vows were said, not after the lengths he’d gone to in order to have her. Instead of being grateful—after all, Tony had tossed aside a vow to never marry he’d made when only fifteen, in order to rescue her from the clutches of Winthrop—she’d castigated him for not leaving her to Carstairs.
I was never going to give her to Carstairs.
The flash of jealous anger spread across his chest. It wasn’t the first time, and he doubted it would be his last. Another thing he laid at her feet. Tony’s fingers drummed on his thigh, wanting to itch at the ugly possessiveness climbing down his limbs. He’d known the moment Maggie had left Elysium spouting the nonsense about no expectations. What kind of a man did she think he was to take her maidenhead and then give her to his friend?
A rake. A libertine.
Tony studied the new Lady Welles discreetly. Her opinion of his character today notwithstanding, she looked lovely. Incredibly angry. But lovely.
The rose silk nestled against her petite body seductively, emphasizing her tiny waist and pushing her delectable breasts up in an almost wanton manner. And Maggie did have a tendency toward wantonness; he’d experienced such a thing firsthand at Elysium. Reading the memoirs of a courtesan. Never once blushing while he stripped her of her chemise. Touching his cock. Wicked little thing.
Another part of his anatomy besides his head began to ache, and she wasn’t even playing the damned piano.
He bit back the curse forming at his lips. While his anger had simmered to a cool, icy burn in his veins over the last few days, thanks to several bottles of Elysium’s best scotch, his fury was still there, threatening to crack through the surface of the skin. Marrying Miss Lainscott felt an awful lot like pleasing the Duke of Averell, something he was adamantly opposed to. He’d been so bloody angry when he’d left the ball that night. Amanda’s comparison of Tony to his father had sickened him so much it had blotted out everything else, including Maggie.
Tony had immediately retreated to his rooms at Elysium.
He drank himself into a stupor the first night. And the second.
It was Leo who had stormed into his rooms, furious at him for leaving Miss Lainscott out to dry, so to speak. Amanda and the girls had refused to see him until he did the honorable thing. Romy, in particular, had sent Tony a scathing note; he had no idea his sister knew such vile curses. The entire ton was awash with ugly rumor and conjecture. His reputation, already not the best, had been battered further, though he didn’t actually care what society thought of him.
Tony gave a great sigh while studying the delicate curve of his wife’s breast, wanting her comfort for the pain he felt, even though she was the cause of it.
Contrary to what his family believed, having Leo remind Tony of his numerous character deficits and Amanda vowing never to speak to him again was not what had induced him to marry Miss Lainscott. Nor did the ton have to proclaim him the most wicked of all rakes or laugh at the fact it had been Lady Dobson’s much-unloved niece which had forced Tony to relinquish his vow of bachelorhood.
He’d known exactly what would happen when he played Chopin for her the night of the ball. He just didn’t like it.
Tony kept his focus on his wife’s petite form, mentally stripping the rose gown from her. She was still fuming and possibly mourning her thwarted attempt to become Lady Carstairs. Another rush of jealousy washed over him. He’d never thought to ever be envious of Carstairs or have a woman prefer him to Tony. The thought chafed at his ego.
As the carriage rolled to a stop before his town house, the expression of Lady Welles didn’t change except for a slight tightening of her delicious plump lips. Tony allowed himself a moment to study her mouth, remembering the taste of her. There were many uses for a mouth.
His trousers tightened alarmingly at even the wisp of such a thought.
The carriage rolled to a stop in front of his rather modest town house.
Thank God. If he didn’t get out of this carriage and work off some of the havoc of today’s events, Lady Welles would likely pay the price. He needed a short stroll and a glass of scotch to clear his mind before dealing with his wife. Maybe he’d spend his entire marriage foxed.