London, 1850
"That's the spot, love. A little harder.
Right...there...ah, yes."
Dominick's fingers tightened around the waist of the
barmaid who was straddling his lap, her hands, deft and
incredibly masterful, working their magic on his heated
flesh.
Blessed Jesus, she was good. He had never been massaged in
quite this way, amid a crowded taproom with a mountain of
cleavage staring him in the face, only the barest wisp of
material covering the girl's enormous breasts.
He hooked his finger over the top of her gypsy blouse,
lightly caressing her dewy skin, watching as her nipples
peaked and strained against the flimsy cotton.
She gazed at him with heated eyes, her look amply
conveying that he could do whatever he liked, that she did
not care about the onlookers gathered around them, drool
practically dribbling from their mouths.
Perhaps this time he would take her up on her offer.
"My lord?"
"Ssh," he murmured, sweeping the very tip of his finger
over one hardened nub, hearing her quick intake of breath
and smiling. She squirmed against him, wanting more. He
obliged.
He dipped a hand inside her blouse, boldly cupping her
while keeping his prize hidden from the leering eyes
hoping for a glimpse at Sally's elusive bounty.
"Please, sir."
How could he deny her when she begged so sweetly? "All
right, my girl. You've won."
Dominick leaned forward, very slowly tugging the material
down, his tongue running over his lips as he anticipated
the unveiling of that dusky pink tip.
"Sir?"
He scowled as the voice beckoning him changed from soft
and infinitely feminine to grating and annoyingly male.
The barmaid's image began to waver, as though he looked at
her through a water-filled glass globe. Then, like a vapor
trail, she disappeared.
Damn.
"Sir?" croaked that same bloody voice, ruining a perfectly
lascivious dream. "Are you awake?"
Dominick growled and rolled onto his back, grabbing the
pillow under his head and throwing it at the
speaker. "Bugger off, damn you!" he barked as reality
pummeled him, along with a throbbing in his skull that
told him he had imbibed far too much at his club the
previous evening.
"Are you all right, sir?"
No, he bloody well wasn't all right. Since his homecoming
a week earlier, everyone felt inclined to ply him with
drinks as though he were some conquering hero, instead of
a retired army colonel who had returned only because he
had been forced to.
With a great deal of reluctance, Dominick lifted his
forearm off his face and was immediately assaulted by a
brilliant burst of golden light.
He closed his eyes against the unwanted intrusion. "Sweet
Jesus," he rasped, "what is that?"
"The sun, my lord," replied that now familiar voice,
creaky as an unused gate and just as irritating. Hastings,
his bloody butler. Soon to be his ex-butler for waking
him.
"Good Christ, is it always that...bright?"
"For as long as I can remember, sir. Yes."
Dominick groaned. "What time is it?" His throat felt like
someone had poured sand down it.
"Two in the afternoon."
"On what day?"
"Friday, sir."
"Friday?" Dominick frowned. He remembered Monday fairly
well. Tuesday was a bit hazy. Wednesday was somewhat of a
crapshoot, and Thursday...well, what could one say about
Thursday? Nothing, apparently.
Emitting another painful groan, he levered himself up onto
his elbows. Once settled in his new position, he fixed his
irritated gaze on his rigidly erect, gray-haired butler,
who had been with his family since Dominick was in short
coats, and who took it upon himself to peck at Dominick
like a mother hen whenever Dominick got out of line --
which had been quite often as a youth, and almost as often
as an adult.
It didn't seem to matter to Hastings that Dominick was now
the ninth duke of Wakefield, albeit ushered into the
position reluctantly because of his older brother's
untimely demise in a hunting accident.
It was still damned hard to believe; Freddie had been only
forty years old. But Dominick felt little loss. He and his
brother had not spoken since the night he had found
Freddie in bed with Annabelle Sutherland.
But Annabelle's perfidy had not caused the rift. He and
Freddie had always been rivals rather than brothers, and
the way the bastard gloated as he fucked Annabelle had
irrevocably severed any remaining familial bond.
