Chapter Eight

Gregory swallowed another brandy, feeling it burn down his gullet in a line of fire. The excellent liquor did nothing to burn away his thoughts of Julia, though. Nothing he tried could erase the memory of her generous curves, of her willful mouth and those kissable lips.

Here he was at the Wolf’s Den, London’s most luxurious club, surrounded by scantily clad beauties, and he couldn’t get his future wife out of his head. He’d cast nary a glance at the women clad in velvet and diamonds, offering to share a glass of champagne and perhaps something more. Bloody Helen of Troy could’ve draped herself across his lap, and he would have forgotten she was there in a matter of seconds.

“This is a real problem.”

“Isn’t it good to fancy your fiancée?” Percy drawled as he sipped a beer. They were ensconced in a private booth with silk curtains to either side. The silhouettes of high society flashed by like a shadow play. “From everything you’ve told me, Miss Beaumont is a fine match for you.”

“That’s just the problem.” Gregory pulled on a velvet cord, summoning a waiter to order another several brandies. “She’s perfect. She’s brilliant, and gorgeous, and God help me she’s funny. She makes me laugh, Perce.”

“You poor man.” Percy snorted and drank.

“No, poor Julia. She deserves more than some dissolute libertine.” Gregory scowled into his replenished glass. He found a shimmering, brandy-colored duke glowering back at him. One of Gregory’s few virtues was honesty. He knew how ill equipped he was for married life. A worthy man would have been a lovable child. Gregory’s birth should have been enough to give his parents something to cling to in their marriage, but they had been able to ignore each other—and him—with the greatest ease. If even his own parents couldn’t love him, how would he be worth anything to a woman?

He’d taken to enjoying himself, giving every lady he bedded a night of sensational pleasure. If Gregory couldn’t achieve love, he could at least have satisfaction.

But now he’d entrapped a fierce warrior goddess of a woman. Julia would soon realize that all the money and estates he possessed couldn’t give her what she truly wanted. Affection. Companionship. Love.

Then she would despise him, and Gregory hated to think of seeing disdain in her eyes.

“Maybe you should ease up on the brandy,” Percy said. “Besides, aren’t your fiancée and her family coming to dine at Carter House tonight?”

“I’m on a liquid diet,” Gregory drawled, swallowing another glass.

Someone parted the curtains and intruded on their dissolution. Gregory squinted into the dewy face of Mr. Worthington.

“Your Grace!” Worthington grinned. His cheeks were flushed, the tip of his nose bright red. He’d already had a few. Or more. “We wished to congratulate you on your forthcoming nuptials!”

“We?” Gregory blinked in stupefied horror as an assortment of London’s richest husbands crowded in on him, lifting glasses and cheering raucously. His eardrums rattled.

“My wife’s been in tears since word started getting round!” one fellow crowed.

“Mine’s sulked for days.” Another appeared blissful at the notion.

“You’ve made our lives so much easier, Ashworth.” Worthington seized Gregory’s hand in a viselike grip. “We’ve been drinking toasts to you and Miss Beaumont all week!”

Gregory wrenched his hand away, though the news did give him a lift. All the London matrons believed this love match to be real. That meant he was safe. No more duels; no more wives chasing him through parks or crawling after him under carriages. (He’d only been pursued beneath a coach once, but once was more than enough.) Julia had saved him. She’d given him a new life.

And he was ruining hers in return. The thought set him to brooding into his glass once more.

“Chaps, why don’t you say your goodbyes?” Percy asked. He seemed to intuit what Gregory was thinking. Smart fellow. “This is a private party.”

“Of course.” Worthington clapped Gregory’s shoulder, which almost caused the duke to slosh his drink. “What a choice of a wife, too! A dowdy spinster for your duchess, why, it’s a stroke of genius!” Worthington wobbled back and forth, unsteady on his feet.

“What did you say?” Gregory’s vision sharpened as he rose to his feet. “About Miss Beaumont?” Dowdy? How could anyone look at a woman like that and see dowdiness?

“It was sporting of you not to take any of the prime girls from the marriage mart.” Worthington gave a lazy smile. “Some of the men might have felt resentful. But taking an older, dried-up spin—”

Gregory clobbered Worthington across the jaw, dropping the fellow in an instant. The crowd of men backed up as Worthington blustered and tried crawling to his feet. Gregory’s knuckles stung, but he hardly felt the pain.

