Chapter 1
Summer 1816
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The alliance had saved Cortland Beaumont, the Duke of Argyle, more than once. Without the assistance of his fellow Wayward Dukes, he would have had to deal with a nasty scandal, lost terribly at the gaming tables when he was in his cups, or worst yet, been married several times over. But with the help of the special signet ring on his dressing table to proclaim that he was in dire need, he had escaped any unsavory situation thus far.
Marriage was definitely on his not-to-do list. It didn’t matter if he was two and thirty and his mother thought he should grant some lucky chit the honor of being a duchess. It was because of the dowager that he eschewed the wedded state of “bliss.” She’d had more liaisons than he’d ever had and flaunted her latest lover in front of his father’s nose. All of London knew about her peccadillos, and yet, she hadn’t batted an eye at the scandals she’d caused.
Cortland could only thank God that he’d been an only child with such an unhappy childhood. For anyone lesser, it might have caused them to end up in Bedlam. For Cortland, it just caused him to swear off matrimony for the remainder of his days.
At least he had been able to get his revenge against his mother, because as soon as his father was laid to rest, she assumed she would live life in perfect harmony with him at the estate, or at the very least, the dower house. Instead, he’d shipped her off to Scotland, to the most remote place that he could think of. He’d effectively washed his hands of her, other than the money he sent to her every month, but even his solicitors took care of that little bother. Otherwise, he didn’t write, didn’t visit, and frankly, he didn’t care if he laid eyes on her again.
He seldom traveled to his estate and went about his daily life in London with a calm conscience.
However, he was starting to become a bit restless. In between mistresses at the moment, he decided that perhaps it was time to retire to the country for a reprieve. It was the time of season that most of his peers did the same, and he could do with a bit of hunting. Or archery, or some such outdoor sport that proclaimed him just like anyone else.
He might host a scandalous house party.
His grin widened as he sat in his study. Leaning back in the leather chair, he propped his booted feet on the top of the desk simply because there wasn’t anyone there to tell him not to. He enjoyed being the ruler of his own personal kingdom, and he supposed if he wanted to throw a perfectly wicked party that involved sex, brandy, and illicit entertainment, it was his choice.
He imagined all the fun he would have and decided it was something that most definitely, needed to happen. He withdrew a sheet of paper and started to make a list of names that he would invite. All of the Wayward Dukes were invited, of course, including the honorary founder, the Duke of Cranbrook. Although Cortland didn’t imagine the curmudgeonly man might actually appear, he wanted to make sure he wasn’t excluded. The next time Cortland needed to call upon one of his fellow dukes, he wanted to make sure that there was someone to come to his aid.
He smiled as he started to come up with other ideas regarding the torrid gathering. He really needed to give it some sort of terribly awful title.
It would surely ensure that the manor was filled to capacity.
“What’s that you have there?”
The older man gave a gruff reply and quickly shoved the missive into the chair cushion. “Er… nothing. Just something idiotic.”
“Indeed?” Lady Genevieve St. Giles lifted a curious eyebrow as she sat across from her grandfather and picked up that day’s paper. “Sounds terribly mysterious.”
“It’s not, I assure you,” was the firm reply.
She shrugged. “If you say so.” She flipped through the pages of the black and white print and found that most of it was the same boring articles she usually perused. The same people were causing scandals. The same London fashions that she’d seen for the past few years. She yearned for a change in… something, no matter what it entailed. And yet, ever since the war with France had ended, it seemed as though her fellow Brits were content to remain perfectly… boring.
She wasn’t upset that the war had ended, of course. On the contrary, she had enjoyed seeing families reunited, and hearing their stories of survival or even loss. At least there was some sort of emotion being shared, rather than… nothing.
Genevieve knew she sounded selfish and spoiled, but after staying at her parents’ estate for the past few years, without any sort of social life, and fearing a retaliation from Napoleon’s army might break through their defenses, she was ready to live. And for some reason, she kept staring at the square bit of vellum that taunted her from her grandfather’s chair. With any luck, he would forget it was there and she could get her eager hands on it.
Until then, she had to make polite conversation. Perhaps his wife would return and distract him so that he would decide to rush off to his club in an effort to escape her. In Genevieve’s observation, it wasn’t that they despised each other. It was just what people did who had been married a long time.
As if providence answered her call, the front door opened and closed and Genevieve could hear the determined footfalls of her grandmother, the Duchess of Cranbrook, Eleanor St. Giles, crossing the marble foyer in the Mayfair townhouse.
She tried to hide a smile as her grandfather grumbled something beneath his breath, but she wasn’t sure if she was that successful, especially after Eleanor appeared in the doorframe and made a specific remark. “You look like the cat that ate the cream.”
“Hello, Grandmother,” Genevieve replied, but she was careful not to admit the reason for her smirk.
Eleanor turned to her husband. “George, I need your kind assistance on a particular matter. Won’t you join me in the study for a moment?”
Genevieve thought she heard him mutter something about “blasted women,” before he reluctantly got up and toddled after her. Once he was gone, she glanced across at his chair and tossed aside the paper she was reading. She jumped out of her seat and snatched the paper tucked securely in the side cushion. She read to discover it was an invitation to some sort of “Erotic-o-Rama” gala hosted by the Duke of Argyle at his estate just outside of the city.
Interesting. She tapped the card against her palm. Not only would this be the answer to her current malaise, but it might just be the opportunity to get the duke to finally notice her. She had long admired his handsome visage, but she doubted that he knew she was alive. However, if she attended this party, she was determined that by the time it concluded, he would.
A slow grin spread over her face. But then it froze.
It wasn’t as though she could defile herself and court scandal on her own. She needed someone who could act as her accomplice.
