Page 52 of Her Temporary Duke (Rakes and Roses #2)

R esting his arms on the copper-plated railing, Dorian gazed down at his prestigious gambling club, The Labyrinth , with warm pride brimming in his chest. This was what he’d built, this was what he worked toward for ten years—and it was only the beginning.

Young men dressed in black and white elegant evening wear shuffled, flicked, and cut cards with professional flair while the clatters of die echoed as they rolled on the tables. More young men weaved through the crowd with flutes of champagne on their trays.

Dorian’s gaze shifted to the other part of the floor where women and men gambled together. The chandelier light sparkled over jewels glimmering over women’s ears and necks as they hung on their husband’s arms, sipping top-rate champagne.

“Your Grace,” his valet, Roderick Lloyd, bowed while holding Dorian’s jacket and a folio, “Your carriage is ready.”

“Thank you, Lloyd.” Dorian stepped away and accepted the jacket.

I am sure my comments will make smoke billow from Sterling’s ears.

“You are doing what?” Sterling asked, his ice blue eyes narrowed with displeasure.

“I said that—”

Sterling slammed his fist on the table, barely masked fury reeking from his pores. “I know what you’ve said, but why now!”

Sitting back in his seat, Dorian finished his words slowly. “I am selling my shares of The Crown.”

“ My club,” Sterling said stiffly.

“Yes.”

Your failing club. I do not want to go down with your sinking ship. Not to mention, I’ve just uncovered the missing connection between you and my dastardly uncle. You should be glad I haven’t ripped your head from your shoulders already, old boy.

Over the years, bad blood had started to simmer between Dorian and Sterling. Three years ago, Dorian had outbid Sterling on gaining the last shares for a profitable shipping line that sailed from the East, and Sterling had never let him forget it.

If Dorian were to be honest, the rift had started long before the shares business; it had begun when he’d been twenty years old, after years of working as Sterling’s running boy and spy; as he got older, he’d become an extortionist with a dash of bribery thrown in.

It was at that age he’d broken off from being Sterling’s underling and founded his first bar.

It had gone on well; Sterling had no issue with him running a simple ‘blue-ruin’ joint.

It was when the club, The Labyrinth , had sprung to life—and outdone Sterling’s club—that the rivalry went into full force.

Lips tight, Sterling pressed, “Now, right after the robbery.”

“I did advise you to change your routes,” Dorian replied. “I had nothing to do with that.”

“Forgive me if the timing seems too… coincidental,” Sterling muttered through gritted teeth. “Half my stock of liquor—”

Watered-down liquor that you serve after the men are drunk.

“—was stolen five days ago, and now you come here seeking my blessing to cut ties. With me,” Sterling’s tone was flat. “The man who made you.”

“You never fail to throw that in my face,” Dorian said calmly, while inside, he seethed. “How are you the same man who said he respected a self-made man, but always endeavors to keep such a man under his thumb?

“Anyhow, this has nothing to do with you being my mentor, this is purely business. Your club is failing, no matter how many discounts you offer and put on fighter nights, your members are leaving by the dozens. I am not in the mood to continue hemorrhaging money, so yes, I am pulling away. It is simply prudent business.”

Besides, now that I know what you truly are and how you managed to destroy my family, I will finally have my justice.

“I am not pulling away entirely, just the club,” Dorian assuaged. “For all our other ventures, I am still a participant.”

Especially since I need to get into the secret club the three of you have built away from me. One of you, or all three of you, know where my thieving uncle is, and I will get it out of you one way or another.

“Are you two starting the fun without us?” came a drawling, pompous voice.

Dorian craned his head to the doorway as the final two members of the club joined the group.

Nathan Wellington, Marquess of Salem, and Drake Holt, the Viscount of Portsmouth, strode into the room.

Both men, looking as they had just rolled out of separate courtesans’ beds, since Dorian knew Nathan favored redheads and Drake only patronized plump dames.

“Thank you all for coming,” Dorian said. “I do not want to beat around the bush. I am selling my shares to the Crown, and either of you is welcome to bid before I take this to the public.”

The two men took their seats, and a quick inspection around the table did not reveal any surprised twitches or confusions; then again, he didn’t expect any. These men dealt with quick changes daily. Even without looking at Sterling, Dorian could feel the man’s bristling impatience.

Drake and Nathan shared a look before Drake let out a long grunt, reached into his inner pocket, and plucked out a fifty-pound note, then handed it to Nathan. “You were right.”

Smirking, Nathan pocketed the money, “Two days before I thought he’d announce it too.”

“Wait—” Dorian glanced between the two. “You two took bets on my removing myself from the club?”

