Page 32 of Duke with a Deception
King was in the midst of being shaved when a knock sounded on his chamber door. Ordinarily, no one dared interrupt his morning ablutions, which were a sacred time in the household. It was generally understood that, unless the town house was aflame, no one was to intrude upon his daily routine.
Which meant that either the interloper wanted to get sacked, or the circumstances necessitating the knock were quite dire. Hutchens hesitated, mid-stroke of the razor, looking comically torn between continuing to perform King’s morning shave and answering the door.
The knocking intensified, and King sighed. “You may as well see who it is.”
“Of course, Your Grace.” Hutchens placed his razor on the nearby silver tray along with the various other accoutrements he kept neatly arranged for the purpose of tending to King’s morning preparations.
As his valet moved to the door to determine what was so pressing that it couldn’t wait, King remained seated, his mind traveling, inevitably, to his new wife.
Verity was more potent than any elixir he had ever crafted for his chums during their days of decadence and debauchery. Making love to her far exceeded the pale imaginings he had conjured as they had waited to wed. In the end, it hadn’t mattered that he had failed to prolong her seduction or slowly introduce her to the pleasures of the flesh.
What mattered was that the two of them were incendiary together.
Even if he remained troubled by the way she continued to recall fractured memories of her past. And even if she did continue to conflate King with her beloved Lord Leopold. His pride didn’t care for the latter. But then, he had known what he was doing, taking the place of a dead man. He simply hadn’t expected it to sting so bloody much. Nor had he expected her memory to begin returning so soon.
Or to worry about what would happen should it be entirely restored.
King sighed again at the thought. The skin on his face, lathered with shaving soap that had begun to dry, felt as if it might crack at any moment. He drummed his fingers on his thigh, trying to make out the hushed words between Hutchens and whoever was at his door to distract himself.
It wouldn’t do to fret over what couldn’t be changed. Besides, there remained the possibility that Verity would never regain her full memory. In that eventuality, he would emerge unscathed. He ignored the tiny pang of his conscience at the notion. What Verity didn’t know could not hurt her.
Hutchens closed the door and crossed the chamber to resume his shaving duties, wincing as he did so.
“Well?” King asked, growing impatient and irritated with himself for allowing his mind to wander to places it shouldn’t. “What is it?”
“I regret to inform you that His Grace, the Duke of Riverdale, is awaiting you below in the drawing room, Your Grace,” Hutchens reported.
Riverdale? What the devil was he doing here? Surely the man knew that King and Verity were meant to leave London this afternoon for Wingfield Hall. They didn’t need further intrusion.
“It’s half past eleven in the bloody morning,” King snapped, thoroughly vexed with his friend.
Former friend, he inwardly amended. For Riverdale had been abundantly clear on where he stood. Which was a whole lot of rot, in King’s opinion. Their chum, Richford, had damned well seduced fellow friend Whitby’s innocent sister, and after coming to blows, Whit had forgiven him. Meanwhile, King had been a consummate gentleman toward Verity—until yesterday, of course—and Riverdale refused to cry pax.
Hutchens inclined his head, taking up his razor once more. “I am aware, Your Grace.”
“The day after my wedding.”
The word felt like a barb on King’s tongue.Wedding.Wrong, somehow. He hadn’t thought he would ever marry, and now here he was, a staid husband who bedded his wife on their wedding night like a proper lord ought to do.
Except nothing about last night had felt like duty.
No.
Last night had been shattering in the very best possible way, nothing short of splendid. Utterly terrifying too. He was no innocent lad. His reputation had been earned. But he had never, in all his years as a shameless rake, experienced the kind of passion he’d known with Verity.
And this morning? It had been miraculous. Not only was she perfectly matched to him in bed, her sensual nature a delightful surprise, but they also possessed a rare ease between them.
“Yes, Your Grace,” Hutchens said.
And King remembered, belatedly, that they had been speaking of Riverdale’s uninvited and unexpected arrival at his town house.
“I hope someone told him to go back home and return at a more polite hour,” King grumbled, trying to hold still so that his valet didn’t nick his skin as he shaved his jaw. “No one is better at browbeating someone into submission than Pierpont.”
“I do believe Pierpont tried,” Hutchens allowed. “However, His Grace refused to leave. Pierpont was most displeased, as you can imagine.”
“The cheek. Did Riverdale say why he has called?”
“To see to the welfare of Her Grace.” Hutchens ran the razor over King’s cheek in a fluid stroke. “Something about wanting to pay a call to his sister prior to the departure to Wingfield Hall for the honeymoon.”
