Chapter 5
The sound of hoofbeats approaching through the early morning mist interrupted Everett’s grim solitude. He slowed his mount and turned to discover the interloper who approached.
King cantered toward him, looking dashing astride a dappled mare. In typical Kingham fashion, he wore a brilliant scarlet coat instead of customary country tweed, along with fawn riding breeches and smart riding boots that were so well shined that they nearly reflected the surrounding landscape.
He reined in when they were abreast. “Good morning to you, old chum.”
“There is nothing particularly good about this morning,” Everett grumbled.
He’d risen that morning to a cockstand and an empty bed. Thoughts of Sybil had been plaguing him from the moment his eyes had opened and had yet to cease. It seemed that despite his attempt to purge her from his blood the night before, bedding her once hadn’t cured what ailed him.
She had been a virgin.
He hadn’t been certain what to expect, but he knew without a doubt now. The primitive part of him was damned glad he had been her first lover in the physical sense of the word. But the knowledge was a tepid comfort, knowing where her true passions lay.
“Is there not?” King gave him a sly grin. “The sun has risen. The day is a temperate one. It’s not raining.”
“There’s a fog,” Everett pointed out.
“The fog is lifting. Besides, I enjoy its mystery.”
“How nice for you.”
He was still rather vexed with his friend for paying so damned much attention to Sybil at dinner, and King’s irritating good cheer was rendered all the more nettlesome because of it.
“It is nice, isn’t it?”
“Why are you in such a damned cheerful mood?” he growled.
King beamed. “Because I understand felicitations are in order. I had no notion you were a married man until I enjoyed dinner with your beautiful duchess last night.”
Bloody hell.
“Watch your tongue where my wife is concerned.” Everett shot his friend a glare. “And if you don’t mind, I would prefer not to speak of the matter any further. I do so hate to be bilious before breakfast.”
“Oh, but I would dearly love to discuss your nuptials,” King countered, a dog with a bone. “In particular, I thought we might examine just how you managed to keep such a secret from us all these last few months.”
“It wasn’t a secret,” he muttered, huffing a sigh as he turned his gaze to the rolling field beyond, obscured by the thick fog that had blanketed the park some time in the night.
But that was a lie, and he knew it. For he had quite intentionally kept Sybil to himself. Partly because he was embarrassed at being cozened by her and hadn’t been willing to endure the mockery his friends would no doubt throw his way upon the discovery of his own stupidity.
He ought to have known better than to allow himself to be taken in by a pretty face.
He certainly should have been intelligent enough to simply ignore his mother’s ceaseless prodding about performing his duty and producing an heir.
Maman had been berating him endlessly for years now.
Finally, he’d had enough and decided to vanquish her concern.
Only to fail quite disastrously.
“I do believe that refraining from telling any of us about your wife’s existence would be the very definition of a secret,” King countered.
And he was not wrong, blast him.
Which only served to heighten Everett’s irritation.
“Maman was forever admonishing me over my lack of an heir,” he explained. “I merely grew tired of her tedious sermons. Wedding someone—anyone—seemed an excellent method of making my problem disappear.”
“What of the vows we made when we founded the Wicked Dukes Society? With your marriage, along with Camden’s and Brandon’s and Whitby and Richford sniffing skirts, I begin to despair that I shall be the only one amongst us still standing and sane soon.”
“I don’t know that I would ever characterize you as sane.” Everett sighed. “But we were thoroughly in our cups when we made those vows and under the influence of one of your dubious potions.”
“There is nothing at all dubious about my potions,” King protested, sounding insulted.
“They once caused me to hallucinate an elephant,” he pointed out wryly.
King chortled. “Ah, yes. So good of you to remind me. I’ll never forget the sight of you cowering in the corner of my drawing room, nearly about to piss yourself.”
Everett hadn’t found the episode nearly as amusing.
“Did you seek me out just to harass me and ruin what remained of any goodwill I had where you’re concerned?” he asked, unable to keep the sharpness from his voice.
King was like a brother to him, but the man was also damned peculiar. He adored playing games of wits almost as much as he loved criticizing waistcoats and trousers and buttons.
“You ought to have rather a lot of goodwill for me,” King said archly.” After all, I’m keeping your secret.”
“No one asked you to.”
“Then you won’t take issue if I announce your recent nuptials at dinner this evening?”
