The Duke's Shotgun Wedding (Entangled Scandalous) Read online

  “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 h
ad 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—”

  “Denied.”

  “I beg your pardon?” She plucked up her veil and top hat, and clutched them to her chest.

  “I do not bow to the conventions of society, Jocelyn. Nor did I imagine that you did, after the way you stormed my estate waving your derringer.”

  Her feet sank into the thick carpet as she resumed pacing. The duke leaned against the bookshelf and watched her.

  “I cannot credit that you would have us wed so soon. It’s impossible. The banns will need to be read and—”

  “I will procure a special license and we will wed tomorrow morning at nine.”

  She gaped at him. “I do not think it possible to obtain a license so soon, Sebastian.”

  “I am the Duke of Calydon. It will be done.”

  She blinked at him owlishly, unsure if she could even scoff at his arrogance.

  A slow, devastating smile slashed his features and she swallowed at the strange flutter it caused inside her.

  “Are you at least twenty-one, Jocelyn?”

  “Yes”

  “Then I will have my solicitor visit Doctor’s Common and procure a special license for us.”

  A disconcerting thrill went through Jocelyn at his words. He was willing to marry her.

  Disbelief and a deep excitement unfurled within her. She stopped her pacing abruptly, staring at him with wide eyes. He prowled over to her as myriad emotions tumbled through her—doubt, fear, relief, followed by unguarded joy. Her family was saved.

  But it didn’t take long for the fear and uncertainty to return. Could she really do this? “I…”

  “Yes, Jocelyn?”

  “My father will object to such a short notice. I fear he may—”

  “You will spend the night here at Sherring Cross and we will wed in the morning. There is no need for you to return home to face his objections.”

  Jocelyn stared at him, scandalized. She had not forgotten what he’d said about taking her. Even if he provided a paragon with the most virtuous of sensibilities as a chaperon, she would not spend a night under his roof. “Please disabuse yourself of such a ludicrous notion. I have a cousin who resides in Cringleford. I could visit her, and send a note informing my father of my decision,” she ventured carefully.

  “Does that mean you consent to marrying me tomorrow?”

  She had no choice. She must, for her sisters. To give them all a chance at happiness. That had been the plan all along.

  Taking a deep breath, she said the most momentous words of her life. “Yes, I will marry you tomorrow, Your Grace.”

  She didn’t dare analyze the shadow of primitive satisfaction that swept across his face.

  Nor did she have time, since he quickly angled his head down, gently fitting his lips against hers, sealing their agreement.

  And as she melted into his too-tempting kiss, she just hoped those words would not also prove the most calamitous of her life.

  Chapter Three

  Jocelyn’s capitulation had ignited a fire in Sebastian’s cock and he could still taste her on his tongue. After taking luncheon with her and conferring with his lawyer, he had used the remainder of the day to draft their marriage contract. He’d spent the night restless, wondering if she would return to Sherring Cross. This morning, he dared not analyze the feeling of pleasure and satisfaction that permeated every cell in his body when his butler announced her promptly at eight o’clock.

  She was dressed in her freshly laundered riding habit with her hair pulled back in a severe bun. Sebastian thought she looked delectable.

  She graciously consented to break her fast with him despite her apparent nervousness. Conversation for the following hour was very stilted, but Sebastian did not mind. He felt contented observing her and envisioning the upcoming night.

  He suppressed a flare of need as he watched her eat the last morsel on her plate. She darted her tongue to capture a crumble of cake from the corner of her mouth. Her lips had a lush sexuality, and he swallowed a groan at the mental image of her tongue caressing his thick shaft. He doubted he’d ever anticipated being deep inside someone as he had her.

  The emotions that stirred as he’d watched her for the past hour were not welcome. And yet, her boldness pulled him, and the mirrored need in her gaze intrigued him as she watched him covertly and with a soft hunger. He wasn’t given to fanciful notions, but if he was not careful, he could find himself steadily craving her. A state he would never welcome.

  Despite her innocence, given her easy capitulation to his brother’s charms, Sebastian fully expected her to be unfaithful in marriage. Wasn’t that what women did? They couldn’t be trusted. He’d learned that the hard way from the two women he had loved and given his trust.

  A savage surge of denial filled him at the thought that she might betray him to such an extent. His fingers clenched tight around his knife. He forced himself to release it, and leaned back in his chair. He would not suffer disloyalty or betrayal from her.

  Her nervousness grew notably when his butler announced the vicar’s arrival. Her gaze flitted around the room, glancing everywhere but at him.

  He rose and sauntered toward her, enjoying her discomfort. Next time, perhaps she would be more cautious in her demands.

  “Come. The vicar awaits us in the library.” She scraped back her chair and came to her feet without waiting for him to assist her. She walked before him with short, easy strides, graceful yet determined, and the rounded curve of her backside had arousal teasing him once more. Thrusting his hands in his trouser pockets he wondered how best to deal with her. He knew full well she was only marrying him for his wealth. Not that he cared. He did not know if there had ever been a time when marriage had been about something other than money.

  A sensual smile curved his lips. Though, indeed, marriage did have certain other benefits. He would ensure the lady had no time even to think
of taking a lover, if that was her wont. He would keep her—and himself—well pleasured, day and night, riding her long, slow, and deep. If she then still had the withal to find a lover, he would either tip his hat to her or banish her.

  She swept into the parlor and halted when she saw the two young ladies who waited. She glanced at him.

  “These are Vicar Primrose’s wife and daughter, Miss Alicia and Mrs. Felicity Primrose. They are our witnesses,” he explained.

  They rose to their feet, twin blond heads bobbing to greet them.

  Jocelyn nodded mutely in acknowledgement, and he signaled the baffled vicar to begin.

  He wondered fleetingly if he should halt the proceedings to grant her a courtship period and a wedding that befitted a duchess. Was he denying her a dream that he could easily accede to? Constance, his sister, reminded him every so often that it was an atrocity not to be married in a wedding gown fashioned by Worth from Paris. But he dismissed the notion immediately. This was a business arrangement. She wanted his money, and he wanted an heir. Dreams didn’t enter into it.

  The vicar cleared his throat and asked them to face each other. Satisfaction rushed through Sebastian when she squared her shoulders, lifted her chin a notch, and met his eyes unflinchingly.

  As the vicar’s voice droned on, he only partially listened to the words of affirmation and commitment. He responded when needed, a smile quirking his lips whenever he noted the wild fluttering at Jocelyn’s throat that belied her serene expression. He couldn’t help but admire her aplomb.

  “Your Grace, the ring.”

  He withdrew it from his pocket and her hand shook when he slid the turquoise encrusted, rose-cut diamond ring on her finger. He could feel her surprise at it, no doubt wondering how he had come to procure such a beautiful ring so quickly.

  A light sheen of disbelief then glazed her eyes as he tightened his fingers on hers, and said, “I thee wed, Jocelyn Virginia Charlotte Rathbourne.”