him, honor him, and keep him in sickness and in health; and, forsaking all others, keep thee only unto him, so long as ye both shall live?”

For the space of more than a few heartbeats, the woman at his side remained silent. Her left hand curled into a fist, but she hid it in her skirting. In little more than a whisper, she said, “I will, though it’s anyone’s guess if I shall obey the worst duke in England’s dictates.”

A few of the guests gasped.

Viscountess Marchfield said, “Imogen, for shame. He is a duke !”

As if that immediately made a man a good person.

“What?” Surprise gripped Alan’s chest as he gawked at her. Yes, there was no question the woman loathed him, and he had nothing to do with this! Still, if he thought about it, the whole situation was amusing. More to the point, her given name was rather lovely.

“You heard me,” she said in response with the same hushed voice that was rather thrilling and had odd shivers moving down his spine.

“Everyone has their flaws, and reputations notwithstanding, this is a holy occasion. We would do well to remember that,” Mr. Biddle said with an admonishment in his tone as confusion shadowed his face. He then instructed Alan to take her right hand in his right, which he then did, and Miss Mattingly’s hand shook. “Your Grace, please repeat after me…”

With solicitous attention, he memorized the handful of words through the growing haze of annoyance and anger building through his person. “I, Alan Charles Tattinger, Duke of Averly, take thee the Honorable Miss Imogen Sue Mattingly as my wedded Wife, to have and to hold from this day forward, for better for worse, for richer for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love and to cherish, until death us do part…” His throat tightened as he spoke those most sacred of words that would forever bind him with her, the eventuality that had the power to completely clip his wings and bring an accelerated halt to his lifestyle, “… according to God’s holy ordinance; and thereto I plight thee my troth.”

“It is good to see emotion when a man recites vows.” Obviously, Mr. Biddle assumed he was overcome with affection for his bride-to-be.

Bah! I despise every minute of this morning.

“Please release hands. Your Grace, take her left in your left hand.” Once they’d done as instructed, he trained his attention on the woman at his side. “Miss Mattingly, repeat after me.” He gave her the words, much like the ones he’d said to Alan moments before.

The veils only enhanced her figure, and he wouldn’t be the worst duke in England if he didn’t lust after those charms. At least she wouldn’t be repugnant when he bedded her tonight. “I, the Honorable Miss Imogen Sue Mattingly take thee Alan Charles Tattinger, Duke of Averly, as my wedded Husband.” Her voice broke on the last word. Was she overcome due to having landed a duke or in anguish that she was also being forced into a union she didn’t want?

For that matter, what would she have done with her life if she wasn’t here today with him? Not that it mattered.

The woman at Alan’s side continued. “To have and to hold from this day forward, for better for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love, cherish, and to obey, ‘until death us do part, according to God’s holy ordinance.” A suspicious sound that was much like a stifled sob emanated from her. “And thereto I give thee my troth.”

“Our nuptial couple is emotional this morning.” Mr. Biddle grinned, the nodcock. Ignorance was apparently bliss. Lines framed his eyes and mouth. “Please release your hands.” To Alan, he whispered, “Now is the time to offer up a ring and any respects you might have for my services.”

“Of course, for why wouldn’t the church separate me from my coin as well on this day?” Bitterness fairly dripped from his voice. He dug a ring from the pocket of his waistcoat, which he gave to the reverend, who rested it upon his open Book of Common Prayer while Alan followed it with a small leather pouch as payment for services rendered. In the dreary light of the June morning, the round ruby winked. Two small round diamonds—one on either side—twinkled in the delicate silver setting and band. The piece was a part of his mother’s own bridal jewelry, which she’d told him to give to his bride whenever he should finally marry her. There was a whole parure waiting for Miss Mattingly, which he would gift her tonight once they arrived at his country estate.

“Thank you, Your Grace.” Mr. Biddle murmured a few words, no doubt as a blessing, before returning the bauble to him as his bride removed the black glove from her left hand. “You may present the ring to the lady.” As soon as Alan slipped it onto the fourth finger of Miss Mattingly’s hand, the reverend spoke again, the words directed to him. “Please repeat after me.”

A shudder went down Alan’s spine. He hadn’t the luck to wed his previous fiancée, and yet here he was, doing exactly that with her . There was no going back now. Miss Mattingly’s hand shook in his, and when he peered into her eyes through the veil, he was taken aback by the animosity there. “With this Ring I thee wed, with my Body I thee worship, and with all my worldly Goods I thee endow. In the Name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost. Amen.”

