Chapter 2
Wesley
The small lad across the table won another hand.
Wesley watched the young man rake coins toward himself, cap pulled low, wearing that same satisfied grin he'd worn for the past hour. Kit, the others called him. And apparently, he was incapable of losing.
“Damn and hell,” Kit muttered, stacking his winnings. “That's a pretty pot.”
“You've said that four times now.” Wesley kept his tone mild, despite the irritation prickling beneath his skin as he twirled his signet ring around finger.
He'd lost more tonight than he typically liked to spend gambling. Luck wasn’t usually this far from his side, at least when it came to cards.
But with the way his night was going, he might have to seek assistance from the Wayward Dukes if he lost any more coin.
Kit's grin widened. “It keeps being true.”
Louis snorted into his whiskey. He'd stopped playing an hour ago, content to watch Wesley lose his coin while offering commentary. “I think you've found your match, Wes.”
“I think I've found a cheat.”
“Prove it.” Kit dealt the next hand with a quick flick of the wrist. His fingers were slim, almost delicate. A clerk's hands, maybe, not a laborer's. “Or keep losing. Either way suits me.”
Wesley picked up his cards. And it was a garbage hand. Of course.
He folded, tossed his cards down, and reached for his drink. Across the table, Kit collected another small pot from the other players and added it to his growing pile.
Max caught Wesley's eye and tilted his head toward the door. Time to go before he lost anything more. And he would, because all he could think about was Thea.
“Gentlemen.” Wesley stood.
Kit looked up at him. For a moment something familiar flickered in his expression, and then the man looked back down at the table. “Come back anytime. I could use new boots.”
Louis laughed. Wesley didn't.
They collected their coats and made their way out into the night. The air hit Wesley's face, cool and sharp, his carriage waiting at the corner.
“That boy took you for twenty pounds,” Louis said as they climbed inside. “At least.”
“I'm aware.” He didn’t like to lose. In his younger years, he’d only ever lost to Thea. He hadn’t cared much for it then, either.
Wesley settled against the seat as the carriage lurched into motion. For two hours, no one had called him Your Grace. No one had deferred to him, asked for favors, or tried to earn his esteem. That lad, Kit, had just taken his money and mocked him for it.
It was the most refreshing evening he'd had in months, even if his pockets were lighter.
“So.” Louis stretched out, taking up more than his share of the seat. “Are we going to talk about why you needed to escape tonight, or shall I guess?”
“Please don't.”
“Your mother,” Louis said, ignoring him. “She's got that look again. I saw her at the Ashworth ball, watching your every move. Is she still pushing Lady Caroline on you?”
Wesley's silence was answer enough.
“Christ.” Louis made a face. “She's pretty enough, but can you imagine? 'Yes, Your Grace. Of course, Your Grace. Whatever you say, Your Grace.' You'd be bored within a fortnight.”
Wesley completely agreed with his friends. “She's perfectly suitable.”
“That's the problem,” Max said from the opposite seat. “You know you want someone with a little more fire than that.”
“What I want is irrelevant. My mother has made it clear that if I don't choose someone this Season, she'll make the choice for me.”
“And you're just going to let her?” Louis raised an eyebrow. “You're a bloody duke. Tell her to mind her own affairs.”
“Continuing the family line is very much her affair, as she constantly reminds me.” Wesley stared out the window at the darkened streets. “She's not wrong. I need an heir, and I can only put it off for so long.”
“There's a difference between needing an heir and marrying a woman who makes you want to chew your own arm off,” Louis said. “You are going to need someone you actually want to bed more than once.”
“Spoken like a true libertine.”
“And you sound like a man who hasn’t wet his wick in far too long. When's the last time you had a woman?”
Wesley didn't answer. Because his friend was right. The silence stretched, and he felt the stares from his friends. Too long. It had been too long, and they all knew it.
Louis leaned forward. “Come on, Wes. When?”
“That's none of your concern.”
