The Duke's Shotgun Wedding (Entangled Scandalous) (2 page)

Chapter Two

Ah, yes. She would do.

Sebastian Jackson Thornton, the twelfth Duke of Calydon, Marquess of Hastings, and Earl of Blaydon had decided on Lady Jocelyn Rathbourne the instant she drew the derringer from her reticule and pointed it at him so determinedly. Or it could have been when his butler Thomas announced her entry. Her walk had been militant yet provocative and graceful, stirring something that had withered to a cold nothing over the years. He doubted those qualities were natural, as chits like her were trained from the schoolroom how to walk, talk, and entice a man to marriage.

Even though, Sebastian had to admit, she did not appear like many of the simpering misses and ladies of the
ton
who thought they had only to bat an eyelash and wield their fan to be captivating.

“Marriage?” he asked blandly, as his eyes tracked the pulse that beat so frantically at her throat.

He held out the glass of sherry. “Drink,” he commanded, expecting her to obey without question. He suppressed an impulse to smile as her lips flattened, and from the slight spasm of her jaw he surmised she was gritting her teeth. She would make a poor gambler.

He wondered at her eyes—their color and shape. The dark veil that covered them was a source of irritation he meant to remedy. Her hand trembled as she pressed her back closer into the shelves that lined his library walls, filled with thousands of books and tomes. He hoped her bravado was not failing her. It would not do for him to turn around and offer marriage so easily.

“Yes, marriage.” Her voice was a hiss as she straightened her spine and took a tentative step forward. “And I do not desire refreshment.”

Ah, there it was. The spirit that had stoked his intrigue, the sheer boldness that had rushed from her as she confronted him with Anthony’s folly, so different from the simpering flowers the mamas of the
ton
had been throwing in his path over the years. She vibrated with passion and fire.

“Very well.”

Her gaze slashed from his to the glass of sherry he placed on the desk. His chuckle when it rumbled from his throat surprised even him. The unthinkable deed that he had been contemplating with part rage and sometimes icy detachment suddenly seemed intriguing as he studied her. Slowly, he closed the distance between them.

“Come no farther!”

He halted inches from her, the barrel tip of the derringer brushing against his waistcoat. He ignored her gasp as he reached out deliberately and drew the hat from her head.

“What are you doing?” she demanded, grabbing for it. He held it behind his back.

He liked that her voice did not lose its husky timber even though she appeared rattled, so unlike the high-pitched nasal tone of the many debutantes of the summer season.

He was even more relieved that her voice was not pure throaty seductiveness, or else his disgust would have been instant. Stripped of its veil, her delicate face had blushed crimson, and her gray eyes were like saucers. He feared she may be in danger of fainting.

“It is normal, Miss Rathbourne, for a man to fully gaze upon his intended before committing to marriage, especially under such unorthodox circumstances.”

She took several breaths and lowered the weapon slightly, in line with his waist. He circled her neck with his hand, his thumb teasing the pulse that fluttered at her throat. Her tongue peeked out and moistened her lips. His nostril flared, but he ruthlessly ignored the sudden desire that burned him. She had dressed for their meeting in her riding habit: a green, high-collared shirt with matching skirts that molded her petite but voluptuous figure. From the nerve-racking tutelage he had received from his sister, Constance, about the current season’s fashion, Sebastian determined that she was wearing last season’s habit.

She inhaled sharply as he stepped in close enough to her that she was forced to lower her weapon completely or shoot him. Her eyes widened even further, and Sebastian realized he’d done her an injustice when he’d thought of them as merely gray. They were the color of storm clouds, full and raging with emotion.

“Your Grace, you presume too much!”

“Do I?” Sebastian chuckled as the click of the gun echoed like the crack of a whip. “Brave little thing, aren’t you?”

“You will address me as Lady Jocelyn.” She lifted the derringer again, and pressed it to his ribs. “Unhand me, and summon your solicitor at once. I require him to procure a special license and prepare our marriage contract.”

“Ah.” He reached past her and set her hat and veil on the bookshelf. “In that case, I fear I must insist on first sampling the wares you so boldly offer, Miss…
Lady
Rathbourne.”

