Chapter 20

Chapter Twenty

H azel rolled over, a blissful, happy sigh coming from her as the maid threw open the curtains. Sunlight flickered across the bed, the very place she'd been pleasured until the wee hours of the morning. There was still a slight indentation from August's head. The sheets smelled of lime and sex. A great deal of it.

She quickly thumped the pillow, hoping to erase his presence.

Maria's maid bustled about the room before shooting Hazel a knowing look. She'd likely seen far worse than the signs of a man in an unwed lady's bed during her employ with Lady Talbot.

Hazel moved her legs, sore in all the proper places this morning. There was a bite mark near one breast. She pulled the sheet up further to hide herself.

August was somewhat ferocious in the bedroom.

A blush stole up her cheeks.

And he wanted to marry her.

The turn of events, so completely opposite from the outcome she'd been anticipating, left Hazel unsure how to react. She had been prepared for August to ask her to be his mistress. Not his wife.

Marriage. He couldn't be serious.

But August hadn't been foxed. Nor so caught up in desire for her that he'd spoken without thinking. He would never say something of such magnitude without meaning it.

How am I to answer?

She looked down at her lap, listening to the maid, Enid, bustle about, and decided she wasn't quite ready to leave her bed and let reality intrude. Reliving last night, every word and every touch, while sipping tea was warranted. Next a bath. Then she would go downstairs and find August.

"Enid, can you bring me up a tray? Some tea and toast? And a bath would be most welcome."

The maid paused before tending to the fire and nodded. "Right away, Miss Dartmont."

Marriage to any man was a daunting prospect, let alone considering that a union with August would make her a duchess. She'd disliked titled gentlemen for as long as she could remember, largely due to August and his snobbish uncle, so the irony was glaring. And while Hazel floated about the fringes, she was no member of society.

Hazel breathed slowly, pressing a hand to her heart, thinking of all the good she could do as the Duchess of Courtland and not merely Miss Dartmont.

More importantly, she would be with August.

And she quite desperately did not want to be without him.

He'd spoken haltingly, in broad strokes, of Quatre Bras as they'd lain twisted around each other. The sheer horror of that day would never leave him, nor his failure at having been too late to warn his men. Their screams when the mortar hit. Finding Everhurst, barely alive. The smell of blood. The smoke on his skin. The return to London, in which there couldn't have been enough spirits and women to dull the memory of what he'd witnessed.

But August steadfastly refused to speak of those moments that had resulted in the scar covering his back.

I don't wish us to be apart.

He had whispered those words once more before taking Hazel with excruciating slowness, drawing out her pleasure until she'd lain panting and limp beside him, unable to move. Hazel didn't want to be apart from August either, though she'd survived perfectly well without him for thirty-four years. But Hazel no longer wanted to merely survive, not when she could be with August.

Enid entered once more after a brief knock, carrying a tray loaded with a pot of steaming tea and toast. There was a newssheet of some sort tucked beneath a bowl filled with fresh berries. She loved to read the London papers, but she hadn't even so much as glanced at one since before leaving Bath.

"What's this?" Hazel picked up the paper and frowned. " The Rake Review ?"

Enid paused. "Left for you at the door. I noticed when I brought up your tray."

Hazel drizzled honey on her toast and took a bite. "Lady Talbot probably found it in Appleton. She knows how I love the gossip sheets. Thank her for me, please."

"Of course, miss. I'll go see about your bath." The maid bowed and hurried out.

Taking a sip of tea, Hazel picked up the Rake Review and shook out the paper, eyes scanning the first paragraph. The tea caught in her throat, and she set the cup back on the saucer with a clatter.

Dearest Reader. Oh, how the mighty have fallen. His Arrogance, the former A.W. had already cut a swath through London before recalling he possessed some honor to defend country and King. Splendid in his uniform, our dear A.W. marched bravely across battlefields and strutted through bedrooms on the Continent, returning a more self-indulged rake than ever before. Once returned to London, A. W. was content to swing his sword about to the delight of London's fairer sex and dismay of husbands everywhere.

Now our white-haired hero, made a duke due to trout full of bone and a bottle of brandy, finds himself in yet another battle, this one fraught with far more peril. Our debauched rake must find an heiress to wed, and soon, else the house of cards in which he resides will collapse.

A horrid, greasy sensation settled in Hazel's stomach. One she tried to push out but was unsuccessful. Garland's words after August's arrival at the house party rang in her ears.

Impoverished.

Holding his nose, the D. of C. has chosen a bride of low birth and rich purse as his quarry, one who knows her way around a bolt of cloth. Those of you who are acquainted with the D of C. might smile at the comeuppance of His High and Mighty, and he'll find no sympathy here, dear reader.

A warning should he not succeed in this most important mission: Keep your daughters close and their dowries closer. The Duke of Last Resort is on the hunt.

Hazel sucked in a breath. Tea spilled onto the plate containing her toast, bleeding over the paper and words that destroyed her newfound happiness.

No. No. No.

There was no mistaking she was the heiress in question. Nor that August was the white-haired hero.

Or that Hazel was a fool.

Nothing splendidly romantic had brought them together after so long. Certainly not fate. August had set out to meet Hazel at Lady Talbot's. Stalked her in much the same way Hough had done. Only he was much better at strategy than most. All orchestrated. Every word. Every touch. The entire seduction of her person.

Finally, Hazel had believed — she couldn't breathe, couldn't —that she was wanted for herself, not her fortune. And this had been waiting all along.

She looked at the date of the Rake Review , inwardly cringing. All of London would have read this by now. Laughing over the pursuit of plain, overly tall, stupid Miss Dartmont by the Duke of Courtland. At least Hazel no longer doubted the sincerity of his marriage proposal.

August wanted her bloody fortune, didn't he?

She pressed a palm to her mid-section, mortified she'd been so easily duped.

August would ‘hold his nose' to wed her. Whoever had left the column for her to read had likely already spread the gossip to every other guest at the house party. Or would.

How could he?

A horrible retching sound came out of her. She pushed the breakfast tray aside certain she'd be ill.

Last night had been no more than a bid to secure her wealth.

I don't want us to part.

"How lovely that you don't want to be parted from my money," she snorted. "What a great and utter nitwit I am."

Enid returned with towels, and soap. Two lads followed, dragging a copper tub into the room, along with a stream of maids bearing buckets of hot water.

Hazel nibbled on her toast tasting nothing, while Enid prepared the bath. Sliding into the warm water, she shut her eyes, letting the steam swirl about her shoulders. She was not about to stay beneath the same roof as August for one more minute.

"Enid, will you please inform Lady Talbot that there is an urgent matter which necessitates my return to London a day early? My uncle has just announced his betrothal."

Not entirely a lie. Uncle Ralph was going to wed his widow. But it was as convenient an excuse as any to return to town.

Enid's brow wrinkled. "As you wish, miss."

This was far worse than Hough. Far worse than any of those dimwitted, impoverished lords.

It had all been a lie. Their beautiful joining on the beach and then last night. Manipulated into wedding August with tender, insincere words, a spectacular pair of shoulders, and a rather magnificent cock.

"He didn't hold his bloody nose while bedding me."

The stupidity she'd shown with August was nearly more than Hazel could bear. She should have known. He'd been a horrible child and was now an awful man. She pummeled the pillow beside her with a fist. Sick to the very depths of her soul. A single tear bled from one eye, and she viciously wiped it away.

August Wade did not deserve her tears, her person, and especially not her fortune.