“Don’t leave.” Her plump lips pursed in a persuasive pout, Vanessa stroked her hand down Derek’s gleaming back – they’d just finished a very rigorous bout of lovemaking that had left them both perspiring and slightly breathless – before rolling onto her back, pink nipples pointing proudly up at the ceiling.

She could have easily reached for the sheet that was twisted around her hips and covered herself, but Vanessa was not a woman predisposed to modesty. It was one of the things Derek liked best about her. And one of the things he was going to miss the most when he traveled to Hawkridge Castle to tame his feral bride.

Standing, he splashed lukewarm water on his face before pulling on a pair of dove gray trousers and a white linen shirt. Buttoning his shirt he turned to face his mistress, his gaze leisurely traveling down her voluptuous figure before returning, with great reluctance, to her narrowed eyes. He knew she was displeased with him. Just like he knew there wasn’t a damn thing he could do about it. Did she think he wanted to go chasing after Eleanor? Bloody hell, he’d rather gouge his eyes out with a dull spoon than tangle with that shrew again.

But his cousin had left him no choice.

Somehow, Lord Norton Bertram, the Earl of Glengarry, next in line to inherit the dukedom, and general pain in Derek’s arse, had discovered the terms of their late grandfather’s will. Mostly importantly the clause where Derek would be forced to forfeit the dukedom if he was not legally married before his twenty-ninth birthday.

In England, an unconsummated marriage could be grounds for annulment. It was no longer as common a practice as it once had been, but neither was it completely unheard of. Which meant Norton’s daring threat to take him to court and seize the title for his own wasn’t completely without merit.

The sniveling little wanker had actually had the audacity to stand in the middle of his study and demand proof that Derek had bedded his wife. As if it were the dark ages and the blood-stained sheet was being kept in a closet somewhere.

It had taken considerable self-restraint not to forcibly remove the smug look from Norton’s face with his fist, but somehow he’d managed to show his cousin out without resorting to physical violence. Then he had immediately gone to his solicitor’s office, who had told him, after a bit of hemming and hawing, that Norton might have a legitimate claim to the dukedom if their grandfather’s will was brought into question in the court of appeals. After all, it was common knowledge that Derek and his duchess had been living completely apart for the better part of a year.

“There’s no guarantee either way, of course,” Mr. Banks had said anxiously. “But it would tie up the estate for months if not years, something which I believe you were hoping to avoid by marrying Lady Eleanor.”

His solicitor was right. The predicament he now found himself in was precisely what he’d been trying to avoid when he’d married Eleanor. There was a part of him that knew he couldn’t ignore her forever, of course. At some point he would need to produce a legitimate heir, if only to keep Norton’s grasping hands off of his bloody title should he expire unexpectedly.

It wasn’t so much the title itself that he cared about, or even the wealth. It was the knowledge that Norton and his wastrel ways would destroy everything their ancestors had so painstakingly built and preserved. The man was a charlatan and a gambler who had burned through his considerable inheritance in less than two years and was desperately looking for another way to refill his coffers. Well, Derek would be damned before he gave him the means to do so. Even if it meant returning to Hawkridge and wooing the last woman in all of England he wanted to look at, least of all bed.

His wife.

“I won’t be gone for very long. Two fortnights at the most,” he told Vanessa, reaching for a silky blonde curl. She batted his hand away.

“You’re going to her,” she spat, and Derek was surprised to see a stirring of jealousy in the depths of her frigid blue eyes. Vanessa may have been a passionate creature in bed, but out of it he’d never met another woman more detached or unfeeling which was what made her such an excellent mistress. He never had to worry about her doing something ridiculous, like falling in love with him. And while he knew she hadn’t been pleased when he’d married Eleanor, she’d never said anything.  

“Not because I want to.” The overstuffed mattress creaked as he sat down beside her and traced his finger down one creamy thigh. This time she allowed him to touch her, but if she were a cat her tail would have been swishing back and forth in silent warning. “You knew I would have to do this at some point or another. It does not change anything between us.”