She froze. “
Sample?
I am not a common doxy!”

“No you are not…nor are you a lady.” He traced his thumb along her jaw. “I have yet to figure out what you are, Jocelyn.”

“Oomph—”

He swallowed her reply in a kiss, an action meant to shock the sensibilities she obviously possessed. But instead, it completely floored him.

The flavor of her lips was like the finest wine, the texture sublime, and her taste could intoxicate even the most jaded rake. She went rigid against him. He clasped her face with both hands and tilted her back, sinking in for a more thorough kiss. She shuddered, and parted her lips on a soft gasp which he took immediate advantage of, dipping his tongue into heaven.

The stab of his own arousal stunned him, yet what he tasted from her infuriated him, sending rage through his blood like poison.

For he tasted innocence.

It was there in the hesitant dart of her tongue as it met his, in the soft moan, the hand that fluttered to his shoulder, clasping him tightly as he deepened the kiss, and her shiver as he slanted his lips over hers. But it was the guileless hunger she responded with that bespoke her innocence. There was no artifice, no seduction…and no expertise behind her natural response. It was pure and unguarded, and it drew him under as nothing else could.

He kissed her with scorching proficiency, drawing her pleasure as an artist with a brush. His tongue plunged into the warm recess of her mouth, tasting nectar, eliciting a fractured moan. His hunger grew, and he licked and engaged her tongue in a feast of the senses. Her body arched, and he groaned as her moans roused the full length of his cock. Too much, and too soon for the innocence he tasted, for as he molded her body to his, curving her shape and pillowing her breast to his chest, she tore her mouth from his. Horrified by his boldness, or by her own response, he wasn’t certain. But he could guess.

“How
dare
you!” she choked out.

The storm clouds of her eyes appeared about to crack, unleashing torrents of rage. Her lips glistened, the high flush on her cheeks spread to her neck and lower, her petite frame held taut with outrage.

She was magnificent in her fury.

…

“You take liberties, Your Grace! Your actions are of an unspeakable cad!” Jocelyn spluttered, and darted sideways away from Calydon, lest she shoot him and unravel all that she had plotted for.

He tilted his head and regarded her. “It seems your shrewish tongue is the offset to such angelic beauty, Lady Jocelyn.”

“And you are a libertine!” She had not been in his library thirty minutes and he had accosted her. Her hands trembled and her heart pounded in shock.

Mostly at the startling pleasure of his kiss.

His actions had surprised her so much she had responded with a wantonness not in her nature. How had he wrought such a change in her?

The man was more dangerous than she’d ever imagined.

Heat burned in her entire body as she remembered how the duke had crushed her to him and plundered her mouth as though he had every right.

With an unreadable mien, he turned to watch her, graceful and panther-like in his movements. Her hand itched to shoot him for his arrogance, so much so that she clasped both hands over the derringer in fear she might actually pull the trigger.

His brows arched at her action. “Do you still intend to shoot me, Lady Rathbourne?” he drawled, seemingly unconcerned that she held a gun in her shaking hand.

“I can see where Anthony received his propensity for disgraceful, ungentlemanly behavior.”

His lip curled. “You mistook me for a gentleman? How naïve. For I am still trying to determine if I will take you before you leave.”

She could only gape at him in stupefied amazement. She searched his face, and what she saw shook her to the core. Her hand stilled, and all tremors left her body as her mind endeavored to understand.

He was coldly furious.

She was sure of it. The curve of his lips, and the ease with which he leaned against his oak desk suggested otherwise. But his eyes gave him away. They burned with an intensity she did not understand.
She
was the wronged party, not him.

She belatedly realized that Calydon was nothing like Anthony, or the few other noblemen who had graced her home in Lincolnshire. He was not like the earnest suitors her father maneuvered her way hoping they would be ensnared by her beauty and title despite the lack of a dowry. This man was not amiable, easily spoken, nor, indeed, a gentleman. He would not be led nor easily deceived. He was a lord, through and through.

Rich, powerful, and ruthless, and Jocelyn feared she was far out of her league, even if her papa claimed her Napoleonic mind had no match.

Restrained strength emanated from him, and a dark sensuality stamped his features. Despite the smile that teased his lips, his eyes remained cold, distant, and aloof.

