Page 1 of A Bride for the Duke of Sin (Ton’s Wolves #3)

CHAPTER 1

T he stench of illness pervaded the atmosphere, mingling with the pungent scent of medication in an unholy, cloying concoction that made Phoebe want to retch. From the canopied bed, one could hear the coughing fits that plagued an already weakened body.

Her papa, the Marquess of Brandon, had once again fallen ill, and unlike the last time, it seemed unlikely that he would make a recovery.

“Is that my Phoebe?” she heard him call out weakly from the bed.

She choked back the tears that threatened to spill from her lashes. “Yes, Papa,” Phoebe replied softly, hastening over to him. “I am right here.”

“My darling girl,” he murmured. “My sweet angel.”

An old nickname should not have her teetering on the edge, holding back her sobs, but it did.

Her papa had always referred to her as his angel. While Alice had been bold and mischievous, forever getting into scrapes from her adventures, Phoebe had always abided by her parents’ rules.

She never ventured too far or attempted anything that would invoke censure. Never complained or made a fuss, even when she wanted to.

Their governesses praised her as a sweet-natured child. Only Phoebe knew the truth for what it was.

Cowardice.

She simply lacked the courage that her older sister possessed in spades. Thus, she would cautiously stick to what she knew, what she was told, never daring to toe the line for fear of the repercussions.

“You know that there is nothing I want more in the world than to be sure that my ladies are cared for,” her papa wheezed. “You know that, don’t you, my angel?”

“Of course, Papa,” she murmured, rubbing his chest. “Hush now. You should not talk too much and let the medicine do its work.”

But he shook his head stubbornly. In his eyes, there was a determined glint that scared her.

Was he… giving her his final instructions?

She looked towards her mama in a panic, but her mother looked to be on the verge of tears as well, holding her handkerchief to her lips with trembling fingers.

“Phoebe… I have discussed… with the Viscount…” her father spoke again. He coughed weakly, and even that seemed to rob him of his remaining breath.

However, it was not her father’s condition that had her blood running cold in her veins, but his very words.

“Discussed…?” she breathed. Her hands clutched at the blankets at the edge of the bed. “Discussed what, Papa? With which Viscount?”

“Your marriage…” he told her feebly. “To the… Viscount… Dexford.”

Marriage. To the Viscount Dexford.

Phoebe felt as if the world around her shattered into a million shards, like glass. Her eyes wide with shock, she turned to her mama.

“It is for the best, my dear,” her mother sighed. “Your papa and I are well aware that you have never been as… tempestuous as Alice, and although you have your own share of suitors, you have never expressed a particular preference for any one of them.”

Of course, not a single one of them had caught her eye. All of them were much too busy preening over themselves to even talk to her. Most gentlemen in London were just like that.

All except one.

Almost unbidden, the image of the Duke of Sin hovering over her, with his arm braced on the wall just above her head, sprung to her mind. He grinned at her in that devilish manner that secretly sent a shiver of anticipation down her spine…

But even he would not make a good husband.

He was a rake set on his ways, and while Alice might argue that the worst rakes make the best husbands, Phoebe was not about to gamble her future and her happiness on an adage that very rarely came to fruition.

“The Viscount is a fine young man,” her mother consoled her, reaching out for her hand. “You would not be unhappy with him.”

Phoebe looked down to where her mama was holding her hand, squeezing it even, as if the pressure alone would make her words come true.

She might not be unhappy, yes, but would she find happiness with a man like the Viscount?

“This is for the best, my dear girl,” her mama told her. “Your father will be able to focus better on his recovery, with everything settled.”

Phoebe could not raise her eyes and tell her mama otherwise. How could she tell them that she had no intention of marrying the man they had chosen for her?

Her father could not have made this decision so lightly. Neither would her mother. Both of her parents had put their collective efforts into finding her the best match they could.

How could she scorn their efforts and rebelliously throw their best intentions in their faces?

“Of course, Mama.”

Three words, and yet they seemed to take all of the strength that remained in her.

Three words, and she had sealed her fate.

It took everything in her to remain standing there with her parents, woodenly nodding along to their plans, until the next fit of coughs from her papa gave her a reason to excuse herself.

The moment she closed the door behind her, she ran to her bedchamber, her tears streaming down her cheeks.

She closed the door to her bedchamber, sagging against it as her body was wracked by the sobs she had been holding in in the presence of her parents.

Was this what Alice felt when Papa told her she must marry?

At least her sister had been given the choice of husband, if not the latitude to select one. Phoebe already had a husband chosen for her—all she had to do was marry him.

Bile rose in her throat as she hugged her knees to her chest. All her life, she had never felt as helpless or as scared.

That is because all my life, Alice has always been there for me . Alice would always find a way to make everything all right again.

But her sister was married now, and on her honeymoon in France.

And Phoebe was no longer the young girl who trailed around after her sister constantly. No, she was her own woman now, and more than capable of fending for herself.

But what was she to do?

What would Alice do, had she been in her position?

Phoebe shuddered, thinking of all the times her older sister had slipped out of the house, off on some wild adventure their parents would never approve of.