Dominick figured he deserved what he got for being such a
gullible sod and falling for Annabelle's ploy. She had had
one Carlisle; why not another? Being a duke's wife was
certainly more appealing than being the wife of a lowly
second son. But when Frederick had tossed her aside she
had come crawling back to Dominick, begging his
forgiveness.
Seeing him unmoved by her tears, she changed from
contrition to indignation, her acting skills laudable.
Later, in front of the assembled guests, she had even
produced a single fat tear as she told them she could not
marry him, allowing her tortured expression to imply that
he was the dishonorable party.
Dominick had nearly applauded, but then he caught sight of
Parris's stricken face in the crowd, those eyes branding
him with all the heartless traits that Annabelle's silent
censure had heaped upon him.
Her look of betrayal and anguish still haunted Dominick.
He had hurt her, destroyed something special and rare.
Somewhere in the mess that had become his life, he had
lost the only thing that had truly meant anything to him.
Parris.
He forced down the regret that churned in his gut whenever
he thought of her, and concentrated his efforts on glaring
at his butler. "Hastings, a bit of advice?"
"Yes, Your Grace?"
"It would behoove you to keep in mind that I've killed men
for lesser offenses than rousing me from sleep." Let the
fastidious old prune digest that. Dominick had to set the
tone for his reign as reluctant liege, and thus far,
either he hadn't made himself clear or Hastings was dense.
"My most heartfelt apologies, sir," Hastings intoned, not
looking the least bit worried. "I would not have disturbed
you had I not been led to believe the matter was of some
importance."
"And what matter is that?"
"Lord Stratford is here to see you. I told him you were
abed, but he said it was imperative that he speak to you.
He looked rather agitated."
Good Christ. Stratford thought telling the world he had a
hangnail was imperative. Why Dominick had remained friends
with the annoying blighter all these years was another of
life's little mysteries. Perhaps it was merely ghoulish
curiosity about what might befall the man next. Trouble
seemed to always be just around the bend wherever Jason
was concerned.
"He awaits you in the library," Hastings added.
"Bloody hell." By now, Jason would have worked his way
through half of Dominick's finest liquor and pocketed
several of his expensive cigars.
"Might Your Grace like a spot of tea to refresh himself
before rising?" Hastings inquired, clearly assuming that
Dominick would not tell him to pitch Stratford headlong
into the street.
"No," Dominick grumbled, concluding that the only thing
more annoying than Hastings's infernal presence -- besides
Stratford's infernal presence -- was Hastings speaking in
the third person. "His Grace does not want any damn tea."
Reluctantly, Dominick swung his legs over the side of his
bed. "Guess I might as well rise, since the best part of
the day has been shot to hell."
"Shall I call Smithson to assist you in dressing, sir?"
Dominick slid a sidelong glance at Hastings. "I've been
dressing myself my whole life; why the hell do I need
someone to help now?"
"If I may be so bold as to remind you of your station in
life. You are a duke now and no longer serving in Her
Majesty's Royal Army. There are certain things expected of
you."
Dominick gritted his teeth. He did not need another
reminder of his responsibilities. Every day, they were
there, ready to irritate him, like a bucket of cold water
to the groin. Glorious freedom had become an elusive
commodity.
For eight years he had been a soldier, living hard,
playing hard, and all this damn mollycoddling was grating
on his last bloody nerve.
"I don't need Smithson," he bit out, stalking nude past
Hastings and throwing open his armoire. "I can put on my
own blasted clothes. Get rid of him." Dominick could
almost feel the stiffness creeping into his butler's limbs
at his last remark.
"I would be remiss in my duties were I to do such a thing,
Your Grace. No person in your position can be without a
gentleman's gentleman."
It was on the tip of Dominick's tongue to inform Hastings
that he first had to have a gentleman to work with, but he
refrained. Between his throbbing skull and his throbbing
leg -- compliments of a gunshot wound to the thigh while
on maneuvers in the Peninsula -- he wasn't quite up to
having holes bored into the back of his head as his butler
glared at him in silent umbrage.
Stoked by renewed disgust at the unexpected turn his life
had taken, Dominick grabbed the drawers Hastings held out
to him and shoved his legs into them. Then he yanked on a
pair of black trousers, threw his arms into his shirt, and
fumbled with the buttons.
