Chapter 1
Gregory Goodheart, seventh Duke of Argyll, legendary rake and head proprietor of Forbidden Pleasures, London’s most iniquitous gaming hell, was not just any man.
He was a bad one.
A very, very,verybad one.
Not the evil, twisted, macabre,madsort.
But thewickedkind.
He’d slipped into the world wearing the Devil’s own smile. Destined for debauchery. A relentless reprobate. Irredeemable. With a randy, now-dead sire who’d blazed a path as England’s consummate rake, there’d only been one fate and future for him.
During his Eton years, Argyll’s father sent one of his young, nubile mistresses to school Argyll in a different sort of edification.
By thirteen, the concupiscent duke let out a separate townhouse for the next kept woman he’d gifted Argyll. Expenses paid by the lad he’d been. The late duke hadn’t been generous. With the exception of his cock, leering eyes, and wandering hands.
Before he’d even reached fourteen, Argyll knew the way and hand-selected his own paramours—no assistance from dear father required.
Argyll’s lust for life was surpassed by only one thing—uncompromising, unbridled sex.
“Shut the door,” he purred.
The blonde beauty draped in a nearly sheer white gossamer gown hesitated. Displeasure put a pinched expression on her handsome face. “Careful, Your Grace. I won’t be ordered about.”
A lady of her position and power would chafe at the affront.
But she also secretly, or not so secretly to Argyll, craved it.
Steepling his fingers under his chin, he regarded her the same assessing, detached way he did his books at the club. “No, you won’t, Your Grace. You love it.”
He’d learned of the Duchess of Argyll’s perversity in her first attempt, among many attempts, to seduce him.
“Your Grace? Suchformality.” She curled her crimson-painted lips into a seductress’s smile. “My dear boy is upset with me.”
Despite his iron-clad restraint, desire stirred at the wicked game they’d played over the years.
His mahogany desk did Argyll the favor of concealing his steel-hard erection. “How should one behave after finding out his beloved stepmama attempted to partner with my former business partner and current rival?”
The reminder of the depths she’d gone to in order to take his club down swiftly killed his lust.
His stepmother tittered. “Oh,that.”
Oh, that. He favored her with a lazy, half-grin,joining inher amusement.
She’d sought an alliance with Lachlan Latimer, Argyll’s former friend, partner, and head of security, and Latimer’snewbusiness partner, Stephen Killoran, the Earl of Dynevor, head of the Devil’s Den, and this is what she’d say? Had he been capable of pity, he’d have felt it for his poor, embarrassingly overmatched stepmother.
Unlike his dead father’s wicked widow, Argyll had mastered the art of discernment.
Resting her well-shaped arse against the door panel, thepenitentduchess leaned forward. Her pose of supplication put her hourglass figure on perfect display.
“Come, my boy, surely there is something I can do to make amends for being such anaughty stepmama.” She shifted deliberately for emphasis. As she’d intended, those enormousglobes spilled over her plunging neckline. Not that it had taken much. With the depth of her decolletage and weight of her breasts, she’d been one more sashay away from tumbling free.
Argyll slowly, deliberately drummed his fingertips together and did a cursory study. Ripe flesh. Rouged nipples. Nothing he hadn’t seen before.
At his detached scrutiny, a flush stole across her heaving bosom.
The lady wasn’t affronted.