Everett winced. “There’s no need to do so.”
“Indeed.” King raised a brow. “You wish me to keep the news to myself.”
“Yes,” he admitted.
“So you agree that your duchess is indeed a secret, then?”
“Damn your hide,” he snarled.
“Why are you vexed with me? I’m not the one with the secret. In fact, I ought to be insulted that I had to learn you had a wife when I was accidentally seated next to her at dinner and noticed all the arrows she was casting in your direction via her stare.”
Unless he was mistaken, King was enjoying Everett’s discomfiture.
“The lady in question has no reason to be glaring at me. Her ire ought to be directed at herself for her own wayward actions.”
“Ah,” drawled King. “We get to the heart of the discontent between the two of you. I do so enjoy a good tragedy. Carry on, old chap.”
Everett’s mount pawed at the grass restlessly, reminding him that they had been still for far too long. Moreover, the last thing he wanted to do was confess the sordid details of Sybil’s duplicity to his friend. It was all best left forgotten and ignored. In the past where it belonged.
“I’m afraid your entertainment shall have to wait for another day,” he said. “My mount is weary of exercising his patience whilst we converse.”
“A convenient excuse, but I’ll allow it.” King grinned at him. “I’ll race you to the tree line on the count of three.”
Everett nodded, relieved to have escaped further discussion of Sybil and what had passed between them. “Excellent plan.”
King counted off, and they spurred their horses into matching gallops. But try as he might, Everett couldn’t outrun the desire simmering in his veins for the woman who had betrayed him. He was inwardly counting the seconds until he could return to her bed.
Sybil was preparing to join in a silly parlor game for distraction when a masculine hand clamped on her elbow and steered her into a private salon.
It all happened so quickly, she didn’t even know who had taken ahold of her arm.
Not until the door had closed behind them with an ominous click and she turned to realize that it was Riverdale who had ushered her into the room, his handsome face a stony mask of icy disapproval.
But then, when didn’t he look at her thus? His countenance had only slipped and softened when he’d bedded her the night before.
“What do you think you’re doing?” she demanded now. “Unhand me.”
“I might ask the same of you,” he said grimly.
She hadn’t seen him since the night before, which had suited her perfectly well. Seeing him by day sent a frisson of something dangerous and unwanted through her. His anger was preferable. Far better to face his rage than his desire.
“I am about to join a game of naughty charades,” she informed him.
It was a common enough parlor game that the revelers at the wicked house party had turned into something far more sinful. Although Sybil didn’t participate, she would privately admit to a boundless enjoyment of watching other ladies and gentlemen disgrace themselves.
“No, you’re damned well not,” he snapped.
His curt denial had her defenses instantly up. “You cannot dictate to me what I do, Riverdale.”
“Yes, I can. I’m your husband, madam, and I’ll be damned if I allow you to carry on cavorting with other gentlemen.”
His hypocritical behavior was enough to make her long to punch him in the nose.
She pulled her elbow from his grasp. “In that case, will you also excuse yourself from the remainder of the house party?”
“Of course not.”
He stated it as if it were an impossibility she asked of him.
“Why not?” she countered.
“Because I’m one of the hosts.”
“There are several other hosts,” Sybil pointed out, moving past him, toward the window that overlooked the gardens. “Surely Whitby, Kingham, or Richford might take up your duties if you cannot perform them.”
“Whitby is sniffing after the skirts of the cookery school owner he brought here, and Richford has conveniently disappeared.”
“Then what about Kingham?” she suggested, unmoved.
“Speaking of Kingham, how dare you tell him we are married?” Riverdale demanded.
“I can tell him whatever I like. How dare you keep me a secret as if I am some shameful regret?”
“Perhaps you are a shameful regret,” he bit out loudly.
They both froze. His words had the power of a lash, so vicious and unforgiving that she swore she felt them biting into her skin. Tears burned her eyes, but Sybil was too prideful to allow them to fall.
She tipped her chin up. “The same might be said of you, Your Grace, for I most assuredly rue the day I ever consented to be your wife. I must have entirely taken leave of my senses. Now, if you will excuse me, I am going to join in the merriment your guests have invited me to partake of.”
She moved to sweep past him, but he caught her elbow again, whirling her to face him.
His expression was one of steely determination, his jaw hard, his sensual lips thinned into a harsh line. “No, you bloody well won’t.”