“For you, darling, I find a second wind,” she said with a wink, already sliding the sheet down.
She dragged herself over him, pressing a slow kiss to his throat. His hand cupped her arse, kneading her flesh as she ground against him. Morning desire stirred, sluggish but undeniable.
She sank down onto him, his hardness filling her to the brim, and a sigh escaped her lips at the sweet ache of the stretch. “God, you're always so bloody big—no matter how many times you've had me,” she muttered with a breathless laugh, bracing her hands on his chest. “Thought I’d be split in two the first time.”
Heat closed around him, wet and urgent, as her hips ground against his, her breasts bouncing with each thrust, her own hand slipping between them to rub herself. Her body worked with ardor, but her eyes stayed flat, her moans practiced. And yet—he saw it—the wince when she bottomed out. She hadn’t been exaggerating. He was big. He almost felt sorry for her.
She was skilled—no denying it—but the sex was mechanical. A transaction. Blackmeer let her move, hands gripping her waist tight enough to leave marks, driving her harder against him, the slap of flesh loud in the dim room. His body answered—swelling, spilling with a sharp grunt as release overtook him. But he was only scratching an itch. This was nothing compared to the wild revels he’d once had here—those long nights with Maggie, when he’d gloried in ruin for its own sake, drinking and whoring until dawn. Then, he had cared for nothing but his own pleasure.
When it was over, he lay back, breath steady, satisfaction humming in his blood. Harriet collapsed against him, panting prettily. He stroked her hair once, then shifted her aside without comment. He rose, tugged on his shirt, fastened his breeches. Inthe looking glass, he saw the face of a man London now called a hero. But he could still smell the brothel on his skin.
Respectable or not, he was Major General Blackmeer. And now, he had the grim duty of facing his father.
* * *
The Westford townhouse loomed over Mayfair like a citadel of marble and gold. Its high façade and colonnaded entrance were the envy of half of London, the sort of place where even the servants moved with the dignity of lords. Inside, the air smelled faintly of beeswax and lavender polish, every surface gleaming, every drape of heavy silk falling in opulent folds. Landscapes in the Italian style, all golden light and ruined temples, stretched across the walls of the entrance hall, mingled with vast canvases of mythological and religious scenes, bought at ruinous expense to prove the family’s taste.
William followed the butler across the black-and-white marble floor, boots echoing, coat collar turned up against the draft.
“His Grace has been in a state since yesterday,” Mr. Jenkins fussed, hands fluttering as if he were rearranging invisible lace. “He expected you last evening, my lord. Your absence was most inconvenient, most irregular. His Grace is—” he lowered his voice, scandalized, “—agitated. Quite agitated indeed.”
William smirked faintly, though it felt hollow. Agitated. That was one word for it. He felt like a schoolboy being dragged before the headmaster, not the heir of a dukedom.
The doors to the study swung open with a weighty groan, and he was ushered inside. The room was grand, heavy with gilt-framed maps, tall windows draped in velvet, and the lingering, earthy scent of cigar smoke. Behind the desk, the Duke of Westford sat waiting, his hand tapping irritably against the armrest of his chair.
“You kept me waiting,” he said at once, voice clipped. “I had expected you yesterday.”
William inclined his head, as though apologetic. “Forgive me, Father. I thought a night’s rest would serve me better before facing you.”
The Duke’s brows twitched—impatient, but he said nothing more on the point. Instead, he leaned back, studying his son. His voice softened, even warmed.
“You’ve done well, William. Far better than I expected when you first marched off in uniform. I was against your commission at first,” he continued, each word deliberate. “And yet I remembered too well the lack of purpose that defined your earlier years. But now—look at you. The Duke of Wellington’s right-hand man. The toast of London. Respected. Admired.”
William sat in silence, jaw set, eyes unreadable. Praise washed over him like rain on oiled leather.
The Duke’s expression sharpened. “But glory is not duty. There are other matters that cannot wait.”
William’s gaze flicked to the fire, jaw tightening. “And those are?”
“The line,” his father said flatly. “You are thirty-two. It is high time you secured it. If you will not—then a cousin twice removed shall inherit. And where would that leave your sisters? Where would that leave my wife?”
Polite words formed easily on William’s tongue, but inwardly his thoughts curled dark.Let the duchess rot on some godforsaken estate. The moment I wear the ducal coronet, I’ll send her so far north even the shepherds will scorn her charms.
Outwardly, he only smiled faintly and said, “I am sure the duchess will find a way to content herself, Father.”
The Duke’s eyes narrowed, as if he sensed the undercurrent. “Her Grace has done her duty, William. She tried for years to give me a son. Years. It was not her fault she bore onlya daughter, nor that she endured stillbirths, or that those few born alive were lost in infancy. That is God’s will.” His voice hardened. “But it is your duty now to provide a son.”
William’s laugh was low, bitter.That was her excuse?His mouth quirked with something between irony and disdain. “I have been home less than a week. You would send me to war again—but this time at the altar.”
“Do not mock me,” the Duke snapped. His fist struck the desk softly, but the wood trembled. “You are the most eligible bachelor in England. And it is as if society has conveniently forgotten your vices. The Season is still upon us. Tonight, if you wish it, you could meet a lady fit to be your duchess.”
William’s shoulders tightened. He shifted in his chair, restless. “I have just returned from France. I need rest. Peace. Time. I have not seen Charlotte in three years—I would go to Westford Castle, and perhaps convince her to join me in London. She may have a keener eye for what makes a good match than you.”
The Duke flushed, stung. “My wife’s bloodline is impeccable. She is young, beautiful—the most beautiful woman in London, they say. You would be half as lucky to secure someone like her.”
“And yet I would never be so liberal with my own wife, nor indulge her appetites,” William retorted. “She is a stain on our name.” His late mother had been a paragon of virtue and aristocratic poise; his father’s second wife, by contrast, lacked both morals and common sense.
The Duke’s hands clenched on the armrests. “You have been a stain on our name for most of your years. Whoring, debauching girls, seducing wives, fighting duels with aggrieved fathers and husbands. If you had not nearly died in that affair with Sir Charles Bewely, I would never have remarried in the first place. I married again only because you failed to do your duty. You should have secured the succession long ago.”