“Anyone who has something rude to say about my intended is welcome to get the same treatment,” he snapped. The fellows all inched farther away, regarding Gregory with fearful looks, or curled, angry lips. He didn’t care. Were all men so idiotic that they could pass up a desirable woman because she wasn’t what society mindlessly told them they should want?

“How dare you!” Worthington tugged that stupid lace hankie from his pocket.

“I know, I know,” Gregory said. “Pistols at dawn.”

Before Worthington could issue the challenge, something heavy slammed atop the table, rattling the glassware.

A silver wolf’s head snarled up at Gregory. A chip of ruby glinted in its eye socket.

“You know how it goes, gentleman,” a low voice rumbled. “No issuing duels in my establishment.”

The rest of the celebrating husbands vanished, terrified as always to be confronted by the Wolf himself. Gregory only smiled at the surly fellow.

“Hello, Rafe. Care to join us for a drink?”

Rafe Winters gripped the silver-headed knob of his cane and gave a friendly sneer. The so-called Wolf of Mayfair, Rafe was the wealthiest and most notorious businessman to ever come out of the Camden slums. His club specialized in the finest of everything, from crystal chandeliers to vintage wines to the most genteel clientele.

Everyone knew the Wolf, but only Gregory and a select few didn’t fear him.

“I don’t drink on the job, Ashworth. You toffs know that.” Rafe gave another crooked, fearsome smile as he stalked away. The tall, black-haired man cut a swath through his club, that cane thunking with every step. Rafe’s knee had been smashed during a fight in his early days. He’d gotten himself a cane, and then used it to beat in the head of the prick who’d injured him.

Worthington quivered on the floor like a pale, landed fish until Rafe had vanished.

“Still care to call that duel?” Gregory smiled as the man crawled away.

“An evening with you is always an adventure.” Percy drained the last of his beer, then summoned a waiter for the bill. “But we should go home, Ashworth. Your young lady will be arriving soon enough.”

“At least she’ll be impressed by Carter House.” Gregory tried to fumble his clothes back into something resembling order. “Perhaps the sheer bloody size of the place will distract her from what she’s saddled herself with.”

“Will marrying her be so very terrible?”

Percy didn’t understand because he still had a soul.

As they rattled back to Grosvenor Square in his carriage, Gregory watched the London evening fly past his window. His thoughts flew to Julia, and how badly he wanted to see her. It had been two days since they’d last met. She must have had another fitting for her trousseau at Mrs. Maxwell’s. The thought of the delicate silk and lace items Gregory had arranged for his new bride tightened his loins with pure longing.

After all, even if this were a marriage of convenience, it would have to be consummated at least once. Otherwise, Julia would never feel certain that she was safe from annulment.

Gregory imagined entering the bridal chamber to find her lounging across the bed, her voluptuous curves caressed by the finest silks. He pictured removing the garment, finding the heavenly display of her naked body ready for his. Ready to be filled by him.

His fist clenched. God, even if he couldn’t give that woman everything she deserved, he could at least make her happy she’d married him for one wild night. In that way, at least, he’d see her satisfied.

…

“I don’t know what I was expecting.” Julia became breathless as their carriage pulled up to Carter House and the footman opened the door. “Perhaps not quite so many windows.”

Indeed, the enormous, three-story house rose up into the night with spiral turrets at east and west, and every single window blazed with brilliant candlelight. This was only Ashworth’s London home. His estate itself would be even grander.

Susannah bounced from the carriage with excitement. Constance still hadn’t looked at the house, as if it couldn’t possibly interest her. Julia ignored her stepmother as she climbed down.

The front door opened just as they arrived, and a distinguished-looking butler with gray hair bowed the ladies in. Julia went slack-jawed as she entered the front hall.

The floors were laid with the creamiest Italian marble, which had been buffed to a shine. The wood-paneled walls were decorated with sumptuous velvet hangings, many of which bore the Ashworth crest in gold. Gleaming suits of medieval armor stood on either side of the doorway, swords and shields at the ready.

The works of art that adorned the walls were so plentiful that they made Julia dizzy. She saw an oil painting of a reclining courtesan that had to be hundreds of years old. The woman lay on a bed of silks and smiled knowingly at the viewer. She was naked apart from the wild flow of her golden-red hair.

That certainly seemed like the type of woman Ashworth craved. A voluptuous goddess. Julia blushed to think of how she might compare to such a beauty.