“It's been that long?” Louis let out a low whistle. “No wonder you're wound so tight. You need to—”
“I saw you dancing with the Hasting girl tonight,” Max cut in, sparing Wesley from whatever crude suggestion Louis had been about to make.
Wesley's jaw tightened. His friends had always suspected that he had a thing for Thea, and again, they were right, which was bloody annoying. “And?”
“Just put your ring on her finger already.” Max's gaze was steady.
“You’re mad. We've known each other for a long time. We’re just friends.”
Louis snorted. “You're a terrible liar. Always have been.”
“I'm not lying.”
“You're not telling the truth, either.” Louis ticked off points on his fingers.
“You've known her for years. She's clever, she's beautiful, and she doesn't simper at you like every other woman in London.
Her mother's parading her in front of Harrington, of all people, and you looked ready to put your fist through a wall every time she spoke to another man.”
“I did not—”
Max's mouth twitched. “You slammed a glass down so hard it broke.”
Wesley looked away, heat creeping up the back of his neck. He’d hoped they hadn’t seen that.
The truth sat heavy in his chest, the same truth he'd been carrying for years.
He'd always wanted Thea. He had imagined courting her in her first Season, marrying her, and building a life with her.
Then the title had landed on his shoulders and he'd barely been able to keep his head above water, let alone pursue a wife.
And while he loved Thea, she had always been wild and carefree.
She wasn’t the woman one could expect to fulfill the role of a duchess.
At least that was his mother’s strong opinion.
By the time he’d come to his senses and pushed his mother’s voice out of his head, Thea had been surrounded by other men and then engaged to William.
She deserved happiness and to be with the man she wanted, even if it wasn’t him. He watched her engagement from a distance, pretending it didn't gut him.
Then William died. Wesley waited for her mourning to end, but she gave no indication of interest in marriage at all. If she loved William and had lost him, she may never get over that. Wesley would always just be her friend and nothing more. She could never love him.
So Wesley would keep standing on the edges of ballrooms, watching her laugh with other men, wanting something he'd never figured out how to reach for.
The carriage stopped outside Wesley's townhouse. He climbed out before either of them could say anything else.
“Think about it,” Max called after him. “That's all I'm saying.”
Wesley raised a hand in acknowledgment and went inside.
His study was dark, the fire burned down to embers. He poured himself a drink and stood at the window, looking out at the empty street.
He could still feel her hand on his shoulder. The warmth of her waist beneath his palm. The way she'd looked up at him with her wide blue eyes.
Wesley set down his glass and climbed the stairs to his chamber. He didn’t ring for his valet.
He stripped off his coats and cravat, and then sat on the edge of the bed and pressed the heels of his hands against his eyes.
She'd felt so good in his arms. He'd wanted to tell her everything he’d ever felt for her. God, he'd wanted to pull her against him and show her exactly what he thought about Harrington, about her mother's schemes, about all the men who weren't him.
His body was still wound tight from the memory.
He knew what he needed. The same thing he'd needed too many nights to count, alone in this room, thinking about a woman he couldn't have.
Wesley unfastened his breeches and took himself in hand.
He hadn’t been with a woman in a couple years, not since Thea had gone and got herself betrothed.
He had tried to ease the pain in every way he could think of.
None of it worked. And since then, his hand was the only place he found temporary relief from the ache of longing for her.
Her body moving against his would feel like heaven.
He had imagined night after night what it would be like to have her there, beneath him.
Her sharp tongue only capable of moans when he touched her.
Her back arching into him as he finally discovered what it was like to be inside the one woman he’d ever loved.
His breath came faster. He stroked himself with a grip just shy of too rough, chasing release the way he couldn't chase her.
When he finished, it was her name on his lips.
He cleaned himself off and lay back on the bed, staring at the ceiling. The wanting hadn't gone anywhere. It never did. But at least now, when he saw her at the next ball, he wouldn’t back her against a wall and do something he wouldn’t be able to take back.