***
Bleary-eyed, with a smashing headache, Hart slid into a large leather chair at Brooks’s the next morning. His friends Harlborough, Norcross, and Wenterley sat across from him.
“You look like hell,” Norcross said. The blond earl was a crack with a pistol and had been Hart’s friend since they were lads growing up on neighboring estates.
“I feel like hell,” Hart admitted.
“Marriage not agreeing with you?” Harlborough drawled. The duke was dark-haired, had a wicked sense of humor, and was the only man of Hart’s acquaintance who had a finer set of horseflesh than he did. A damn fine rider was Harlborough. He’d known the duke since their days at Eton.
“An understatement,” Hart replied.
“I don’t understand. We met your wife. We danced with her. She seemed a lovely, accommodating sort,” Harlborough replied.
“She is if you count scheming seductresses as lovely and accommodating,” Hart sneered, just before he ordered a brandy from a footman.
“Scheming? How so?” Wenterley asked. The brown-haired, brown-eyed viscount was by far the most studious of Hart’s group of friends. He’d met Wenterley at Oxford while trying to cheat off his paper. The viscount had promptly called him out, Hart had promptly bestedhim with his fists, and they’d ended up drinking together in a pub and deciding they could help each other.
“You didn’t hear the story about how my marriage came to pass so quickly?” Hart asked.
“Of course we did,” Harlborough said. “Got caught in a scandal and all that. What does that have to do with anything? Could’ve happened to the best of us. I, for one, can’t blame you for not being able to keep your hands off her till your wedding day. She’s a fine-looking lady, that one. If you don’t mind me saying.” Harlborough held up a finger to order a brandy for himself.
“That’s just it,” Hart replied. “She wasn’tsupposedto be my wife.”
“Could’ve fooled me,” Norcross replied. “You spent a great deal of time with her this Season.”
“I was doing her a favor and—”
“And you merely happened to be compromising her in the Duchess of Claringdon’s garden? Was that a favor as well?” Wenterley snorted. The other two laughed.
Hart snapped his mouth shut. When his friends put it like that… he seemed less… right about the whole thing. “My sister and the duchess were in on it, too. They sent me out there knowing she would be there and knowing—”
“Knowing you’d compromise her?” Wenterley blinked at him innocently.
Hart wanted to punch bloody Wenterley. Why did the viscount always have to be right? Damned annoying trait.
“What does it matter?” Norcross asked. “You needed to get married, didn’t you? You told us you liked her. Why not marry her?”
“She planned it,” Hart said.
“Marriages are often planned,” Norcross replied.
Hart slapped his hand on the table, making the glasses bounce. “It was a scheme. She doesn’t have a dowry.”
“What do you care if she doesn’t have a dowry?” Harlborough replied. “You and your father have more money than the pope. Besides, I’ve never known you to shy away from doing something that would give your father a fit.”
Hart didn’t have time to respond before Wenterley said, “I’m more interested in the seductress part. What did you mean when you called her a ‘scheming seductress’?”
“She’s been trying to lure me into bed,” Hart ground out, feeling like an utter fool.
“What in the devil’s name are you talking about, Highgate?” Norcross’s face had turned a reddish-purple color. The earl looked nearly apoplectic.
“I mean I vowed not to touch her after our wedding,” Hart mumbled, feeling like a damn fool.
“Have you lost the bit of your bloody mind you had left after all the drinking you’ve done, Highgate?” Harlborough wore a horrified expression.
Hart slammed his fist on the table again. “Damn it. You don’t understand—”
“Do I understand that your gorgeous wife is trying to seduce you and you’re not taking her up on the offer?” Harlborough shook his head in disbelief.