But that thought made her pull back her shoulders. A living, breathing woman was more complicated than some flawless image created by men, for other men. Julia wouldn’t be cowed by other people’s expectations. Women spent far too much time apologizing for their insecurities anyway.

“Ladies.” The duke came to greet them as the women entered. He gave a small, formal bow. “Welcome.”

Every time Julia saw him, it felt like lightning rippling under her skin. The candlelight glowed upon Gregory’s cheekbones, both highlighting his face and casting it into shadow in the perfect ways. The duke was as much a work of art as the masterpieces hanging in his hallway.

“So this is Carter House.” Julia glanced around the splendid room once again.

“You approve, my dear?”

It felt as if he was truly interested in her reaction. Well, he had excellent taste, after all. He must want to hear it praised.

“Do you think it’s large enough?” she asked. Julia’s voice echoed in the vast space. Gregory smiled, his eyes flashing. He did like when she teased him.

“Absolutely.” He kissed her gloved hand, his eyes never leaving hers. Julia’s whole body heated from that small amount of contact. “Despite what other men tell you, size does matter.”

Julia’s heart knocked against her rib cage. God, why did the man have to be so bloody good at being so deliciously bad?

The group went through to dinner, joined by Percy Randall, Gregory’s friend and best man. The soup and fish and duck courses moved one after the other like perfect clockwork, and throughout the meal Percy charmed everybody while Gregory drank a great deal.

Every time he glanced at Julia across the table, he took another swallow of some very good wine.

Perhaps he’s started to regret it. Julia couldn’t shut out that sensible voice inside of her. After all, Gregory was shackling himself to a woman he did not know out of a simple need for protection. Once the desperate wives of the ton left him alone, the duke would look at Julia and see what everyone else saw: a lonely spinster who’d managed to ensnare him in a moment of weakness. His gratitude would vanish, and he might even come to scorn her for taking away his perpetual bachelorhood.

Julia became sick just thinking of it. No, more than sick; bloody furious. She wasn’t about to spend her life feeling like a burden. After Constance, she could never live like that again. She’d seen enough of life to know that wealth and status without self-respect meant nothing at all.

Not that she was going to call off the engagement. She wasn’t out of her mind. But before they went any further, she and the duke needed a few things cleared up.

After dinner, the women waited in the drawing room for the men to finish their brandy, another absurd custom that only delayed the important conversation. Julia was almost bursting out of her skin by the time Gregory and Percy came through. Constance and Percy soon gathered at the pianoforte to listen to Susannah’s beautiful playing. While music lilted about the room, Gregory approached Julia.

“What do you think of your future home?” he muttered.

“Perhaps too many windows.”

Gregory chuckled at that, which gave Julia the courage for what came next. “Is there a more private location? I’d like a quick chat.”

His face became neutral and stony. Julia’s gut tightened; it looked like he’d been thinking the very same.

“Follow me.”

The duke led her into a smaller, book-lined chamber. He left the door open only a crack, so that the music slipped inside.

“Oh!” Julia gasped as she surveyed the room. “It’s…astounding!”

She’d never seen so many books in one place before. The ten-foot tall shelves scraped the top of the ceiling, and every bit of space was crammed with leather-bound volumes. Julia hurried to a shelf and picked up a copy of Robinson Crusoe. She riffled through the velvety pages, admiring the book.

“You like to read?” Gregory asked.

“I love it. It’s one of my favorite hobbies.” She glanced slyly at him over her shoulder. “Don’t tell me you are a reader, Your Grace.”

“Now, why should that be so surprising?” The duke sounded genial, but she might have detected a note of something else beneath the good humor. Something almost wounded. No, she must be making all that up; men like Gregory never had their feelings bruised. Then again, her perception of Gregory mainly consisted of three things: he was handsome, he was a duke, and he was a rake. The thought of a great seducer sitting down before a winter fire, a book propped open in his lap, a cup of tea at hand, seemed like a grand joke. But Gregory wasn’t a simple rogue in a story book. He was a man. A man with contradictions, thoughts, and appetites.

At the notion of appetites, Julia slipped the book back in place, steeling her nerves before she turned to face him. “Ashworth, we need to discuss something important.”

“Yes. I agree,” he said. The man also looked like he was preparing for something. Something unpleasant.

God, was he trying to tell her he’d thought better of it? That he wanted to call the wedding off?

Julia had planned to rush ahead, but he beat her to it.

“It’s about our wedding night,” Gregory said.