Page 1 of A Duchess Disciplined (Dukes of Dominance #1)

PROLOGUE

Twenty-Six Years Ago

“T o Lady Dorothy!” Charles Richards, the Duke of Sarsen, raised a crystal glass filled with amber-colored brandy. “May Her Grace continue to bear you many more healthy children!”

Benedict Leedway, the Duke of Reeds, shook his head. “You speak as if she is a brood-mare, Sarsen! My Lord…”

Sarsen grinned shamelessly. It was an expression Benedict knew quite well from their shared days at Oxford.

Benedict, being inclined to study, had spent many hours attending lectures and taking exams. He had a knowledge of law which rivaled that of any barrister. Sarsen, however, had become an irredeemable rake, whose reputation for mischief was well known. Every time the man was caught engaged in some untoward activity, he would give that same rakish smile.

Sarsen was a handsome man, too. Benedict had seen countless well-bred ladies utterly charmed by a glance from Sarsen’s green eyes. Even though he was approaching five-and-thirty years, Sarsen still cut a dashing figure.

“Reeds, you cannot expect a man to speak properly when he is in his cups!” Sarsen exclaimed. “And if ever there was a night to drink like a rogue, it is surely tonight!”

Benedict shook his head, although he did not disagree. He had also indulged with more enthusiasm than usual. It was not only the arrival of his daughter which pleased him but his wife’s good health. While his lady’s first birth—that of their son Elias—had been quick and uneventful, Dorothy had been difficult from the start.

“Perhaps, you are right,” Benedict replied at last.

“I know that I am right!”

Sarsen finished his glass of brandy and gestured for it to be filled again, which promptly was. “Fill his as well,” Sarsen said, gesturing to Benedict’s glass.

Benedict leaned back in his chair, just barely glancing at the young man who filled the glass with brandy.

“How is your duchess?” Benedict asked. “Shall we soon anticipate an heir for you?”

“Not for some months.” The man was not slurring his words, but his voice was unusually loud. “My lady has written that she is well. She asked to stay in Bath during her pregnancy.”

That was to be expected. The Duchess of Sarsen had a well-known dislike for the city of London. She found it too loud and crowded for her nerves, which were quite fragile. Benedict took a swallow of his brandy, savoring the warmth the drink caused to spread through his chest.

“We must celebrate when your heir arrives,” Benedict said.

Sarsen shook his head. “We do not know if the child will be an heir yet. My lady is quite nervous. Her own mother produced only daughters.”

“Seven of them,” Benedict said. “Each more beautiful than the last.”

Sarsen winked. “That is why I married the youngest.”

“But surely, that does not mean your union will produce only daughters,” Benedict replied. “On the contrary, I feel rather certain that your first child will be an heir.”

Sarsen chuckled. “Do you?”

“Indeed.”

Benedict drank more of the brandy. He would not say that he was truly intoxicated, but the world around him was beginning to take on a warm and pleasant feeling. Everything in the club seemed softer somehow, and his worries over his wife seemed like nothing more than fleeting nightmares, vanquished by daylight.

“Well,” Sarsen said, “if my first child is an heir, I will marry him to your Dorothy.”

Benedict laughed. “Will you?”

“Why not?”

Benedict sipped his drink, trying to find a witty retort, but he had none. “Let us suppose that my daughter does not like your son. What if he grows into a rake like his father?”

Sarsen gasped in mock dismay. “I am wounded, Reeds! How dare you call me a rake ?”

“Surely, my insult is no more offensive than your lies!” Benedict exclaimed, laughing. “If your son is just like you, I would call that justice!”

“My son will be a good man! A proper Duke of Sarsen!”

Benedict arched an eyebrow. “Hmm.”

“Anyway,” Sarsen said, gesturing widely with his glass. “Who needs love? My lady and I did not wed for love. Nor did you and Her Grace.”

“Be that as it may…”

“You are romantic,” Sarsen said. “I know. If your daughter marries my son, you will at least know that she will be treated well. You will know that my son has the means to ensure that she has a comfortable life as the Duchess of Sarsen. That is more than many young misses have.”