Grimacing, he stared at his reflection in the mirror,
catching only a shadowy outline of the tattoo on the left
side of his chest: a hissing serpent that coiled in an S-
pattern, the tail curling around his nipple.
He had gotten the tattoo shortly after he had joined the
army. The snake seemed appropriate, considering his
experience with gardens and forbidden fruit. It served to
remind him of his folly.
His day now thoroughly soured, Dominick rolled up his
shirtsleeves and brushed past Hastings, who stood like a
wax effigy holding out his waistcoat. Dominick grabbed it
and headed resolutely toward the door.
Hastings beat him to it. "Your jacket, sir." He held up
the garment and Dominick's brows drew together, warning
the meddling little philistine not to push. The warning
went unheeded. "Here, let me help you."
The next thing Dominick knew, his sleeves were rolled
down, his cuffs fastened with gold links bearing the ducal
emblem, and the jacket was sliding up his arms. Then his
cravat was looped around his neck like the hangman's noose
it resembled and properly tied in the requisite number of
knots.
"There. That's better." Hastings smoothed the jacket's
lapels. Dominick growled, but his butler merely glanced at
Dominick's earlobe, holding out his hand. "The stud,
please, Your Grace."
Dominick leaned down close to Hastings's face and said
through gritted teeth, "Over your dead body." Then he
nudged the irritating specimen aside and practically
sprinted from the room.
Hastings got the stud before Dominick had reached the
landing.
Muttering curses all the way down the stairs, Dominick
entered the library to find his assumption had been
correct. Stratford was helping himself to a fresh glass of
port, most likely his third or fourth by now, and had one
of Dominick's finest cigars clamped between his teeth.
Jason was the fifteenth earl of Stratford, and the
youngest at thirty-one years of age. He was also a prime
example of vice if ever there was one, well on his way to
becoming a complete degenerate.
Dominick had met the heir apparent to the Stratford
fortune at boarding school. Both their fathers had claimed
they were in need of discipline or else they would grow up
to be complete wastrels, a possibility they both courted
with a near religious fervor.
Together, they rebelled, bucking the restrictive ties of
being born into the aristocracy, with all the minutiae it
entailed. Expulsion loomed on the horizon during their
entire academic careers.
Stratford, however, had drawn the line at army life and
shivered at the prospect of such a regimented existence,
unwilling to go that far to stay free of the tentacles of
his title.
Some females -- who were blind to Jason's numerous faults -
- might call him handsome with his dark, unconventionally
long hair, his swarthy features, cobalt blue eyes, and his
height of six-two.
His body, like Dominick's, had been honed in the boxing
ring, where Jason delighted in pummeling unwitting dupes
who were ignorant of his skill.
Stratford needed to remain fit, so he could fend off the
irate husbands looking to end his life in the most painful
way possible -- an idea that held a great deal of merit at
that moment as Dominick observed the rotter pocketing his
antique sterling snuffbox.
Stratford caught sight of him then, grinned like the
unrepentant roué he was, and raised his glass in
salute. "Ah, the prodigal son has arrived! Let us all hail
this miracle."
Dominick growled in response. His head still pulsated from
the previous night's overindulgence, and he was not in a
particularly benevolent frame of mind.
Not that Stratford deserved any form of benevolence; the
man was irritating at his best and a rousing pain in the
ass at his worst. It defied logic why Dominick liked him.
Jason quirked a brow. "Someone's in a foul temper today.
That glower is practically blinding." He gave Dominick a
quick once-over and remarked, "Let me guess? Hastings?"
Dominick scowled and held out his hand for his snuffbox.
Jason chuckled, clearly amused by Dominick's black mood as
he offered up his pilfered booty. "I cannot begin to
fathom why you let the frail old boy irritate you so. He's
just doing his job. You can't fault the man for that." He
eyed Dominick's attire, adding in a tone that proclaimed
his jaw was asking for a punch, "Besides, I think you're
looking exceptionally handsome today. All the other dukes
will be green with envy."
