Addicted to the Duke (Imperfect Lords #1)(88)

He stared blankly at the elaborate coffin in the gaping hole and swore he would be a man his brother could be proud of.

But he also swore that the title would not be passed down to his children. He did not deserve the title; it should have been passed to Robert’s children, but Robert, by following him into battle…well, Philip had stolen that privilege from his unmarried brother too.

He vowed that he would be a good earl and work hard for the family, but the title would pass to Thomas, the next brother in line, a younger replica of Robert. A son far more worthy of the line of succession than Philip would ever be.

This he swore over Robert’s grave. If that meant never marrying, so be it. He could not let himself profit from Robert’s death. He did have that much honor.

He barely noticed the others drifting away. Douglas and Maxwell, his two younger brothers, had tried to make him leave, but he’d brushed Douglas’s hand off his arm. Thomas had not made it home from India for the funeral, and Philip was pleased. He didn’t think he could look him in the eye.

Pain lanced his body and he wished he could jump into the open grave with his brother.

Philip had no idea how long he’d been standing there as the rain poured down around him, when a small hand slipped into his and he looked sideways.

Of course it would be Rose Deverill, the Duchess of Roxborough, who stood beside him. She was his younger sister Portia’s best friend, a widow. When they were younger she had adored him, following him like an obedient puppy wanting attention. God knows why. If he recalled, she was one of the few people to see good in him.

“The grave diggers need to finish their work before the grave floods,” she said. “Come home, Philip, your mother and siblings need you.”

The pity in her eyes was almost his undoing. He wished Rose would take him in her arms and make the pain go away. She’d grown into the most beautiful woman, and since becoming a widow, well, he’d heard her nickname—the Wicked Widow. Perhaps he should succumb to her charms to help him forget. A shudder ran through him. Nothing would take the pain away or make him forget this was his fault.

Nothing.

She tugged his hand. “Your mother needs you, come, please.”

He looked into her eyes for one moment and then turned away from what he saw there. How could she still adore him?

He straightened to his full height. Duty. Duty to his family. That is what he would live for now. He would ensure the Cumberland seat was the most profitable in all England when it passed to Thomas or his son on Philip’s death. God willing that would be sooner rather than later.

He squeezed Rose’s hand and let her lead him back through the waterlogged garden, toward the house.

To a life, title, and estate that should not be his.





Chapter 1


SCOTLAND, EARLY AUGUST 1817—TWO YEARS LATER

Rose had not always enjoyed sex. Sexual congress with her elderly husband, the Duke of Roxborough, the man her family had literally sold her to, had been something to endure. So imagine her surprise when as a young widow of one and twenty she’d taken her first lover, her older brother’s friend Viscount Tremain. Conrad had been a marvelous teacher. He’d introduced her to a world of desire and pleasure and she was forever grateful.

On that same day she’d made a decision. Marriage was not for her. She loved her freedom too much. As a widow no one told her how to behave, or what to wear, what to eat, drink, or where she could go. Marriage held few advantages for a woman. Besides, she had her son, money, and the title of duchess. She did not want for anything.

The ton of course did not understand her resolve to never remarry. She was still young and beautiful; surely she needed a man to make her life complete. They did not understand how she could turn down so many proposals.

She had men—just not a husband! A different man whenever she wanted. She did not have to put up with their tantrums, boring displays of jealousy, or worry that they were after her money; she simply sent them on their way when they no longer mattered to her.

Over the years she set about building a reputation that would ensure most men never saw her as wife material, and it had worked. Worked perhaps too well.

Now six and twenty, she was not ashamed to say that she still enjoyed pleasure—the giving, and especially the receiving—who wouldn’t? But not every man was as considerate, or as skilled a lover, as her viscount. She’d learned that from taking her fair share of paramours, which earned her a reputation and the scandalous name of the Wicked Widow.

Society had so many double standards. A title and money forgave many a sin.

However, over the past two years she’d come to realize something else. Making love was far better than experiencing just pleasure. It was by far the most sensual and exquisite experience a woman could have. It was like touching heaven, and she knew she’d only ever feel that with one man. The man who’d become her lover on that wet, stormy day when they had buried his older brother.

Philip Flagstaff, the Earl of Cumberland. The man who was naked in this bed, buried to the hilt inside her, while her hands fought to keep hold of the headboard as he thrust forcefully into her from behind.

“Oh God, Philip, yes that’s it, I’m going to—”

Her words were lost on a scream of pleasure as her world exploded in a vision of color. Only his arm about her waist stopped her from slumping to the bed as his thrusts became more frantic, and with a roar, he found his release.