She rocked back on her heels, and tipped her head to search his face. His reputation for shrewdness and ruthlessness extended to more than business acumen. Apparently it was well-earned. She was not dealing with a rich fop of the revered
ton
as she had believed.

“You are angry,” she observed, her heart pounding.

She watched his face for signs that she may be wrong. And did her best to block what he had said about taking her. Visions of true ruin had been pummeling her since he’d uttered those threatening words. If he did, she would be more than impoverished, she would be disgraced and cast from society. If not worse. Should he decide to force her, she doubted she could shoot him and remain a free woman. Images of her swinging from the gallows had her paling.

“Because I detest liars.” His voice whipped contempt.

Jocelyn swept down her lashes, shuttering her gaze. “I am telling the truth.” In all that mattered…

“Anthony did
not
seduce you. And if so, he did a piss poor job at it.”

Her eyes flew open at his crude remarks. “You persist in thinking me a simpleton! I demand satisfaction. I swear on my honor that your brother took liberties and promised me marriage.”

She did not fidget under his cold assessment, despite the riotous emotions that boiled inside her.

“Women have no honor.” His tone was positively glacial, devoid of anything but disdain.

She struggled for a reply, but could say nothing under the judgment that lashed out from his eyes. Fire burned in her cheeks.

“Ah, she blushes. Mortification at being revealed?”

“Blushing is the color of virtue, Your Grace,” she snapped.

“A gun-toting woman who quotes the philosopher Diogenes. Tell me, Lady Rathbourne, what other talents lie beneath such a beautiful face and glorious body? Do you paint water colors or play the pianoforte, perhaps?”

She cursed the weakness that filled her limbs as he slowly perused the length of her, from the tendrils of curls on her forehead, over her breasts, where he lingered a moment, then all the way down to her black boots.

She drew herself up and met his derision with pride. “No. But I do read and write in fluent English, French, and Latin. I don’t know all the great philosophers, only those who had something interesting to say. I am apt in managing a household, and have served as both chatelaine and steward for my father’s estate for years. I swim, I ride, and I hunt. And I shoot very, very well.”

He strolled to the bell and rang it, ignoring her passionate outburst. The butler instantly appeared, as if he had been stationed outside the door all along.

She gaped in humiliation.

The butler bowed. “Yes, Your Grace?”

“Summon the vicar,” Calydon ordered. “And have the cook prepare luncheon for me and my future duchess.”

The room swam around Jocelyn at his pronouncement. She dropped abruptly onto the chair and reached for the glass of sherry on his desk. She drank it in three unladylike gulps.

She had to admire the butler’s aplomb. He betrayed neither dismay nor pleasure at the duke’s announcement. “Yes, Your Grace.” He bowed again, and exited.

She took a steadying breath. “Your Grace, I—”

“Sebastian, please. Now we are on intimate terms, let’s dispense with the titles, Jocelyn.”

A shiver went through her at the way he said her name, rolling it slowly over his tongue as if tasting and savoring the syllables. She frowned, disoriented and overwhelmed. He was so mercurial. She knew rage had held him in its grip a few moments ago, darkening his eyes to deep blue. Now he was smiling at her with lazy sensuality, all trace of rage suppressed behind shuttered eyes.

“You are marrying me?” She was still disbelieving of what she’d heard.

“Was that not your demand? I cannot give you the satisfaction of Anthony’s hand, nor can I meet you on the field of honor at dawn. And I certainly do not wish to be shot in my own library. I thought you said I would do?”

“I…I am merely startled by the ease of your capitulation, Your Gr…Sebastian. I feared I would at least have to shoot you in the arm for my intentions not to be doubted.” She glanced uncertainly at the closed door. “You sent for the vicar.”

“Yes…he will marry us upon his arrival.”

Jocelyn laughed, the sound thin and high. “You jest, I’m sure.”

“Do I detect unwillingness? Is there a chance I mistook your meaning when you demanded satisfaction?”

She surged to her feet. “No, you did not.”

She paced the library in a daze unable to stay still. “The scandal of wedding so quickly without my family present, or a courting period of a few weeks at least—”