In Service to the Duke

Raucous merriment and ribald laughter fill the space, drawing a haggard groan from my lips. It’s bad enough I have Mother and the rest of the household to deal with. Now, I have to be a party to my adoptive brother’s farce of a wedding breakfast. All around, men and women mill about, gracing the happy couple with well-wishes and toasts for good fortune in the future.

But it’s not correct. It’s not proper. If any one of these stuff-shirted buffoons knew the secret, knew my proper brother's wife was a lowly courtesan… It matters not to me that her personage is of a far higher caliber. The fact of the matter remains—her scandal could have quite literally torn this family apart.

Heaving another sigh, I watch as the women gather around a large cake, their faces beaming. In the middle, surrounded by our loved ones, the new duchess of Birchleigh takes on an air of demure embarrassment, as if all the attention is almost too much for her. But it certainly wasn’t too much when my brother fucked her in front of the men in The Rose and Thorne.

Anger bubbles up, threatening to choke me. I can’t fault the chit, unfortunately. In fact, gathering the attention of a duke is the highest any whore can climb. Well, unless they set their sights on the crown prince… but even she wouldn’t be so bold.

Shaking my head, I grab my glass and drain the rest of the brandy. The burn as it slides down my throat fortifies me, shoring up my civility as I plaster on a fake smile and join the others. In truth, William and I have come to an understanding, especially once the plot surrounding her was uncovered.

It still doesn’t help that I wanted so much more for him. The daughter of an earl is a grand prize indeed, a fitting match for any duke. It’s not her title which I take umbrage with, but her family. She should have never fallen into such a scandalous situation. He loves her, though. I suppose that’s all that matters.

However, I cannot help that niggle of unease as it slithers down my spine like those damnable cobras from India I’ve heard tales of. There’s just too much I still don’t know—don’t want to know, in point of fact. But will Catherine prove to be the demure miss she aimed to be before her fall? Or is she a viper lying in wait?

Truthfully, it’s not only this new bride who has me so captivated. If I were an honest man, I’d acknowledge the fact that most of my ire is better served hounding down the young governess who absconded herself away with my family, joining them when I can’t be there. She may very well prove to be the cause for all this needless worry and concern which clenches my stomach at every turn.

Catherine seems, for now at least, to be a known quantity. This upstart whom I know nothing about is a conundrum, a potential threat lying in wait, as most of her class are prone to do. At least Catherine ended up being the daughter of an earl.

It’s one of her saving graces. Were she still but a common maid, I’d worry about her plans to use this union as a way to make a name for herself. But she’s not. As it is, if not for the plot causing her to take to hiding for fear for her life, she would have married within her station or even a touch above it.

No scandal there. At least none that I can see. Besides, as a duke in his own right, William can take care of himself. His fortune is no longer tied to ours. Hasn’t been since acquiring a dukedom of his own from the king. But still… It does nothing to ease the concerns which plague my brain at every given moment.

Gripping my hand into a fist, I allow myself to feel the anger of knowing some potential wolf in sheep’s clothing is even now with my mother and sisters, plotting who knows what in the wake of my absence. It’s enough for my vision to blur for a moment, drowning out the sea of cheerful faces. Taking a deep breath, I force myself to calm down.

No doubt, the stench of my fury is an unwelcome guest at this party. And as much as I still have reservations toward the woman my brother now calls wife, I do not wish to upset either of them on this occasion. Again, I look about, noting the indulgent smiles on both my brother’s and Foxford’s faces—the two leg-shackled men of the lot.

If anyone had told me these two would be the first to fall, to take an arrow to the knee, I would laugh at them. Then again, it isn’t as if any of us were so inclined at the start of the season. It’s as if some disease has swept through, felling the strongest of us all.

I long to bring my cravat up to my face to block the sickness from invading my nose. A pox, a plague be upon those houses. I, for one, cannot imagine taking a trip down the aisle, and I challenge anyone to make such a statement.

