How lucky that his father had such a knack for it. There wasn’t a female in creation who could resist the sexual lure of a wedding, and because of that, William had a great affinity for holy matrimony. Thank Heaven for country estates and well-attended nuptials. And perhaps, after he was done playing the role of heir, he’d seek out the playful young thing from the gardens and do his best to recall the events of the night before. Back to the glorious, libidinal life that belonged to heirs to dukedoms, filled with drink and dice and women and not a worry in the world.īut tonight, he would honor his father and greet his new mother and pretend that he cared for the sake of propriety. Back to Oxford, having done his duty and played the role of doting son. And then, once the familial coffers had been once again filled, he would leave. He’d meet her at the ceremony and not before, just as he’d done the other three. Not that he’d met her, this paragon of brideliness. He would need drink to survive his father’s wedding day-the day William gained his fourth stepmother. They’d crept through the kitchens and up the servants’ stairs, she’d poured him a scotch. He’d spent too long looking at those eyes, fascinated by them, wide and welcoming. Īnd her eyes-he’d never seen eyes like hers, one the blue of the summer sea, and one just on the edge of green. He did not like feeling like he might crush a girl.Īnd she’d had a smile that made him think of innocence and sin all at once. Had he? She’d been long and full of curves, made just the way he liked his women, a match for the height and breadth that was too often his curse when it came to them.
Likely, it was for the best that the woman from the previous evening had disappeared, though the memory of lovely lush breasts, a mane of auburn curls, and a mouth made for sin did bring with it a wave of regret. He cursed, draped one forearm over his closed eyes, sunlight burning red behind the lids, and took a deep breath.ĭaylight was the fastest way to ruin a morning. He opened his eyes, the bright light of the Devonshire sun assaulting his senses and emphasizing the thundering in his head. Instead of a handful of warm, willing flesh, William came up with a handful of unsatisfying pillow. Knowing (as skilled drinkers do) that the splitting head would dissipate by midday, he moved to cure the other affliction and, without opening his eyes, reached for the female no doubt nearby.
So it was that on this morning, he did not fret. William Harrow, Marquess of Chapin and heir to the dukedom of Lamont, was wealthy, titled, privileged and handsome-and a young man blessed with those traits rarely wanted for anything relating to wine or women. He had, after all, woken each day for more than half a decade with one of the items in question, and on more mornings than he could count with both. He woke with a splitting head and a hard cock.
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