“Not terribly sporting of you,” King grumbled with a sigh before raising his Bordeaux. “Very well, then. I surrender. You shall have a simple vow from a simple man.”
Ha! Brandon couldn’t stifle his chortle at his friend’s claim. There was nothing simple about the Duke of Kingham. Indeed, King was the most complex person he had ever met.
King raised a brow at him. “Brandon, is there something which amuses you? Perhaps you’d care to share with the rest of the company.”
Brandon wiggled his fingers in a dismissive gesture. “Carry on with your simple vow, old chap, before we all grow old and gray.”
“Old and gray?” Whitby shuddered dramatically. “I hope I meet my ignominious end well before that day.”
“Oh do stubble it, Whit,” Richford said congenially as he gave the redhead’s breast an indolent fondle. “We all know that you’ve the devil’s own luck. You’ll likely be hearty as a stallion at five-and-ninety, quite unlike some of us.”
Whitby grinned. “Am I to blame for my own good fortune?”
“Enough,” King interrupted in a lighthearted tone. “I’ve settled upon a vow.”
Brandon inclined his head in his friend’s direction. “Carry on then, old chap.”
King frowned. “We should have a bible to swear upon.”
“I haven’t got one.” Brandon thought for a moment, frowning. “We’ll have to swear upon the Chateau Margaux. Raise your glasses.”
All six incipient members of the Wicked Dukes Society raised their glasses.
“Repeat after me,” King ordered. “From this moment on, I solemnly devote myself to the pursuit of pleasure and to the utter destruction of my father’s legacies.”
The friends repeated King’s vow, followed by the clinking of glasses and a resounding cry of, “Hear, hear!”
“May he rot in Hades where he belongs,” added Riverdale grimly.
In that moment, the Wicked Dukes Society was born, steeped in sin and fine French wine.
Chapter One
Brandon was having a nightmare.
That was the only explanation for the sight opposite him, he was certain of it. Either that, or he had imbibed one of King’s ingenious brews and was now suffering the delusional aftereffects of the dubious elixir.
“Have you nothing to say for yourself, Brandon?”
The sharp, censorious voice, however, was disturbingly real. As was the glacial green-eyed glare so similar to his own. And the massive, billowing silk gown, beneath which hid a crinoline more suited to the fashions of thirty years ago than now.
He blinked, hoping the action would dispel the image before him. Pull him from the throes of sleep. Cast away the demons brought about by one of King’s inspired concoctions.
But no.
His grandmother remained.
Hellfire. Perhaps she was real after all.
Brandon cleared his throat. “I do beg your pardon, Grandmother, but I have no notion of what I ought to be saying for myself.”
“Have you not heard a word I have just spoken?”
Admittedly, he had been wool-gathering. Hoping he had found himself thrown into some slumberous alternate reality.
“I’m afraid not,” he conceded.
Her nostrils flared, and for a fanciful moment, he imagined her breathing fire like a mythical dragon swooping in to scorch him and other unsuspecting mortals in her path.