Loud squeals pepper the room, bringing a wince to my face. The two besotted men merely smile while the others, myself included, look on with an almost unsure moue on their faces. The only one showing any emotion other than elation or utter dismay is Norhaven.

The poor sot hangs back, almost buried in the shadows as he watches the affair with a somewhat detached air about him. The only other person far more concealed than he is Redleigh. But then, the ‘monstrous’ duke keeping his face hidden makes sense.

He sees himself as a blight on the title bestowed upon him after his father and brother passed. Norhaven has no such scarring or disfigurement. Why doesn’t he join in the laughter like the rest of them? I follow his gaze as it burns with an almost unholy intensity.

One of these ladies has caught his eye, but whom? It’s clear he’s besotted, making me wonder if it will be him next caught in the parson’s trap. As the ladies gather closer to the cake, he leans forward, far more interested in this new tradition than he probably ought to be.

It seems as if this new bride is bringing more than just her brothel skills into the household. Instead of a quiet celebration with some cake, food, and drink, it is to now be a far more boisterous ceremony, complete with some odd form of playing with their food.

The whole thing is unseemly. It’s bad enough we’ve had to hide all the surrounding scandal, but to make such a large show of it? It makes no sense to me. If I were the one embroiled in such potential for gossip, I’d make the ceremony quiet and go on with my life.

Or perhaps that’s why it’s such a grand affair? To show the ton they have nothing to hide. Grumbling under my breath, I cross my arms as the ladies take turns digging into their pieces of cake to reveal some sort of charm. That is, for those lucky enough to find a piece with one hidden within.

Though the meanings behind these bits of metal were explained to us, I’ve already forgotten. Or, I guess, the real truth is I didn’t care enough to pay attention. Even now, the ladies hop about, giggling and comparing while we gentlemen pretend to be just as excited.

My mother and sisters would have loved such an affair. The two rambunctious girls would, no doubt, gorge themselves on sweets and race about the room, tossing every care to the side. Mother, of course, kind soul that she is, would refuse to force them to settle down, opening us up to all manner of scrutiny.

It would be up to me, once again, to play the role of stern taskmaster. While I do not blame Mother for her indulgences, I do wish someone else could assist with keeping them in hand. It’s a task I do not relish when it comes to my siblings.

Besides, they are old enough to know decorum and should conduct themselves as such. But since Mother’s health has been steadily declining, there’s been no one to school the girls, teaching them what it means to be soft-spoken and genteel. Though that task has now fallen to a stranger, a woman whose only job is to train them correctly, I still fear for their future.

Not one person consulted me about this new hire, and now that they’re out in the countryside, I must trust my mother’s judgment that she will be a good fit for our household. But even that is questionable.

With her health waning… Shaking my head, I refuse to allow my thoughts to go in that direction. Mother will be fine. She has to be.

The little omega working for her, however, will not be. If I find her putting even a toe out of line, she will feel my wrath. My cock lengthens as I picture her sweet face in my head. Just as quickly as the lust threatens to overtake me, anger edges it out, replacing it until I’m nearly shaking with fury.

Such a sweet face usually hides the most horrid of secrets. It matters not that the beguiling scent I caught a whiff of as I escorted them to our estate dances about in my mind. It matters not that her soft sighs and coquettish charms threaten to unman me. As someone just a bit higher than the servants, she’s trouble.

Her actions, no doubt, are practiced, her expressions designed to lure in unsuspecting males. But I am not like them. I cannot, will not, be overtaken. Pretty faces are never to be trusted. Better to marry someone plain who shares the same values as you do. It’s a lesson I cannot afford to forget while catching glimpses of the sweet angel she purports to be.

Shaking my head, I pull my mind back to the present, attempting to be here for my brother. It doesn’t matter if his wife is my choice or not. It is his. He made it, and now he has to live with the consequences—whether they be good or bad.

A slight smile curves my lips as I watch my brother looking upon his wife with fondness. In everything, I suppose I should be happy to see him so settled and content. It’s a far cry from the tortured child he was when he came to us.

