Chapter One
London, 1812
He noticed thefellow’s arse first.
The fall of the gent’s navy coat—an odd cut, too bulky by half, and did nothing to disguise the firm, high roundness. Nor the wide swell of the hips. Duncan sipped his illicit whisky—smuggled, forbidden, and perfectly delicious—and allowed his gaze to trail down the mysterious fellow’s buff breeches. These, unlike the ill-fitting coat, proudly displayed two knees and well-turned calves like a second, wicked skin. Slim ankles stole his attention next. So fine and…dainty beneath the stockings.
His prick twitched to life.
Bloody hell. As the owner and proprietor of The Duke’s Bastard, the most fashionable and notorious gambling hell in London, Duncan catered to all manner of vices for his loyal patrons. But though he had engaged in a varied array of libidinous delights and depravities, he had yet to derive a cockstand from another man.
He swallowed another healthy gulp of whisky, relishing the burn. Damn fine swizzle, the latest batch he had been able to procure. Not strong enough to temper his lust, unfortunately, which only increased when the woman seated on his lap moved her bottom in a teasing motion over his growing problem.
“Mr. Kirkwood,” she whispered throatily, her arms locked around his neck. Her mouth was so near, her lips grazed his ear as she spoke. “We could make use of one of your special chambers. Only tell me what you prefer, and I shall do anything you wish.”
Her offer ought to stir him, but the stranger hovering by the hazard tables transfixed him. He had not removed his hat, perhaps because he was so newly arrived. But he held himself at a stiff angle, as though prepared for flight. Who was this interloper with the unusually feminine form, and why the devil did Duncan find himself so strangely drawn to him?
“Would that please you, Mr. Kirkwood?” Tabitha’s hand swept over his burgeoning cock when he failed to answer. Apparently, the fine art of subtlety eluded her. Either his patrons were boors who did not notice such a thing, or she required some stern advice from one of his more seasoned ladies.
Tabitha was new to The Duke’s Bastard, and she had yet to realize no matter how much time she spent teasing him, sidling about, casting him longing glances, and flaunting her lovely body, he would not tup her. He did not bed any of the ladies in his employ, as it muddied the waters.
Duncan preferred his waters clear and calm. He wanted the waters to line his pockets with gold more than he wanted them to satisfy his baser urges. There was a time, a place, and a woman for slaking his needs. But not here. Never within The Duke’s Bastard. And not her.
“Tabitha,” he cautioned, passing his hand along her thigh. Her dress was deuced thin and damp, designed to entice. “You are tasked with entertaining my patrons. Scamper along and perform your duty.”
Her tongue, which had been engaged in licking his throat above his cravat, left his skin. She shifted in his lap, her face blocking his view of the trespasser he found so damned intriguing. Wide, honey-brown eyes met his. There was no denying Tabitha’s loveliness. He had hired her for it.
“I thought you might…you are ready, sir, and I only wished to please you,” she said.
You are not the one responsible for this cursed state. Good Lord. He could not admit to her the true reason for the evidence of his desire she had skillfully detected. He could not even admit it to himself. Though he had to acknowledge a life of excess and sin that only heightened as the years passed, growing increasingly dissolute.
He took pity on her. “I cannot allow myself time for too much idle distraction. Thank you, however, for the offer.”
“Mr. Kirkwood,” she protested, pouting prettily.
He remained unmoved. Irritation cut through him, for she had not removed herself from his lap, and he was the master and commander of The Duke’s Bastard. The hell was his ship, and everyone aboard it followed his orders or risked being tossed, headlong, to the waters below.
“You are dismissed,” he snapped, his hands clamping on her waist and lifting her from him.
There was nowhere for the persistent Tabitha to go save elsewhere, and he suspected he had at last pierced the veil of obliviousness shrouding her. Shaking out her skirts, she offered him a tight smile. “As you prefer, Mr. Kirkwood. Enjoy your evening, sir.”
He did not bother to watch her take her leave of him. His gaze had already returned to the gentleman at the hazard table, who had extracted a small ivory tablet and pencil from his voluminous coat while Tabitha had distracted Duncan.By God.The man had begun scribbling.
A competitor.
Duncan stood from his chair. All inconvenient leanings toward lust died a hasty death. His strides ate up the floor. His senses registered the familiar sounds of the evening: raucous laughter, epithets, and clinking dice. But inside, he was fuming.
With nothing but persistence, intelligence, and hard work, he had built The Duke’s Bastard into a club even royalty begged to enter. Unlike any other club London had to offer, the Bastard was a unique blend of opulence and debauchery.
It boasted the finest French chef at two-thousand pounds per annum, and while it possessed the requisite amount of diversions, the ladies he employed were not lowly street wenches. His physician performed regular examinations to make certain they did not contract or spread the pox. And for the truly depraved, there were special, private chambers catering to a broad array of proclivities. He had seen the need for such a haven, and he had created it.
He alone.
There would be no imitators or usurpers.
Others had infiltrated his ranks before, and he had reacted no less harshly than he would now. When one man reaped great rewards, a hundred others sought to follow in his footsteps by any means, fair or foul. He reached the spy, who was too caught up in his attempts to record everything he saw to notice Duncan until he stopped alongside the miscreant.
Wide, green eyes fringed with impossibly long black lashes blinked at him from behind a pair of spectacles. Shock hit him in the chest, and he could not speak for a moment as his scrambled thoughts struggled to piece themselves back into a semblance of order. The mustache affixed to the man’s upper lip was false.
