Chapter 3

3

Someone had drugged his ratafia. He was hallucinating. That was the only explanation for why Millicent Whittenburg was pressing her lush body into his, smashing her lips against his mouth in the world’s most clumsy kiss.

Drake prepared to extricate himself from the woman’s surprisingly warm embrace, but something happened. She softened against him. Her mouth trembled beneath his lips. Her fingers rubbed rhythmically along the knotted cords of his neck. A powerful woman turned devastatingly vulnerable in the space of a heartbeat.

Millicent’s rawness broke him. Need washed through Drake like a rogue wave, sweeping logic from his mind and replacing it with vicious longing. It was an ache so deep, he felt it echo in his bones. He wrapped his arms around her, pulling her chest flush against his and revelling in her abundant curves. She was like a feast to his senses after years of starvation. Her soft moan breathed new life into his desire.

He cupped her face, angling her head so he could take control. Instead of plunging deep, he grazed his lips over hers, tasting, testing, savouring the madness and magic.

When he would have pulled back, she gripped his jacket, bringing him even closer. She licked the seam of his mouth. He opened, letting her tongue play a tantalising game of discovery with his own.

Bold and brave, even in this.

Drake hadn’t been with a woman since Nora, but he recognised the skill of experience. Millicent may not have kissed many men, but Drake definitely wasn’t her first. The knowledge granted him an unexpected freedom. He wasn’t debauching a complete innocent. It also filled him with determination to eclipse whoever had gone before him.

Stepping forward, he backed her against the stone railing. It was delightful to embrace a woman so tall and strong. With Nora, he had always worried his brutish power would dominate and crush her. But Millicent was altogether different. He didn’t have to bend to reach her. When he thrust his thick thigh between her legs, she squeezed him tight between lithe limbs.

Fucking hell.

Her ability as a horsewoman was apparent and inspired illicit images racing through Drake’s feverish mind. How would it feel to have her long legs wrapped around his waist as he unleashed the full power of his passion? To let her ride him like a wild creature until they both shattered and reformed into completely new beings?

He growled low, biting her bottom lip hard enough to blend pleasure with pain. It only seemed to enflame her growing ardour. She scraped her nails over his scalp, and his hand delved lower, filling his palm with the flare of her firm bottom. They were two equally matched warriors engaged in a fierce battle for dominance. She gave him no quarter, and he plunged deeper into the fray.

I’m in trouble. Big trouble.

He needed to pull back, regain control of his body, restore some semblance of order. Soon. Any moment. Maybe never.

An audible gasp behind him doused the flames of his passion.

Miss Millicent pulled away, her hand pressed against a flushed cheek, eyes wide with shock. Or was it regret?

‘You wilful, wanton, awful girl.’ A familiar, shrill voice rose into the cold night like a banshee’s shriek.

Drake didn’t have to turn around to know Patricia Whittenburg stood behind him. And while he was the rake responsible for Millicent’s ruin, it came as no shock that her poisonous stepmother would lay all the blame at Millicent’s slippers.

Dread filled Drake as the reality of their situation crystalised like raindrops in a blizzard.

Fucking hell.

One moment of weakness and his world shifted on its axis. The very last thing he expected to find at this ball was a bride. The very last thing he wanted to find at this ball was a bride. But Drake was a gentleman despite the brutality embracing his soul. He would face the repercussions of his actions with his head held high and his shoulders squared.

He turned, shifting so Millicent was hidden behind his back, providing her whatever protection he could from the voracious glare of half the beau monde. His gesture was futile. Of course. The damage had been done. The consequences inescapable. For both of them. And while most of him recoiled violently at the thought of what he must do, a small, hidden piece of his fractured soul exhaled in a whisper of relief.

No. That isn’t right. I’m certainly not relieved to be marrying Millicent Whittenburg.

But the whisper got louder.

Drake shook his head. He didn’t have time to ruminate on the inner workings of his clearly broken psyche. He was in the middle of a complete mess. Thanks to his lack of control. Which was clearly Miss Millicent’s fault.

Lord and Lady Whittenburg, Viscount Tread, the Duchess of Dorsett, and Reynard all stood in a shocked huddle just outside the French doors. Behind them, half the assembly strained to see what was happening in the silvery moonlight on the veranda.

Lady Whittenburg screeched loudly, fanning herself with her bejewelled hand.

Lord Whittenburg blinked like an owl, his lips crimping at the corners, creating a stern parenthesis.

Viscount Tread’s mouth opened and closed like a carp out of water. His face was mottled red. Drake worried the man might suffer an apoplectic fit.

Reynard sipped whiskey from a crystal glass in an effort to hide what Drake could only guess was a wicked smile.

The Duchess of Dorsett thwacked her fan against her hip. While her mouth was set in a firm line, her cobalt eyes twinkled with mischief.

His suspicions increased. Something was terribly amiss.