Again, I brace myself, doing my utmost not to wince as yet another yelp of exultation punctuates the air. This time, it appears a wishbone has been found. Amongst the cheers of “merry thoughts” and “good fortune,” the young lady, whose name currently escapes me, graces the room with shy smiles.

The room quiets once more as they take in her beauty. Perhaps I should inquire after her name and station? After all, she seems to be the sort of lady fit to be a duchess. Then again, with the way the other men crowd around her, it’s best to just leave her to them.

From what I’m hearing spoken about the room, she seems to be Miss Augusta Hunt. The daughter of a viscount is certainly better than the daughter of some random lord, but even her title is not enough to make me break through the throng to engage with her. Besides, my mind is far too occupied with Miss Gillet, the new governess, to properly be able to make an overture.

Hushed whispers race about the space as more pieces of cake are passed out. However, once Miss Cynthia Campbell pulls out what looks to be a tiny ring from amongst the crumbs, pandemonium reigns. Mutterings turn into frantic, joyous shouts as they all bound about. She cradles the small token as she looks up, her eyes going directly to Norhaven.

Ahhh. So that must be who the poor fool is mooning over like a milk-sick calf. For some odd notion, I thought him to be done with her after their collision during the Twelfth Night celebration, but based on his daft expression, he’s just as sotted as ever. I do not pity him, but I pity his older brother, Whiteport. Even now, the stodgy duke looks about, his posture rigid and uncomfortable.

Despite the obvious show between the two, he looks as if he’s oblivious to them. If I were his older brother, I would put an end to this now. No good can come from marrying so far from our station. William is happy now, but that’s only because his wife turned out to be the daughter of an earl.

Now that she’s no longer masquerading as a denizen of the clubs we all ascribe to, she’s able to put back on the airs her birth has given her. However, if she were just some lowly harlot, it would have ended badly for my brother. Those not born as we are not able to understand the sacrifices we endure. They cannot walk with the same grace or fortitude. In the end, we are just not compatible.

Just like Norhaven will realize he’s not compatible with the daughter of a baron. Perhaps not in the first year or so, but once the rutting need to claim and consume wears off, he’ll realize his mistake. Even now, as he prowls forward, I see the pained look in his eyes, the agony her station causes him.

Best to just leave well enough alone and find some other, more suitable miss. I turn to leave, no longer wishing to inflict such an auspicious time with my dour mood, when a small hand on my forearm stops me. Without me needing to turn around and confirm it, one whiff of the air tells me it’s my dearest sister-in-law.

“My dear brother,” she murmurs, her voice flitting about with the grace and dignity one of her station should possess.

I bristle at the familiar term. It takes every ounce of restraint not to jerk my hand away, dishonoring her in front of her guests and my brother. Besides, with all those in attendance watching us, any misstep on my part might make them look far more closely at the nefarious match. It doesn’t matter if most of the ton believe their antics were mere married lovers’ games. If even only one person has a doubt, it can poison the well.

With a restrained bow, I turn and force a smile. In kind, she nods at me, the air of unease dissipating from around her.

“The festivities are not yet over. Can you not indulge a bride on her wedding day and join us for your piece of cake?”

I glance up to find all eyes on me. Irritation rolls down my spine as I allow the tiny omega to lead me over to the table. Already the other single lots in my cadre of friends hold a delicate plate with a piece of cake atop. The unclaimed ladies watch us, their eyes wide as we slide our forks through the moist dessert.

There’s almost an air of longing drifting through the space. If only I paid attention to the rules of the game. The others sift through their crumbs, looking for these elusive charms. I, on the other hand, have no such desire to find one.

Unfortunately, luck is not on my side today. At the first hint of metal, the ladies look over, their eyes wide as they peer up at me. With a heavy sigh, I hold up the object. It closely resembles the Hessian boots I’m fond of wearing.

“Oh, goody!” Catherine, my new sister-in-law, exclaims, clapping her delicate hands. “The boot is a charm, meaning you’re soon to travel! Have you any destination in mind?”