“Doesn’t it?” she asked, tilting her head.

“No. When I return we can pick up right…where…we…left…off.” He punctuated each word with a kiss, working his way up her thigh to her breasts. Drawing a nipple between his lips he expertly swirled his tongue around the hard little bud, but when he felt her stiff and unyielding beneath him he sat back with a sigh. “You’re making more of this than there has to be. It’s not as if I am bringing the chit back to town with me.”

“But you could,” Vanessa pointed out, one pale brow arching. “If you so desired. She is your wife, after all.”

“And you’re my mistress.” He raked a hand through his hair and stood up to prowl along the foot of the bed as he felt his patience beginning to wear thin. Their conversation was teetering dangerously close to a place neither one of them wished it to go. What did Vanessa want from him? To ignore his wife completely and let Norton steal the dukedom out from under his bloody nose?

He was going to Hawkridge for one reason and one reason only: to consummate his damn marriage. And once it was done, he would return to London and resume his life as if he’d never left.

“Let us also not forget you’re married as well,” he said, levelling a bland stare at Vanessa that bordered on annoyance. Arguing with his mistress was the last thing he wanted to do before travelling thirty miles to argue with his wife.  

“That’s different. My husband is a shriveled old man whose cock hasn’t moved in eight years.” The corners of her mouth tightened. “Your wife is young and beautiful.”

Derek thought of Eleanor’s shocking red hair and freckled cheeks and bit back a snort. “She’s many things. Rude. Impertinent. Clumsy. But beautiful isn’t one of them. You’ve nothing to be jealous of, Vanessa.”

It was the wrong thing to say. He knew it even before her eyes flashed and her lips twisted in an elegant sneer. 

“Of course I have nothing to be jealous of,” she said coolly. “Eleanor is a country bumpkin who isn’t fit to groom my horse, let alone be a duchess. You were a fool to ever marry her when there were a hundred other girls who would have been more suitable.”

For the first time since their affair had begun nearly seven months ago, Derek felt a stirring of anger towards Vanessa. He didn’t know where it stemmed from or what had caused it, only that he didn’t care for his mistress making degrading comments about his wife. God knew that Eleanor had been an unusual choice, and Vanessa wasn’t the only one who thought so. But his freckle-faced bride was his choice, for better or worse, and he wouldn’t apologize for it or make excuses.

“Careful,” he warned. “You are coming perilously close to overstepping your bounds”

“My bounds?” With a careless, tittering laugh Vanessa sat up and drew one long, silky leg to her chest. “I don’t have bounds, Derek. And if you leave, you will no longer have a mistress.”

“Are you giving me an ultimatum?” he said incredulously.

“Call it whatever you wish.”

His jaw tightened. He’d truly thought he and Vanessa would have more time…but if there was one rule he followed without fail, it was to always end an affair before it became personal.

Unlike other men, Derek did not have affairs because he was lonely or wanted companionship. When he took a mistress, it was because he was after one thing: unadulterated pleasure. And when that mistress could no longer give him what he desired, he settled a large sum on her and went on his way without remorse or regret.

“My solicitor will see that you are taken care of,” he said curtly before he picked up his waistcoat and left the room without so much as a backwards glance.

It was a cold, emotionless end to a scandalously hot affair that had lasted for more than seven months. But if there was one lesson he’d learned from his parents and their untimely demise, it was that it was always better to be the one leaving than the one who was left.

Mistresses were easily replaced, especially when there were no attachments formed. And he always took great pains to make sure there never were. It wasn’t that he didn’t believe in love. It was simply that he didn’t believe in love for himself. He never had, and despite his countless affairs – or mayhap because of them – he doubted if he ever would.

Love was for poets and dreamers, not for cynical dukes.

And certainly not for a cynical duke with a wife who kept a hedgehog in her pocket.