Drake turned his gaze to Millicent, and the worst happened. Her coffee eyes filled with tears.

‘I’m so very sorry,’ she whispered.

The heat burning through Drake’s veins and clouding his thoughts dissipated like vapour. Cold comprehension dawned.

She planned this whole thing.

The deceitful damsel had duped Drake.

Sometimes, rage ran hotter than molten iron. Sometimes, it was colder than a tempered blade in winter and just as sharp. The whisper in his chest went silent as ice filled his veins. He watched Millicent’s face crumple. She had doomed them both. Intentionally. But why?

I suppose she prefers a scarred dragon to a red-faced, wheezing elephant three days older than dirt.

Without a word to her, he turned and strode toward Lord Whittenburg and Lord Tread.

‘Gentlemen, I think it best we retire to Lord Whittenburg’s study.’ His gaze flicked over to Millicent. ‘You shall join us.’

Lady Patricia – who was leaning heavily on Reynard and furiously fanning herself – perked up at Drake’s command. ‘Yes, as will I.’

She directed her words to Lord Whittenburg, but Drake responded. ‘No. You will stay here. Reynard, please see to Lady Whittenburg.’ The last thing he needed was more females complicating an already disastrous situation.

‘Major General.’ Millicent rushed to him, gripping his arm. ‘There’s no need. I mean, please, let me explain.’

Using all the skills honed in combat, Drake turned to her, his face a mask of pure marble, any emotion hidden deep in the blackness of his core. ‘Explain exactly what, madame? That you are deceitful? Devious? Diabolical? Those terms are redundant, as you are a woman. No different from any other creature of your sex. You lie. Cheat. Scheme and destroy. I know this as well as I know my own ruined reflection in the mirror. I am only disappointed in myself for letting down my guard. I promise you it shan’t happen again.’

Millicent opened her mouth, no doubt to refute his claims, but he wouldn’t listen to further farce. The truth was painfully clear. In an effort to evade an old, lecherous man, Miss Millicent Whittenburg had forced a trade. If he wasn’t so disgusted with the entire affair, he would admire her enterprise.

Turning back to her father, Drake shook his head. Millicent didn’t understand yet, but her circumstances were exponentially worse. While Lord Tread was a miserable, decrepit man, Drake was a monster. If she was intent on cornering him into a forced marriage, he would make sure she paid her part of the bargain. Even dragons were allowed to savour their spoils.

Millie followed the men into her father’s study, refusing to show any nerves.

Major General Drake took control of the meeting as soon as they entered the room. ‘Lord Tread, obviously you have been grievously mistreated. For my part in this mess, I apologise.’ Drake sent Millie a scathing glare.

If Major General Drake was expecting her to follow his example, he was destined for disappointment. She would apologise to no one.

Moving to the leather couch, she sat, inhaling the comforting scent of sandalwood. This room was once her favourite place. Her mother died bringing Millie into the world, and her father developed a fear of losing Millie as well. So, he kept her close by his side, always. She was his shadow, following him everywhere. He taught her to ride, shoot, climb trees, and capture frogs. They spent hours together in this room, Millie drawing horses or planning epic adventures while her father worked on business.

Until she let St George seduce her. She broke her father’s heart that day. Then Patricia arrived. She won his affections and weaselled her way into his broken heart, ensuring Millie’s complete rejection.

Patricia banned her from disturbing her father while he worked. They no longer read together by the fireplace in the evenings, sharing their favourite passages. Patricia preferred to play cards. Always Piquet or Quinze, games involving two players with no room for Millie to join. Slowly but surely, Patricia pushed Millie out of every corner of Lord Whittenburg’s life.

There was a time Millie would have given anything to be invited back into her father’s sanctum. In all her wild imaginings, she never expected to return under such dire circumstances.

Well, that cat is well and truly out of the bag. No putting it back.

Crossing her arms over her chest, she stuck out her chin. Millie might be here under duress, but she’d be damned if she let any man shame her for fighting to claim her freedom. She would never ask for Viscount Tread’s forgiveness. No matter how viciously Major General Drake glared at her, silently demanding she do just that. Viscount Treadful hadn’t even courted her, deeming the effort worthless as Patricia had already promised Millie’s agreement to his suit. He had given nothing to Millie and now, he would get nothing from her. He deserved nothing.

‘Henry, I must say, I can’t believe your daughter is such a wilful, obstinate child. I’m only glad I found out before being leg-shackled to a harlot.’ The viscount’s watery gaze turned to Millie, filled with hatred.

Her face heated as Drake growled an oath, taking a menacing step closer to Viscount Tread.

Why he cared about the viscount’s insults, Millie couldn’t guess. Only moments before, Major General Drake called her devious and deceitful. Surely harlot wasn’t any more offensive, although it felt worse.