Can I do it? Can I do what Alice had done countless times before?

She shrank back.

But if she did not do it now, then when?

The answer to that question sent a bolt of cold dread down her spine.

Never.

Ethan had made a mistake—an extremely huge and costly one.

The only problem was that he had absolutely no recollection of it.

He threw his head back and slammed the empty glass down on the polished wooden surface with a grimace as the liquor burned its way down his throat.

“You know that I am not one to refuse a bottle of the finest brandy, but one would think that you, of all people, should refrain from intoxication for the moment, seeing as that is what landed you in this dilemma in the first place.”

Of all the other members of their group, Hudson was the least inclined to leave his estate. That he had come out to accompany Ethan on his attempt to cleanse himself with copious amounts of alcohol spoke a great deal to the man’s loyalty.

Unfortunately, he also had the tendency to speak much more logically when his friends would rather wallow in their misery.

Ethan regarded his old friend with a dark frown. “I may have indulged a little that night, but I was not that foxed as to be thoroughly unaware of what I was doing.”

“Who you were doing, you mean,” Hudson remarked with a cold, grim smile.

“Your humor has not improved at all, my friend. You should try leaving that musty estate of yours more often.”

“And be felled by some scheming wench on the prowl for a husband?” Hudson shot back with a raised eyebrow. “I think not.”

Ethan stiffened and proceeded to pour himself another glass, even when he would much rather be drinking the whole bottle. He was still a gentleman, after all.

“I swear I did not touch that woman!” he protested fiercely.

“Why? Touching is customary, even encouraged, in such settings.”

Ethan grimaced. “It was certainly that kind of affair, I admit, but lately… I have steered clear of the usual offerings.”

Hudson’s eyebrow shot up lazily in interest. “Indeed? What brought on this profound change in your character?”

“Not so much a change in character,” Ethan scoffed. “More like I have grown weary of these things.”

“You? Will wonders never cease?”

He shot Hudson a dark look, but his friend merely regarded him with a coolly raised eyebrow. There were very few things in this world that could penetrate the Duke of Wolverton’s calm, and Ethan’s current predicament did not appear to be one of them.

“The point remains that the lady in question is currently with child,” Hudson remarked with a voice devoid of inflection. “What do you intend to do about it?”

“I suppose I will have to marry her,” Ethan spat out in obvious distaste.

Was the child in question even his? He highly doubted it.

However, the whole ton was simmering with that particularly delicious tidbit, and the lady—and he used that term very, very loosely—had already begun dropping obvious hints here and there and just about everywhere about the connection between them.

Soon, it would not even matter that the entire manor had engaged in debauchery. All that would matter was that he was involved with a lady and had supposedly gotten her with child.

It was an absolute disaster.

“To your upcoming nuptials, then.” Hudson raised his glass with a sigh. “Although, if I was in your position, I would steer clear of spirits for a good long while.”

With what, then, was Ethan going to numb the seething rage within him? All he could do was pour himself another glass when someone bumped into his elbow, splashing some of the fine brandy onto the polished wooden surface of the counter.

“Sorry about that,” the newcomer mumbled, his voice sounding oddly like a nervous squeak.

However, it was not just his voice that was strange, but his entire demeanor as well. The clothes he wore appeared much too large for his body, but even that could not hide the stiffness of his gait or the awkwardness of his movements as he struggled to seat himself properly.

Hudson eyed the poor idiot with a hint of distaste in his eyes.

“You go on ahead,” Ethan told him. “I shall stay here a bit longer.”

His friend raised a dark eyebrow at the unfortunate sod, before nodding slightly. “I shall see you soon,” he said, clapping a hand on Ethan’s shoulder. “Hopefully, everything will have resolved itself by then.”

Ethan highly doubted it, but he gave Hudson a slight smile that was far more reassuring than what he truly felt.

“Give me the strongest drink you have!” the strange man yelled to the bartender, just as Hudson was retrieving his coat.

Both men turned towards the spectacle, and Hudson shook his head before turning to leave.

Ethan walked over to the man at the counter and slid into the seat beside him with a genial smile.

“My good fellow,” he told him jovially. “It would be ill-advised to request the strongest drink from this fine establishment the moment you walk through its doors.”

He watched as the man’s entire body stiffened, his slight shoulders squaring as if in indignation.

“And what would you have me drink, then?” the man raged in an odd voice. “Lemonade? I do not need lemonade!”

Lemonade? Ethan drew back in surprise. What a truly odd thing to say—if he was truly a gentleman, of course.

Lemonade was reserved for balls, and Almack’s, in particular, served the cursed drink to its esteemed patrons.

No, this was no odd gentleman—he was certain of it. This was a lady .

But what the hell was she doing in an establishment like this?

He abruptly grabbed her chin and tilted her face to the light—and the breath rushed out of his lungs when he saw the furious eyes glaring back at him.

Green flecked with gold.

Only one particular lady in all of London had eyes like those. He would recognize them even if she purposefully broke her nose or rearranged all her other features.

Phoebe Barkley.

His night had suddenly become even more interesting.