"Unless you're hoping to leave here with fewer body parts
than when you arrived, I would advise you to refrain from
further comment."
Jason held up his hands in supplication, but his mocking
grin only broadened.
Dominick shoved past the idiot and strode to the sideboard
to pour himself a drink. Normally he waited until the
evening hours to indulge -- a growing habit of late,
considering the company he had been keeping -- but
something told him he was going to need the mellowing
aspects of alcohol this afternoon.
He downed a half glass of Madeira, felt it warm his gut
and begin to spread before he turned to face his
friend. "So what's on your mind? If you'll forgive the
overstatement."
Jason flopped down in one of the chairs scattered about
the library and hooked a booted leg over the arm. "I
received a letter."
That revelation straightened Dominick up. "From her?"
"The lady herself. Lord, the termagant has got brass; I'll
give her that. She left her little love note inside my
coach. The witch is like a bloody phantom. Nobody has ever
caught a whiff of her."
So the infamous Lady Scruples had struck again, and very
close to home this time. She was a menacing enigma,
keeping London's entire male population on their toes,
wondering who would be her next victim.
She had been dubbed Lady Scruples because of her moral do-
gooding on behalf of women everywhere, and damn if she
didn't intrigue Dominick as nothing else had in a long
while.
The uproar she had been causing in town for the past few
months was all people could talk about. Men everywhere
were nervous. Though Stratford tried to hide his concern
behind his insouciant manner, Dominick knew better: The
man was a wreck.
"What is she threatening?" The revenges the lady came up
with to put the targeted male in his place were not only
inventive, but sometimes vastly entertaining.
Stratford scowled. "The shrew told me that if I do not
stop seeing the Earl of Markham's daughter an
unpleasantness would befall me. More specifically, she
said I would be afflicted by a flaming attack of
conscience in the one place I cherish most."
Dominick let out a bark of laughter.
"Not funny, you miserable sod."
Dominick imagined that whatever punishment the lady had in
mind for Stratford, she wouldn't disappoint. He couldn't
help being reluctantly intrigued by the puzzle she
presented. He seemed to have cultivated a certain
unhealthy fascination for women who were shrouded in
mystery.
He suspected that in real life Lady Scruples was a dour-
faced spinster who was taking out her unhappiness on the
male population of London, whom she blamed for overlooking
her.
"I wonder if she's ever been bedded," he mused.
Jason shot him a look over the rim of his glass. "What
difference does it make?"
"It could make quite a big difference. Unlike you, most
people generally do things for a reason. Perhaps you could
offer up your services? Put yourself out there for stud
purposes, so to speak. I realize you're spread rather thin
at the moment, with all your incoming and outgoing
conquests, but consider this a humanitarian effort."
"I know my prowess is legendary, but jealousy does not
become you, old boy. And let me point out that as a member
of the male populace, you are not immune to becoming an
object of female vengeance."
"I haven't been home long enough to corrupt anyone. And I
suspect it would take me twelve lifetimes to catch up to
you."
"I do a rather brisk business, don't I?" Jason reflected,
radiating cockiness. Then he sighed and regarded the shine
on his Hessians. "But now we must consider our innocent
brothers-in-arms who are being tormented by this virago."
"Innocent? We know most of these men, and everything they
have been accused of has been true. Even your crimes,
Stratford. You have been making a habit out of tupping
chits barely out of the schoolroom recently."
"So?" Jason said petulantly. "Perhaps I've grown bored
with married women. There's simply no sport in the pursuit
these days. It's like having nothing but brisket for six
months, and then seeing a succulent braised duck and
knowing you simply must have it or you'll go mad."
"What an interesting analogy," Dominick murmured dryly,
trying his damnedest not to be amused.
"Besides" -- Jason shrugged -- "it's not as if I'm going
after these women. They are coming after me -- rather
ardently, in fact. And as you well know, I'm an obliging
sort of fellow. I did endeavor to protect my virtue for as
long as I could, but I am a man, not a saint -- so please
refrain from going pious on me."
There was no arguing with Stratford on this particular
issue. When it came to women, he could be so narrow-minded
that should he fall on a pin, he would be blinded in both
eyes.
