Of all the stupid, misbegotten, and utterly reckless things to do. He had been so careful, only to have every coherent thought filter out of his mind as soon as her hands encouraged his instincts to claim her irrevocably. He’d had every intention of withdrawing, but as she called his name, his body sang in return and he lost control before he even realized, and then it was too good, too erotically enticing to regret. Even now as he called himself utterly deserving of his scoundrel status, he gloried in the idea that he had christened her body with his seed, that even now she carried some piece of himself with her. It was the baseness of his nature, yet undeniable.
And just as dangerous.
Because he didn’t want to simply walk away.
And if she allowed him to bed her again—for after his actions this afternoon, that was uncertain—it would be too easy to reason that he’d already allowed himself the pleasure once, what would it matter if he didn’t withdraw? Wasn’t the damage likely done?
He was wicked to his core, and still couldn’t find a shred of regret.
Perhaps this was why Catherine had acted the way she did. His body clenched and cooled to a frigid degree as he thought her name. He might be a scoundrel and rogue of every sort, but Catherine was the devil in a dress. Of course she was also put in a difficult position, but that position was one of her own choosing, of her own manipulations, and of her own deceit. While married, he fully expected loyalty from her till death did them part. That misunderstanding was utterly communicated not long into the marriage. And after spending the afternoon in Chatterwood’s study, he wondered anew what had tempted Catherine to make the choices she had. Perhaps the duke was just as calculating and opportunistic as Catherine. Maybe that was how the duke had won the hand of Liliah’s mother. Or it maybe it could have simply been a worthy alliance. Heaven only knew, but it was unfortunate nonetheless for the poor woman.
Much like it had been unfortunate for Lucas.
But while Liliah’s mother had surely been powerless against her husband, Lucas had been anything but powerless against his wife, Catherine.
Rather, he learned the game.
Played it well.
Then when the chessboard was situated perfectly: checkmate. After all, a woman without a protector is not only ruined, she is in constant peril. Lucas knew that the duke didn’t value her enough to create the scandal that would surely follow should he claim the child. So the duke waited, and at the perfect moment, he took away her future, the one she had so callously calculated.
It was the fatal mistake that had sealed Catherine’s demise and secured Lucas’s future.
Alone.
Very few people knew the truth of it—the duke being one of those people. It was easier to let the stories circulate, even when the evidence was quickly noted and dismissed by the authorities. Suspicions lingered, and Lucas was happy to allow those suspicions latitude and the privacy and solitude it afforded.
As the carriage pulled up to Lord Barrot’s house, he quickly stepped down and left his morbid thoughts in the carriage. The butler swung open the door without a word, and Lucas saw staff bustling about as they decorated for tomorrow’s party. It was to be another masquerade, but it was to be of the silver variety. Everything would be chilled, cold, icy, and every patron would wear a silver mask to hide their identity—if they wished. The courtesans were all outfitted with silver gowns—at least the ones that the club employed—and the guest list was overflowing.
It would be a night for the dark ton to remember.
Lucas passed Lord Barrot’s office door, and took the next right, seeking out his own office. As he pushed open the door, he both welcomed and grew frustrated at the sight of Heathcliff behind the desk.
“Comfortable?” Lucas asked, arching a brow.
“No. I bloody hate it here, but you’re off chasing a duke’s daughter and leaving the damn work to me,” Heathcliff replied with a smirk.
Lucas glared for a moment, then closed the door.
“What? No reply? My, I do believe you’re losing your edge, Lucas,” Heathcliff remarked, chuckling.
“Shut up.” Lucas strode to the desk and studied the papers spread across it. “What is this?”
Heathcliff sighed. “Orders for the kitchens, special requests by the selected guests, and here”—he gestured to a large drawing—“is the proposed arrangement of the ballroom. It was suggested to have more faro tables on the right side, which meant we needed to shift the design. I had no complaint since—”
“The house wins.” Lucas chuckled.
Heathcliff nodded sagely. “Fairly.”
“Always. And you’ll be happy to know that after my appointment with the duke there are no pistols at dawn . . . at least tomorrow.”
“Am I to guess at your meaning?” Heathcliff asked, shuffling several stacks of papers and then folding his hands, regarding his friend.
“Yes and no. I . . . am in a bit of a quandary,” Lucas hedged.
“What did you do now?” Heathcliff chuckled lewdly, assuming much and yet still probably not enough.
“First, what do you know of Greywick’s alliance with the duke?”
