My Fair Marchioness (Scandalous Affairs Book 3) by Christi Caldwell (best short books to read txt) 📗

For that love and loyalty and devotion were how she knew that when he ultimately discovered her truths—or lies? it was all mixed up now—he’d never forgive her. He’d never see her as part of this household or family. For the simple reason she wasn’t. And she never would be. This had never been her place. Rather, it had been Adairia’s, and it had been dangerous to let herself believe that anything more could possibly come of her being here. Or wanting anything more with Harris.

Nay, she could not stay here. Not much longer. Soon, it would be time to put an end to make-believe and go…somewhere. She couldn’t go back to live in Covent Garden; not without eventually being recognized. The duchess would surely help Julia start anew…somewhere else, in some other way.

And she couldn’t stop the swell of sadness at the realization, one that had nothing to do with the lavish lifestyle she’d stepped into and everything to do with the people here whom she’d be forced to leave.

Chapter 16

Later that night, Harris found himself reentering the more familiar world than the proper, respectable one he’d been playing at these past weeks.

Not, however, for his usual reasons.

Cutting a path across the crowded gaming hell floor of Forbidden Pleasures, he sought out the friend he could always anticipate finding here.

Sure enough, seated at his usual tables, a vibrant beauty on his lap and a dark-haired exotic creature at his side, he angled his head, studying his cards. All the while with his spare hand, he fondled a generous globe of the latter woman.

The moment Harris stopped at his table, the Duke of Rothesby looked up, a spark of surprise in his gaze. After Rothesby whispered something in each woman’s ear, they got up and sauntered off.

“Well, well, well, the scoundrel returns to his proper place after all,” his friend drawled, motioning to one of the vacant chairs. “Join Barrett and me for a round?”

With a word of thanks, Harris took the seat pulled out by a servant and accepted the brandy held out by another.

“Deal in?” Rothesby was already gesturing to the young viscount.

“I must say I’m more than a little glad to see you here,” the ginger-haired gentleman drawled. “I had a sizable wager.”

More of this?

Harris’ ears went hot as both men went back and forth, congratulating each other for not believing the improbable tale that he’d been reformed and going on to estimate the extent of their earnings.

And they weren’t wrong. The idea that Harris was capable of such a change was improbable. He couldn’t and wouldn’t be reformed. After he’d been humiliated and betrayed in the most public way, and then found himself the widower of the woman responsible for that treachery, his judgment had been called into question. It was easier to live a carefree existence, carousing and living for his own empty pursuits than risking feeling anything that was too deep. He didn’t want to be one of those rogues who was reformed. Or he hadn’t? Did he?

He stared absently down into his drink. It was all… confused. All turned upside down by a young woman who offered her pastries to footmen standing at attention to serve her. And who, according to Harris’ godmother, had requested only food that the lady herself would hand out to those in need. And whom he’d taken in his arms today for a waltz that hadn’t been like any other he’d danced with any other woman before. A memory slipped in of their carriage ride and his blood heated as he recalled—

“Ruthven?”

He jerked his attention upward to find both men staring quizzically back.

Conducting a swift study of the cards laid down, he examined his own hand before tossing down a three.

“The duchess asked that I speak to you.”

The young duke was already shaking his head.

“It could be worse,” Harris pointed out. “It’s not Almack’s.”

“Same respectable crowd, just a different ballroom.”

“And what of me?” Barrett asked in feigned outrage.

Harris spared him a quick look. “The duchess isn’t quite so desperate that she’d rush to assemble a bounder like you there,” he said dryly.

The viscount slapped a hand to his chest and made a show of falling back in his seat, earning a laugh from Rothesby.

“I’m highly insulted,” the other man said, his words having zero teeth. Barrett was one who well knew Polite Society’s opinion—or rather, lack thereof—of him and had made it clear through his actions and increasingly outrageous wickedness that he didn’t give a damn. “Either way, I’ve become well accustomed to Rothesby being embraced with open arms for that illustrious title he carries. Who would deny a young duke anything? Particularly when there are marriageable misses about? Debutantes and virgins.” Barrett shuddered. “No, thank you. I shall leave that pleasure entirely to Rothesby.”

Rothesby stuck a finger up in a crude gesture, earning another laugh from the viscount.

“Pleasure,” the duke muttered. His recently deceased mother was also one of the duchess’ dearest childhood friends, and as such, he was invariably called forward whenever the duchess or one of the countesses required a duke’s influence with their daughters or, in this case, a niece. “And what does she require? That I place my ducal stamp of approval upon her?”

Ducal stamp of approval.

It was a gratingly arrogant comment about Julia from a man who was hardly a match in terms of character, or in any way. “The last thing she should require is yours or anyone’s approval. And yet, it would also ease her way before Polite Society.”

Both men went quiet.

Suddenly, Barrett sat up. “Now, now, now. What is this?” he murmured. “Are you… offended on the lady’s behalf?”

“He did come to the lady’s rescue outside Gunther’s just four days ago,” the duke drawled.

“Oh, the lady didn’t require my rescuing that