Page 11 of The Wayward Duke
Lord Rivers makes the same bet with Mr Payne.
“A foolish wager to make,” he said to Lord Rivers, very softly, “when a man doesn’t have one thousand pounds to lose. Good day to you, gentlemen.”
*
Julian had been hunched over the coded letter until his shoulders knotted and his neck ached. When the old grandfather clock tolled midnight, he finally admitted defeat. For now.
With a quiet groan, he tucked his work away and turned to the sideboard, pouring two fingers of amber liquid into a crystal tumbler. The whiskey burned going down.
He’d just poured another glass when the front door groaned open, followed by the tap of brisk footsteps – the familiar, no-nonsense cadence that could only belong to Caroline.
His sweet fucking torture was home.
Julian tracked her path as she strode down the hall and slowed outside the open study door. Silk skirts whispered, and then she stepped into the firelight.
He froze, the tumbler halfway to his lips. Good God. The thing she wore could barely be called a dress. It was an artful arrangement of pink silk doing its damnedest to preserve modesty and failing on every account.
It was suddenly vitally necessary that Julian finish his drink. Now.
“You’re still awake,” Caroline said, her voice curling through the room like smoke and sin.
A voice designed to bring men to their knees. Designed to drive him mad.
Julian lowered his glass slowly, as if disarming a weapon. “As are you. I expected you hours ago. Did you attend a birthday celebration” – his gaze dipped over her attire – “or a Roman bacchanalia? You look as though you’re dressed for a night of debauchery. Not that I object.”
That earned him a smile. “Are you ogling your wife, Hastings? I’m shocked.”
“Perish the thought. I’m merely taking note of how you put that scandalous silk to shame.”
“I suppose most gentlemen find bare shoulders absolutely riveting.”
“Among other things, I’m sure.” His gaze drifted over the tops of her breasts.
Her gaze turned mocking. “Do go on. I’m finding your ogling most educational.”
Julian glanced away and reached for the bottle again because he was a gluttonous bastard when it came to her – always had been. Even when she sliced at his heart, he wanted to bare his throat for more.
“Does it count as ogling when a man stares at his own wife’s dress?” he asked. “Most gentlemen present likely spent the evening contemplating what you’re wearing beneath it.”
Or what he might do to divest you of it.
Her smile sharpened. “Should they come knocking, I’ve no doubt you’ll unleash that infamous glare and turn them to stone.”
“Why turn them to stone when I can watch in amusement as they piss themselves in terror?”
“Careful,” she said in amusement. “Your protective streak is showing.”
“It’s the whiskey. Lowers my defences. Did you enjoy yourself this evening?”
Julian watched as Caroline claimed a seat by the fire. Watched the way shadows danced over her bare skin. “Reasonably. Though my cousin remains an unmitigated idiot.”
A wry huff escaped Julian. “Doesn’t half of London compose sonnets to Montgomery’s charm?”
“Oh, Monty plays the charming rake to perfection,” she said. “But he’s desperately in love with his new wife and is already finding creative ways to muck it all to hell and back. Truly, most gentlemen are tragically lacking in emotional intelligence.”
“We do blunder about until fate deigns to boot us up the arse a time or two.”
Or three, or four, or…