Dear God , he would be expected to build a life with this woman, when all he wished to do was drink himself into oblivion. More and more, he relied on alcohol merely to survive a week… or a day. Yes, he would fuck her because he could and because he had needs, but that was all there could ever be between them.

In the silence following, Miss Mattingly huffed, which ruffled the veil. “You will absolutely have no access to my body, Your Lordship,” she warned in such a low voice that he was obliged to lean closer to hear. “I didn’t want this union but had no choice.” In a few tugs, she had the glove back on her hand.

Yes, well, at least we have that in common. Still, her statement rankled. Did she not understand what was expected of them? Of her now that she was his duchess? “That is where you are wrong, Lady Averly.” He made it a point to emphasize her new title. “I will take you to bed whenever the hell I want, because I’m a duke.” His barely there whisper was said against the shell of her ear. “And what is more, I will fuck you whenever and wherever I like, because I require an heir, and I enjoy the exercise.”

Mr. Biddle cleared his throat with a frown. Had he heard the exchange? Alan didn’t give two braces if he had. “Please kneel while everyone is invited to pray with me.”

Alan did so but didn’t care much if she came down with him. Anger raged within his chest, and he let it, for this was his lot because he was a duke. Why couldn’t he have been born to a bricklayer and a seamstress? As the words of the prayer flowed over him, he dared to peek at his new bride. Her head was cast downward, but emotion fairly seethed from her in waves. Then the prayer was over, and Alan stood. So did Miss Mattingly, the new Lady Averly.

Mr. Biddle closed his book. “I now pronounce thee husband and wife.”

Polite and restrained applause broke out among the gathered guests. No doubt most in attendance remained puzzled over the hasty nuptials, and he couldn’t blame them.

“If you’ll please see my clerk to sign the register, then everything will be official,” Mr. Biddle said with a slight grin. Clearly, he assumed this was a joyous day.

His aunt clapped her hands for attention. “The wedding breakfast will take place at my home, so let us all make our way there. You won’t be disappointed with the lavish spread.” Then she glanced at him with a warning in her eyes before leading the way out of the room.

Well, fuck.

Before Alan could speak, his wife turned toward him. With shaking hands, she lifted her veil and put it back behind her head. Anger and annoyance glinted in blue-gray eyes. Annoyance lined her round face, and freckles lay splashed over her upper cheeks and the bridge of her slightly turned up nose. Blonde hair pinned up beneath her bonnet held a bit of a strawberry hue as well, perhaps speaking to Irish roots. Her full lips were set in a thin line, but she was not pleased with the new union.

Or him, presumably.

“How dare you force me to do this,” she hissed while Mr. Biddle went to speak with his clerk. “With very little warning.”

Anger surged, hot and fierce, in his chest. Bloody hell. “It wasn’t my decision; I was forced into it as well, with the same warning as you had.”

She snorted in derision. “Why do I not believe you?” Her gaze snapped stormy lightning.

“Believe what you want. I care not.” God, the only thing he wanted right now was to leave. Rage swept unchecked through his veins as he turned his back on his new bride. He assessed the room at large, and as many of the attendees stared wide-eyed at him—the viscount and his wife were suspiciously absent—cowards, the both of them. When he met Eggleton’s gaze, the older man lifted an eyebrow in question. Turning back to his wife, Alan said, “My aunt has been looking forward to the celebration, so I hope you enjoy the breakfast.”

For one moment, he assumed she might offer a protest, but then she gave a curt nod. “Do we ride over together?”

“No. Go with your parents. I refuse to as I have other business to attend to before we leave for Averly Hall in Kent.”

“What?” Her lips formed an “o” of shock. “We are leaving Town immediately?”

“Yes.” Refusing to apologize for that, he shrugged. “You’d best send word to your maid to pack her things and yours, for she will ride in the second traveling coach with my valet.” Then he took a step away from her, but she waylaid him by scuttling into his path.

“Where the devil are you going?”

As if she had a claim on him. “If you must know, to see my mistress.”

She gasped. “You wouldn’t dare.”

“Madam, I dare many things, and will continue to do so as it pleases me, now if you will excuse me?” Sidestepping her, Alan strode across the room. Frankly, there was nothing for him to celebrate on this day.

For the foreseeable future, he was trapped.