Page 75 of The Wayward Duke
“Trouble in paradise, Hastings?”
The sly taunt wrestled Julian’s attention back to the table. To the circle of gentlemen watching him over their fanned cards, sharp with speculation.
Julian flicked a pointed glance towards a man groping a giggling tavern maid. “Nothing I’d care to discuss in present company. Just appreciating the varied amusements Whitechapel has to offer this evening.”
“We all get restless for variety, duke. Nothing to be ashamed of.” The Viscount Brandon chortled.
“Of course.” Julian watched his wife across the haze. “What man doesn’t?” he replied. He tossed back the rest of his drink, relishing the burn. But it did nothing to dull the fierce longing rising within. “Now, I believe you owe the pot unless you’re bluffing, Brandon.”
Grumbling, Brandon tossed his cards down to reveal a losing hand. The younger peer pushed a pile of notes towards him as he stacked his winnings. All the while, Julian’s senses remained trained on his wife. Laughing at remarks that likely concealed groping hands. Submitting her graceful neck to their ogling regard.
When Caroline turned those beautiful, shrewd eyes on Pritchard, every man at the table perked up. Jackals scenting prey, eager to move in for the kill. Ravenous. She was exquisite and lethal and not theirs to touch.
Fury and lust warred within him. Julian wanted to gouge out their leering eyes, to stake claim to what was his. The most primal parts of him strained at their tethers, the urge to rip into them was a madness in his blood. The stoic duke hanging on by a thread, always thinly veiled beneath a veneer of civility that she – only she – tore to shreds.
And now she approached the table in a rustle of silk, scent wrapping around him – an invitation in her gaze.
“Good evening, gentlemen,” she all but purred.
The men’s reactions were instant, visceral. Their focus homed in on her, to the exclusion of all else. Drawn forward by some primal magnetism. The game, the cards, the coins – all forgotten.
Because his wife was magnificent.
Only Julian remained as still as stone. Outwardly bored, an aristocrat inured to feminine wiles. He forced a flat tone. “Out for a night of sport, madam?”
I am going to punish you later.
I am going to pleasure you until you can’t move from my bed.
“Out looking for a bit of trouble tonight. And I believe I’ve found it.” Her full lips curved.
Julian’s muscles coiled tight. He focused on keeping his breathing even despite the fury clawing his insides. Chaos always followed in her wake. She was chaos herself.
His chaos.
One sly, sidelong glance through lowered lashes ensnared Pritchard instantly. “What about you, sir? Are you feeling adventurous this evening?”
Pritchard’s grin turned wolfish. “Always ready for a bit of sport, me.”
He hauled her onto his lap. She let out a breathy squeal, settling on his knee as if she belonged there. His arm curled around her waist, moulding her against his chest.
Only Julian noticed the way she hid her pain as Pritchard jostled her wound.
He wanted to punch something.
“A lost little lamb, are you, sweet?” Pritchard murmured, bringing one hand up to toy with the beaded edge of her mask. His fingers then traced lower, grazing the exposed swells of her breasts in an intimate caress.
Julian gripped his cards, crumpling the edges. The painted faces blurred.
Caroline laughed, arching into the crude embrace. “Oh, not a lost lamb at all, sir. I know precisely what I’m doing this evening.”
“Do you now, lovely? Then I mean to have you. Over and over until you can’t walk straight.”
Over my dead, rotting corpse.
Another husky laugh escaped her lips. “That sounds like my idea of trouble. But are you sure you can afford me?”
His smile widened. “Darling, my recent ventures could keep you dripping in rubies.”