Her father stepped between the men. ‘I am sorry, Bartholomew. There is no excuse for Millicent’s behaviour. You are obviously released from our agreement. I only hope we can remain friends.’

Dear God. Bartholomew? I was almost married to a man named Bartholomew Tread?

Nothing about this situation was funny, but manic bubbles of mirth frothed up Millie’s throat. She turned the laughter into a cough.

‘She should be locked in an asylum. Or thrown out on the streets to earn a living in one of St Giles’ whore houses.’

‘Enough, sir.’ Major General Drake spoke softly, but the small hairs on Millie’s neck rose to attention, sensing violence. ‘The events of this evening are regrettable. But Miss Millicent is no longer your concern. I recommend you leave. Now.’ Major General Drake’s gravelled voice created a buzz along Millie’s skin.

Viscount Tread’s face darkened from red to crimson. He must have sensed the threat emanating from Major General Drake like an arctic blast of chilled air. Without another word, Viscount Treadful turned, leaning heavily on his cane as he shuffled to the door. ‘I shan’t forget this, Henry. Never in all my days have I been treated so rudely.’

‘Bartholomew, please.’ Lord Whittenburg followed his friend into the hall, leaving Millie alone with Drake.

This was her chance. Before her father returned and took her control away… again. Major General Drake obviously did not wish to marry her. She just needed to make it clear she held no such expectations of him.

Standing, she threw back her shoulders and walked around the couch to face him.

I will not show fear in the face of a tall, muscular, dashing, very angry man. Philippa has trained me better than that.

‘My lord, please understand, I have no intentions of trapping you in marriage. I release you from any expectations.’ There. Clear, concise, assertive. All he needed to do was thank her and be on his way.

Major General Drake’s eyebrow rose like a bird of prey taking flight.

What a wonderful trick. Quite intimidating. I wonder if he’d teach me how to do that.

‘You release me?’

Millie nodded, taking a step back as he strode closer. ‘Yes. I was trying to explain myself earlier. I don’t want to marry you.’ She just needed to be ruined. So she could be free.

Major General Drake’s lips pressed together in a tight line. ‘Really? You didn’t seem so repulsed by me on the veranda.’

Her brow drew down. ‘Repulsed?’ He misunderstood. ‘This has nothing to do with attraction or repulsion.’ She was freeing him of his duty to marry her. It was so simple, but he seemed determined to complicate matters. ‘I know you don’t want to marry me, Major General Drake. And luckily, there’s no need.’ She kept her voice cheerful. ‘After all, it was just a kiss.’

He took another step, his wide chest encompassing her entire frame of vision. ‘Just a kiss?’

‘Yes.’ The air must have thickened because it was almost impossible to breathe. ‘A kiss isn’t worth sacrificing your life over, is it?’

Even a wonderous kiss that still sparked through her veins like firecrackers.

Major General Drake drew closer, forcing Millie against the back of the couch. She gripped the leather sofa to steady herself. His heat washed over her like a gloriously tropical wave.

‘I think that depends entirely on the kiss.’ The muscle in his jaw jumped as he inhaled her.

Cheese and crust!

She had to tilt her head back to meet his icy-blue gaze. Millie forced herself to focus on the scar cutting through his eyebrow, nearly catching the lid of his left eye. ‘Exactly. Err, I mean, that isn’t what I was trying… You’re muddling my words. I’m trying to tell you, you’re free to leave, Major General. Before Father comes back. I shall tell him you refused to marry a… what did Viscount Tread say? A h-harlot, I believe.’ She hated her wobbling voice. Her cheeks were flaming. To be called such a thing by an old, smelly man was embarrassing, but to own the title herself in front of Major General Drake was even worse.

Sacrificing a bit of dignity is worth the price of freedom.

She couldn’t maintain eye contact, so instead, she examined his neatly tied cravat. Severe. Controlled. Efficient. Much like the man himself.

He leaned forward, putting both hands on either side of Millicent’s hips, trapping her. His chest almost brushed against hers as cloves, leather, and smoke embraced her like a lover.

‘One kiss doesn’t make you a whore, Millicent. And neither of us are free. Not any more. You made a bargain with the Devil tonight, damning us both.’

Bollocking bloody shit shovelling fuck.

They were all the bad words Millie knew, though she wasn’t sure she’d used them correctly. Still, she wanted to scream every one of them at his stupid, smug, devastatingly attractive face. His mouth was only a breath away from hers. She licked her lips, suddenly unable to look away.

‘B-but why?’ She couldn’t fathom his reasoning. He hated women, her in particular. Why wasn’t he running for the door?

He opened his mouth to answer, but Millie’s father returned.

‘I say, what’s all this?’ Henry Whittenburg’s gaze skipped over Major General Drake to land like an anvil on Millie.

Drake straightened, taking a measured step away from her. He faced her father. ‘Lord Whittenburg, I would like to marry your daughter. I think a quick engagement would be best, don’t you?’