The Rogue's Wager (Sinful Brides #1)(3)

Never.

Except, even as the silent protestation sprung to mind, he tamped it down. Even if he’d wed Lucy and become a cuckold, the greatest fool, he’d never thank his grandfather. Not for this. The duke claimed his tall-backed chair and sprawled in his seat. “I am not your father, my foolish son, waxing on about romantics the way he did with your mother.”

No, the duke’s soul was stamped black, in ways his only son’s never had been, nor ever would be. When the duke had cut his own daughter from the fabric of the family for marrying a footman, Robert’s father had shown them kindness and support. It had been that act which had made him hope . . . nay, believe . . . that Robert could have an honorable union, built of love, with Lucy. The muscles of his stomach clenched. Fool. Fool. Fool.

“My son has a good head for business, but he’s a foolish heart.” He made a sound of disgust. “He’s done you no favors by presenting a weak, romantic view of women and marriage.”

The truth of his grandfather’s harsh words hit him. No, the romantic notions his father had instilled in him hadn’t done him any favors. His parents had found love, but Robert was now facing the stark reality of how very rare their bond was.

“You’ll do well to remember the lesson of this day, Robert.” Then in a dismissive movement, the duke set down his glass, grabbed his ledger and pen, and proceeded to work.

The audience was over. Robert collected himself. His heart might be shattered, but his grandfather had taught him an invaluable lesson. The only sincerity he could hope for in marriage would be to a woman of the ton. He’d previously scorned them for their coldheartedness. Now he appreciated the ruthless sincerity of those grasping creatures. At least, with their hungering for his future title, they were clear in their desiring. Unlike Lucy, who’d given him nothing but lies, and who would have sold her soul for the title of duchess if the Devil had offered that barter.

The duke glanced up from his work. “Is there anything you require, Robert?”

He flattened his mouth into a hard line. “Go to hell,” he said quietly, and not allowing the man just below a prince another word, strode from the room. He didn’t bother to close the door in his wake, but made his way steadily and purposefully from this hated home.

He’d been wrong earlier.

In two regards: First, he did, in fact, wish the Duke of Somerset dead. And second, women were not to be trusted.





St Giles, England

Winter 1821





Chapter 1


Rule 1


Never set foot on the gaming floors.

Entering the breakfast room, it took but one glance at the Duke of Somerset, with his healthy pallor and the casual sipping of his coffee, for Lord Robert Dennington, the Marquess of Westfield, to confirm one very important detail—his father was most certainly not dying.

Robert paused in the doorway and narrowed his eyes. It was not that he was unhappy about his father’s vigorous health—quite the opposite really, and not simply because he’d long reveled in the freedom afforded him as the ducal heir.

But rather, he genuinely loved his father, which was saying a good deal in a Society where any emotion was rare, and even strongly discouraged.

What Robert did not love was the underhanded efforts of his father—who’d recently hosted a summer party with one, very specific purpose—to marry his son off.

His father looked up from his copy of The Times. “Robert,” he drawled, acknowledging his son in a strong, healthy, and decidedly not deathly tone before promptly returning his attention to the paper in his hands.

A muscle jumped in the corner of Robert’s eye and fury ran through him. He’d spent the whole of his summer at his father’s estate, with his head in his hands, devastated by what he thought was the impending death of his sire. Only to find now, in this very casual way, that he’d been duped. Fooled. Tricked. All for the purpose of seeing Robert marry. Another muscle twitched near his eye. Then, hadn’t the previous duke demonstrated that same power of influence over a person’s life? “Good morning.” Yanking off his gloves, Robert tucked them inside his jacket pocket. “You are the picture of perfect health, Father,” he said and started for the table.

“Afternoon,” his father called, not taking his gaze from the front page of The Times.

Robert waved off a servant who rushed over and pulled out his chair. “Pardon?”

“It is well past morn.”

Ah, this. Again.

Reclining in his chair, Robert layered his palms on the arms and tapped his fingertips. “I was—”

“At your clubs?” His father lowered his paper slightly, peering at him from over the top with a pointed, knowing look.

And perhaps if Robert were most men, and hadn’t been reared from the nursery to perfect that same ducal stare, then that look would inspire . . . something. Alas . . . Robert shrugged. “I daresay we have more to discuss than my visit to White’s?” He motioned over a servant and the liveried footman came forward with a pot of steaming coffee. He accepted the drink from the footman and blew into the hot contents.

“And what would we have to discuss?” his father asked in bored tones that set Robert’s teeth on edge.

Robert took a small sip of the bitter brew. “I don’t know?” From over the rim of his glass, he lifted an eyebrow. “Perhaps your sudden and miraculous recovery?” A recovery that followed countless months of the duke’s impending death.