Page 3 of Forever Her Bachelor

With less than thirty days until he turned one and thirty, time was not his friend. He desperately needed the inheritance that was promised to him. Of course, it came with stipulations.

Like obtaining a wife.

Taking the last gulp of the watered-down brandy that the new owner, Reaper, pushed on his ignorant patrons, St. Clara allowed the drink to take him further into the abyss.

Men pushed and shouted their agreement as he weighed the dice in the palm of his hand. Taking his time, he needed it to be the perfect roll. Playing hazard was all about precision; a perfect throw was exhilarating, and the benefits of winning overthe house were lucrative. Casting the dice, he watched as they twirled and turned, twirled and turned, until finally they settled on three.

“Dammit!” his closest friend, the Earl of Bollingbrook, shouted from his place beside St. Clara. “You needed that.”

He had indeed.

He’d needed that win, but most of all, he needed to find a wife. That would be the only way to secure his inheritance.It was a preposterous stipulation, one that St. Clara only learned of a few months earlier.

“Bad luck, man,” the Earl of Windchester called out to him. St. Clara eyed the man with disdain, noticing the cheeky grin on his annoying face. “Hand over the dice.” Windchester held out his hand, his eyes bloodshot, his appearance disheveled.

St. Clara slapped the dice in the other man’s hand, not acknowledging him. He turned away from the hazards table with Bollingbrook by his side. They wove through the dilapidated gaming hell with its chipped walls and furniture cracked from its rowdy occupants fighting constantly. The threadbare carpet was filled with holes as prostitutes roamed from man to man, wearing revealing dresses that displayed all their fleshy assets.

The uneven wood chairs groaned under their weight as they sat at a table in the far corner of the room. One side of the room was buzzing with obnoxious gambling aristocrats. Holding up his hand, St. Clara motioned to Little Jim—the massive barkeep, guard, and Reapers’ overall henchman—for a drink. He needed his numbness to continue. Ten minutes was entirely too long between drinks in his current mental state. Being sober was not a part of his plan. He had too many responsibilities related to the St. Clara dukedom. He also did not want to think about what he had learned that day.

Looking up at his friend, he surveyed the dark circles around Bollingbrook’s eyes. He had lost weight because of his financialtroubles, making his large body look sickly. They were in similar situations because of their vices they had gained as young heirs, but Bollingbrook’s lack of funds was much more dire than St. Clara’s.

His friend leaned forward, violet eyes glimmering a strange purplish color in the candlelit room. St. Clara had hated those damn eyes since they were children. They never looked quite real to him, and the piercing gaze often made him uncomfortable … like he knew every secret.

“I heard about Miss Price and Summerset,” Bollingbrook said in challenge.

For a moment, St. Clara didn’t speak a word. His tongue was heavy in his dry mouth, and he desperately wanted that drink. His friend knew the rules. Bollingbrook was aware of every sordid detail of St. Clara and Pippa Price’s past. Yet he still had the gall to open his obnoxiously colossal mouth.

“Don’t fucking say it.” Fighting off the urge to pummel his oldest friend, he closed his hand around the old table, his fingernails digging into the worn wood.

“No need to get upset.” He shrugged his shoulder as if St. Clara’s discomfort meant nothing. “Besides, I thought that business between you two was long over, or did something change while I was away?”

It was a simple question, but St. Clara had no answer. Over the course of the Season, he had dared to hope that he was finally piercing the well-placed defenses that Pippa Price had secured between them over the years. He had noticed a chink in Pippa’s armor after his engagement to the former Lady Julia St. John ended.

The engagement to Julia, one of his only friends, was simply a means to an end. He needed a wife to inherit, and she needed a husband to forget the man who had abandoned her.

Steadying his anger, he replied, “Nothing has changed between Miss Price and myself.” The admittance was like a knife to the heart, though they had been a tad more than friends.

It was what he had told himself daily, both nine years earlier and even then, as he sat waiting for his cursed drink to come. He longed for the numbness, for something to help him forget the news of Pippa’s engagement.

“So it’s true? She is to marry Summerset?” Bollingbrook voiced the one thing that St. Clara did not want to hear or admit.

Pippa Price, the girl that had once known him better than he knew himself, was lost to him forever.

Before St. Clara could respond, one of the newer girls hired by Reaper sauntered over to their table with a decanter of brandy and two glasses. Her eyes lingered on St. Clara as he gave her a curt nod. He was not in the mood for a whore. For heaven’s sake, he needed a wife—and not just any wife, but one fit to be a duchess.

In his search for a wife to gain his blasted inheritance, he always remembered what his late father had instilled in him. A wife must be poised, beautiful, of excellent stock and breeding. The most important thing, his father had often said, was that a wife must always conduct herself accordingly in and outside of society. Something his mother failed horribly at.

“Here you are, Your Grace. Let me know if you need …” She trailed delicate fingers down St. Clara’s arm, making him want to snatch the appendage away, but he did not. “Anything.” The suggestion was obvious, but the only thing St. Clara needed in that moment was a damn drink.

Leaning forward, he picked up the decanter to pour his own glass, ignoring her blatant proposition. “Thank you. I’ll let you know.” He flirted back, not meaning a single word, but he was the Duke of St. Clara, and he had a reputation to uphold.

“She could be a pleasant distraction for you,” Bollingbrook said, tilting his head toward the buxom redhead walking away from their table.

St. Clara took a healthy drink of his brandy, letting it soothe his tattered nerves. “I’m not interested.”

He did not need a distraction. The only thing that would cure what was wrong with St. Clara was a wife. Marrying would put an end to all his problems and make him forget Pippa Price indefinitely.

“You could end this for both of us. All you have to do is marry someone?—”