The room burst into guffaws and snickers.
“But I seem to distinctly recall the poem you wrote for Lady Flora Seaton,” King prodded. “A beautiful sonnet, if I’m not mistaken.”
Cam was usually imperturbable, but now his face flamed. Lady Flora was a delicate subject, one which he preferred to avoid. King always knew how to cut a man to his marrow, friend or foe alike, and he was more perceptive than anyone Brandon had ever met.
Cam’s eyes narrowed. “Indeed, I did. But I find I’m not nearly as eloquent as Riverdale. Perhaps he ought to write the vows.”
“If King thinks we should have one, then King can bloody well write it,” Riverdale said, before whispering something into the ear of one of the ladies on his lap and earning a sultry chuckle in response.
“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 theChateau Margaux. Raise your glasses.”
All six incipient members of the Wicked Dukes Society did as he bid.
“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 1
LONDON, 1878
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.
