Page 6 of Madcap with a Marquess
The wench leaned over him, her breasts pressing into his neck, her cloying fruity scent enveloping him. Her hands traveled lower. And lower—
He flinched and let out a strangledmeeep!
“Well, well, well. Look what you have been hiding, my lord.” She brushed her lips against the shell of his ear. “Goodness, I’d offer my services free of charge for the chance to play with such a gift.” Her words coasted over his neck. Moist. Unsettling.
No. Definitely not. I cannot do this.
“Hampton? Is that you?” The low, familiar baritone interrupted Rupert’s panic and halted the wench’s progress.
Thank heavens.Rupert met the sardonic green gaze of Roderick Blackwood, Lord Dunmore, one of his school chums from Harrow.
Derek shook his head in a practiced movement, jet-black overlong waves falling over his brow, which he quickly brushed back. “Well, Satan’s tits, it is you! Rafe, look here.Hamptonis at the clubs. And getting rubbed down by Minnie!”
Rupert groaned. Ensue the teasing.
A lean, tall, young man with short, tightly curled black hair stepped up to Derek’s side and cocked his head—Raphael Sinclair, the Duke of Ironcrest. The two had been inseparable since Harrow, as good as brothers, even resembling each other with their dark hair and tall, lanky frames. Rupert narrowed his eyes. Though Rafe wasn’t nearly as lanky as he used to be, his shoulders must have doubled in breadth since the last time Rupert saw him.
He still remembered the first day he’d met the pair. He’d offended someone at Harrow—again—and found himself desperately trying to defend himself in a fistfight he was sorely losing. Then the two had stepped in on his behalf. He still had no idea why. But they’d taken him under their wing—even though technically he was older than them both. They taught him to defend himself, introduced him to the bonds of friendship, and endlessly attempted to lure him into their raucous behavior. At times, he suspected they found amusement in testing his limits, in seeing how close they could push him to the edge of propriety before he finally faltered and beat a hasty retreat. It was a challenge to them to see if they might finally succeed.
“I wouldn’t have believed you, Derek. But I could have sworn I heard a squeak as we passed by.” Rafe leaned forward, his lips twitching. “Let me guess, Rupe. That was the first time a woman’s touched your cock.”
Rupert’s face went up in flames, and he tapped the arm of his chair again. Rafe chuckled, but his dark grey eyes remained flat. Humor never seemed to reach the Duke’s eyes.
“Excuse us, Minnie,” Derek said, softening the bite of his tone with a slap on the wench’s arse.
Minnie giggled, her gaze greedily taking in the two new arrivals. “Of course, my lord.” She curtsied low, and Derek’s and Rafe’s gazes latched onto her bosom. “If you or Your Grace…” Her gaze darted between the two men, and she licked her lips. “Or if youbothare in need of entertainment, just say the word.”
“Both?” Rupert murmured, frowning. What on earth did that mean?
Derek dropped heavily in the chair to Rupert’s left, and Rafe took the chair to his right.
“Yes, the both of us,” Rafe said, a gleam in his eye. “Minnie has many talents.”
Rupert glanced between the two men. “I don’t…”
Rafe opened his mouth, but Derek shook his head and lifted a silencing hand.
“Not the topic for tonight,” Derek said. “Maybe one day Hampton will be ready for that discussion, but I think it best we get to the root cause for his visit tonight first.”
Derek picked up a glass of scotch from the table in the middle of the three chairs. Rupert frowned. “It is Rutledge now,” he said absently. When had more glasses of scotch arrived? The club’s footmen must be quite adept at their job.
“Sorry to hear about your father,” the men echoed solemnly, and all three toasted their glasses to the late Marquess. It had been a long time coming—his father had fallen ill just after Rupert had turned ten. His illness had been a long, drawn-out affair, an always-there heavy cloud, thick and suffocating. A pain that settled over the Rutledge family and refused to leave. The past few years, with his father’s condition worsening, had been especially grueling. Rupert was happy his father was finally free of his suffering. His passing six months ago had been an odd sort of sorrowful relief.
Derek cradled his glass, studying Rupert. “So, tell us Rupe. What has happened to cause you to step foot in the clubs and go wenching? We have begged you for years to join us. Since our days back at Harrow. Offers which you had always declined. Why now?”
“I am to be wed on the morrow.”
Derek reeled backward, and Rafe’s eyes slid shut, his face contorting as if in pain.
“It is not…bad news.” Rupert glanced between the two men’s stricken expressions. “Or at least I did not intend for it to come across as such. You both know I have been betrothed to Lady Francine practically since birth. I accepted that long ago.”
“Apologies, Rupe,” Derek said, his lip still curled back in distaste. “We know you have no way out of this arrangement.”
“So, a bit of a panic that you’ll only bed one chit for the rest of your life spurred your trip to the club?” Rafe asked. “Get one last romp in before the noose closes around your neck.”
That seemed a touch hyperbolic. “Marrying Lady Francine is not a death trap.”
He wished he’d been able to say that with more surety. But she wasn’t adeath trap. Untamed raven-black waves and flashing green eyes flickered in his mind. A challenge? Perhaps. Terrifying? Most definitely. Tempting… She had always been tempting. Which was what made her so dangerous.