“None at that moment,” I reply before stepping back away from the table so the other gentlemen can present their findings.

Her face falls for a brief second, bringing my brother up behind her. He curls his arm around her waist and glares at me. I wish I cared enough about her to let this small display of saddened emotions sway me, but I still know nothing about her. She may take on the Dowding name, but she’s no sister of mine. Not yet, at least.

Still though, to placate my brother and keep him happy during this farce of a celebration, I tip my head forward and muster a charming smile. “At least none in my immediate plans. If that is to change, I will be sure to inform you both of that intention.”

As if I’ve given her the greatest gift, her face brightens. Next to her, William gives me a terse smile, and I know he’s still upset. Be that as it may, his emotions do not sway me either.

Again, she bounces about, little quivers so slight many might not notice. But I do. Despite her happiness, my words are dishonest. I do have plans to travel. The very next day, in fact.

Though I have no intention of conversing with anyone on the matter, the instant I’m allowed to quit these grounds, I am to go back home to Whitmore Manor, my ancestral seat. With Mother doing so poorly and a new interloper to care for, I desire to make haste. Anyone in the know might only slow me down.

Since I will not have to accompany anyone, I can go as fast and as far as my steed will allow. We will only rest when he is fatigued, then carry on again. Even now, my soul aches to be home.

Leaving Mother there tore at my heart. She was so frail, so slight. Though she was all smiles by playing a part in my brother’s dull-witted scheme to enact a bloody highwayman performance en route to the home, there was still a tremor to her hands that wasn’t there before. There’s an emptiness in her eyes where once there was vibrant life.

I can only hope we transported her back into the country with enough haste to keep her from becoming worse. The physician made it sound as if she might even turn back around and find the youth so quickly fleeing her body. Nightly, I pray it is so.

A loud shout pulls me out of my morose thoughts and onto the scene before me. Poor Norhaven pales as he holds up the ring matching Miss Cynthia’s. The men do better than to tease him in public, but judging by the way the ladies gather and titter, they’re doing more than an earful to her.

Bright pink splotches her face, turning it a pale crimson as she ducks away. Just like Twelfth Night. If this continues, some may say fate is playing a hand in bringing them together, but that would be absurd. Luck and fate have nothing to do with matching up a man and a woman.

It’s all about breeding and pedigree. Others may spout nonsense such as true love, but it doesn’t exist. Only rare couples, such as my parents, seem to find that within themselves, and certainly not between such disparaging classes.

A niggle of unease pounds at my brain. Again, my parents broke that rule when my father, a duke, married my mother, a governess. They seem to be the odd ones out, able to find true happiness where others would have to endure it as a mistake. But they are certainly the exception and not the rule.

Making my way into the smoking room, I snag another glass and pour myself some more brandy. If I’m forced to stay, I might as well indulge a bit. The burn of the alcohol soothes my ragged nerves as it slides down my throat and into my gut.

As I sip it, the others come in one by one. Portswell ambles in and brandishes the loathsome vase now containing two thousand pounds. A wry smile twists up my lips as he puts it on a middle table for all to see.

My reticence in getting married has nothing to do with this silly bet. It’s not for fear of losing which stays my hand, but of finding someone worthy to be the next duchess of Blackport. Honestly, in the interim, the idea of fleecing this lot of their coin and collecting all the money for myself is certainly an added motivation to remain unwed.

I prop my Hessians up onto a nearby stool and watch with glee as my brother runs a hand over his face. There’s no question he’s able to provide the money demanded of him, but there seems to be that need to draw it out, to show just how abhorrent it is to lose to the likes of them.

It was a similar song and dance with Foxford, and I suppose it will be the same for every one of them as they fall prey to the omegas looking for a mate. Swallowing another sip of my brandy, I watch as he finally stuffs the notes down into the vase before beaming at them all, smiling at each one in turn. The answering cheers from all except Norhaven bring a reluctant grin to my lips.

As long as he’s happy, I suppose. As long as he’s happy.