Page 1 of Heartbreaker of the Ton
Chapter One
London, August 1815
“I’m pregnant.”
Etty clenched her hands into fists as she uttered the revelation. The only sign that he’d heard was a slight hesitation in his arm as he raised the brandy glass to his lips. He drained the glass, set it aside, then leaned back, fixing her with his gaze.
“Is that so?”
“I’ve been wondering for some time now,” she said, “but I realized this morning when my maid said that I’d not asked for extra…”
The ruby on his ducal ring winked malevolently as he held up a fleshy-fingered hand.
“I have no wish to know the details, Miss Howard. You may not have the breeding of a lady, but that’s no reason to act like the commoner that you are.”
The tone of his voice had hardened until it was neither the throaty, seductive drawl that he’d employed to persuade her into his bed, nor the strained grunts as he took his pleasure, his sweaty body heaving over her while the bedposts hammered against the wall.
Grunts that always served to turn Etty’s stomach.
But momentary nausea was a price she’d been willing to pay if it secured her position as the Duchess of Dunton and thereby proving, at last, her worth to Mother.
And to Papa, of course. Mother might rule the family, but it was her father that Etty sought approval from. Mother had always valued Etty’s beauty and social graces—Papa’s approval was harder won, and therefore the more prized. But Papa only valued Etty’s older sister—the ungainly Eleanor, whom the rest of Society derided. Yet Eleanor, as well as having secured Papa’s love for doing nothing more than being her own, awkward self, had now secured the hand of the most alluring duke in England. Eleanor had succeeded where Etty had not. Which raised the question—what was so wrong with Etty such that a man of his quality preferred theOddity of the Tonover her?
Etty placed her hand over her belly, pleading to the Almighty that it would be a boy.
Dunton poured another measure of brandy and drained the glass. “Well, I suppose that signals an end to my pleasure,” he said.
Etty’s heart fluttered with relief. If he left her alone until her confinement, so much the better. He could take a mistress for all she cared.
But it wasn’t the done thing to tell the man she was about to marry that she found his body, his company—even the merest thought of him—utterly repugnant.
Instead, she curved her lips into a smile that her suitors had always described asangelic. It was a smile that, together with her beauty, had rendered her the most desirable woman of the Season, and had broken countless hearts.
But men’s hearts were easily mended. A man’s needs were simple—a pretty wife to adorn his arm, and a fat dowry with which to indulge in the pleasures that London could offer—in most cases, wine, gambling, and other women.
As to awoman’sheart…
It served Etty’s purpose best not to have one. Better to be the heartbreaker than the brokenhearted.
Heartbreaker…
It was a title she welcomed. Each broken heart she left in her wake strengthened the armor around her own heart, until her emotions had been numbed to the point of immunity.
Nobody would breakherheart. Her objective wasn’t to be loved. Love came hand in hand with betrayal. No—her one, defining objective was to become a duchess. A duchess was untouchable. She could live her life as she pleased, safe from the predators who resided in the waters of Society.
She only need play her part a little longer to secure her prize—the prize that sat before her.
She fluttered her eyelashes and widened her eyes. It was a gesture that had earned her countless suitors and filled her dance card.
“I am not so ungenerous, Your Grace,” she said. “I understand the duties of an obedient duchess. I will not demand that you deny yourself the pleasure a man in your position deserves. Even if I’m carrying your heir…”
His eyes narrowed, and she caught her breath. Had she reeled the fish in before he’d been properly hooked?
“A man often wishes for more than one son, does he not?” she said.
He stared at her belly, and his tongue flicked out, moistening his lips. Nausea rippled through her once more—the sickness that had plagued her for almost a week now, together with revulsion at the memory of that thick tongue thrusting into her mouth, tainting her senses with the taste of sour wine and cigars.
Then he threw back his head and laughed.