Benedict swirled his glass, took a drink, and frowned. “I think I am too inebriated to make these decisions.”

Sarsen roared with laughter. “You cannot argue with my logic, can you? All those lectures you attended in rhetoric—utterly wasted! For shame, Reeds.”

“Knowledge is never wasted.”

“Of course. How can I forget how invaluable your knowledge in common law is?”

“It is of value,” Benedict replied. “Do you want to always be dependent on solicitors to know the law for you?”

“That is generally why one hires solicitors.”

“Suppose your solicitor is mistaken or errs in some legal matter?”

“Then, I hire an army of solicitors,” Sarsen said. “And I believe that you, Reeds, are trying to distract from my brilliant proposal because you have no good reason for disagreeing with it. If my first child is a son, I will wed him to your daughter. If my first child is a daughter, I will wed her to your son. I trust that any Duke of Reeds with you as a father will grow into a wholly admirable young man.”

A warmth came over Benedict, the heady result of alcohol and his friend’s confidence in him. “I might just agree with you.”

“Then, we continue the celebrations!” Sarsen exclaimed. “Not only has your daughter arrived, but we have already found her husband! Or else, we have found your son a wife! One of your children will not have to endure a long wait on the marriage mart.”

“You did not seem to find your own long wait too arduous,” Benedict quipped.

“You are never going to allow me to forget my rakish misdeeds, are you? I tell you that I am a changed man.”

They both knew that was untrue. Despite his declarations of being reformed, Sarsen was still a notorious lover of actresses and singers.

“How does Her Grace manage you?” Benedict asked.

Sarsen waved a flippant hand. “We have an understanding, my lady and me. She does not interfere with my affairs, and I give her the independence she wants in the country.”

“I see.”

“Bah! I have let you lead me astray again,” Sarsen said mournfully. “We were discussing your child’s marriage to mine.”

“I think your jest has grown old by now.”

“It was not a jest. Why should we not do it? You write the contract, and we will both sign it!” Sarsen declared. “My firstborn will marry one of your children. Elias if my wife bears a daughter, Dorothy if the child is a son.”

Benedict finished his glass, which was promptly filled again without him having to ask. He knew that he would regret such indulgences in the morning, but at the moment, it was difficult to care all that much.

“Fetch a solicitor,” Benedict said, waving a hand.

“Why?” Sarsen asked. “You were just discussing how impressive your knowledge of law is. You write it.”

“Neither of us have a pen,” Benedict said.

Sarsen scoffed and stood, nearly falling into the nearby table. “As if I will be deterred by that!”

The man walked unevenly across the club, presumably in search of a pen and paper. Benedict shook his head in bemusement and continued drinking. The idea was absurd—but not too absurd. He supposed that there was something appealing about it, about continuing his friendship with Sarsen through their children.

Besides, his friend was right. There were worse matches that their children might find, and it would surely be better for them to wed a trusted family friend. Even if Sarsen was an incurable rake, he was a good man, and those were difficult to find.

“Found it!” Sarsen exclaimed, waving a sheet of paper.

Benedict straightened his spine. “So I see.”

Had his words emerged less clearly than they usually did? Benedict could not be certain, but he thought they had.

With a victorious grin, Sarsen slammed the paper down onto the table between them. In his other hand, he held the pen and ink. As he placed them on the table, he nearly spilled the ink on the paper that had inspired such joy.

“Are we truly going to make this a contract?” Benedict asked, reaching for the pen.

“Why not?”

Why not, indeed?

Benedict shrugged and wrote the date—7 December 1788—in bold, looping script atop the page.

“Is it the seventh?” Sarsen asked.

“I believe so,” Benedict replied.

Admittedly, he had not thought much of the date in the past week. His thoughts were entirely consumed with the imminent arrival of Dorothy, and there was little space for something as pedestrian as the date.

“On this day,” Benedict said, as he wrote, “An agreement was made between Benedict Leedway, the Duke of Reeds, and Charles Richards, the Duke of Sarsen.”