Dominick leaned against the sideboard. "Well, it seems
your newly acquired love for braised duck has earned you a
formidable rival."
Jason brushed a speck of dust from his trousers.
"I'm not worried."
Dominick raised an eyebrow. "No? Then why are you here? If
I recall correctly, you had Hastings wake me from a dead
sleep, claiming it was imperative that you speak to me."
Stratford rendered such a perfect expression of
affrontery, his ancestors would have been proud. "The man
exaggerated."
Dominick highly doubted that. Hastings prided himself on
being utterly precise when relaying a message, to the
point that Dominick often considered killing the man
justifiable homicide.
"If that's the case, then what did you want to talk to me
about that couldn't wait until later?"
"Later I will be attending the Beechams' rout, where I
hope to make an assignation to meet a special friend at a
dark, little tavern on the outskirts of Spitalfields
tomorrow night."
"I see. And would that Œfriend' happen to be the
rebellious Lady Claire Markham, belle of this year's crop
of hopefuls, who apparently doesn't realize she's playing
with fire?"
"And if it is?" Jason returned defensively.
"Then I guess I'm just curious as to why you felt it
necessary to tell me of your plans -- as if you thought I
might care."
Jason avoided looking at him and instead concentrated on
the dwindling alcohol in his glass. "I thought you might
like to join me?" His attempt to sound offhanded fell
short of the mark.
The unspoken request was that Dominick stand vigil and
make sure Stratford didn't suddenly vanish from the face
of the earth or develop a painful case of hanging
testicles, due to defying the avenging angel of women
everywhere.
"I'm not into threesomes, thank you."
Jason pushed himself from the chair and stalked to the
sideboard, glaring at Dominick. "You're being a rotter,
you know."
"I know."
"Just come tonight, will you? By now, everyone must know
of your return. This evening's event will solidify your
homecoming and get all those tedious greetings and
insincere well-wishes out of the way."
That much was true. Dominick had been acquiring
invitations since the moment of his return, and
steadfastly avoiding all of them. Every mama with an
available daughter would parade her in front of him now
that his status had sufficiently elevated.
But perhaps tonight he could finally put to rest the
speculation about his hasty departure eight years ago. It
was well past time to bring everything full circle. But
that didn't mean he couldn't enjoy another moment of
making Stratford sweat.
"Look," Jason said, his tone bordering on
desperate, "it'll be worth your while. There's a new batch
of beauties just waiting to be plucked. They'll be fawning
all over you, salivating at the prospect of catching your
eye and becoming the next duchess, to which you can dash
all their hopes with that surly expression."
Dominick held out a moment longer, then sighed like a
martyr. "Fine. I'll go." Let the man believe he was
interested in immersing himself in a gaggle of tittering
misses, who would probably faint dead away should he tell
them about his time in India, of the rebellions, the
poverty -- and what fate would befall any man who found
himself inside the maharajah's harem.
"Good." The glint returned to Jason's eyes as he swigged
down the last of his drink and plunked the empty glass on
the sideboard. "I'll see you tonight." He turned to
go. "Oh" -- he paused, pivoting halfway around -- "and
keep tomorrow evening open."
"Why?" Something told Dominick he wasn't going to like
whatever scheme Stratford was hatching.
"We're off to the Wrack and Ruin for a bit of fun."
Dominick cocked an eyebrow. "We?"
"You, me -- and Lady Claire, should I succeed in my
mission. For a bit of blunt, you can get a tumble from one
of the serving wenches. They're a voluptuous bunch. The
proprietor only hires ones with big -- "
Dominick held up his hand. "Pray, do not elaborate."
Jason gave him a cocky half-grin, then turned on his heel,
calling over his shoulder, "See you tonight."
Dominick watched his friend depart, wondering what he was
getting himself into by agreeing to go slumming in the
East End with Stratford.
The Wrack and Ruin. How apropos. Something told Dominick
that tomorrow night would be more than just another drop
of water in the ocean of pointless frivolity that was
Stratford's life.
And his own, if he wasn't careful.