“I suspected,” Nathan shrugged. “We know you are one to weather the storm, Beaumont, but when the anchor is slipping and the sails are ripped, you cut ties.”

Lifting the glass of brandy in a mock salute, Dorian laughed, “Why, thank you for your vote of confidence.”

Sterling’s eyes latched on the other two. “What about you two? Are you ready to jump ship as well and abandon your strongman?”

“Give it a rest, Carrington,” Drake sighed while pouring a scotch. “You sound histrionic. No, we’re not parting ways, and neither is Beaumont. He is simply looking out for his best interests, as we all do.”

Sterling muttered, “ Capital . What good news on the eve of my wedding.”

Dorian’s head snapped forward. “What? You are getting married?” Since when are you releasing your vice grip on eternal bachelorhood?”

“Consider it a loosening and not a full release,” Sterling said. “I am getting older, and I do not need a wife. It is more for rite of passage than me turning into any sanctimonious, monogamous codswallop.”

“Are you sure?” Nathan asked. “A wave of gents, all of them solid rakehells, have been getting married lately. It’s like a disease and it’s spreading.”

“Not for me,” Dorian shuddered.

“I wouldn’t worry for your health, old chap,” Drake grinned at Dorian. “You are impervious to viruses.”

“Do we get to know the name of this lucky lady?” Nathan asked.

“She’s a Miss, not yet a lady,” Sterling grunted before throwing back his drink.

“A real proper one, all buttoned up and the like. I cannot wait for my whores to turn her into a doxy. There is no fun in bedding a gently-bred virgin, I tell you. Her name is Evelina Frampton, by the by, and we’re to wed at St. James’ tomorrow morning at ten. ”

Dorian called for his dinner, specifying quail in truffle sauce and roasted garden vegetables with a glass of wine. “And how old is this Miss?” he asked.

“Twenty,” Sterling grunted. “She turns one-and-twenty the day after. Her folks are selling her off for her cousin’s introduction to the ton.”

Cocking a brow, Nathan asked, “And what do you stand to gain from this arrangement? You are not one to give without expecting something in return.”

Sterling cocked a brow. “Why not? I can be philanthropic on occasions.”

“I’ll believe that when I see it,” Dorian snorted as his plate was set before him. “Now, what shall we do about the shares I am selling off. Any takers?”

Seated in the waiting room of St. James’ Cathedral, Ellie gripped the edge of her chair, swallowing over the bile constantly surging up her throat.

She felt trapped, and wondered why she had not vociferously told her aunt and uncle she would not be marrying this Sterling fop. The man clearly wanted nothing from her than to prop her into a house like he would do with a clock on the shelf.

“Ellie?” Harriet, her cousin, stuck her head around the door. “May we come in? It is Victoria and me.”

“Of course,” she replied, finally sucking in a stable breath. “You are always welcome.”

At ten-and-eight, Harriet was a petite female.

Her thick, glossy plaits of chestnut hair were piled up on her head and stuck through with pins.

Her dress, a soft dove grey gown with long sleeves, proper for a wedding, flared out from under her bosom.

Victoria was stunning as always, in a peach peignoir with a matching shawl.

Two steps in, Harriet caught onto Ellie’s harried state. “Are you well, Ellie? You look grey and ill.”

“No,” she shook her head. “I am not. I don’t want this marriage, cousin. I don’t want this man. I already know he is not going to be faithful to me, nor will he ever give me the love that I want from a marriage and a real husband. I fear— I fear everything when it comes to him.”

The words had punched themselves out from her chest, and as soon as the deluge was out, the turmoil in her heart eased a little.

“Dear god,” Victoria muttered.

Distressed, Harriet reached out and held Ellie’s clammy hand. Face falling in sorrow, she said, “Have you told mother or father? Surely they will not force you to marry someone you are actively fearful about.”

“They will,” Ellie shook her head. “They will because this is the only way they could have you marry into the aristocracy. You know that. Especially after last year and the disappointment of your debut season. No one gave us a second look when they realized you were gentry, and this is the only way for you to have the happy life you deserve.”

Her cousin’s face twisted with dismay and pure horror. “But not at the expense of your life! No, Ellie, no. I’ll go and talk to mother and father and get them to put this off. I will not let you go on with this.”

“Harriet, dear—”

“Do not try and stop me.” Harriet surged from her seat and rushed out the door.

Taking her place, Victoria added, “This is not right, Ellie. You cannot do this. Is it not enough that your parents were taken from you before you were ready? And now to be married off to a man who will not value you, through no fault of your own?”

“But—” Ellie swallowed, “I am here. And that is my fault, because I’d worked myself up to run away last night, yet was too cowardly to do so…” she sighed. “Though now that I am here, I want to do it more than ever.”

“Then do it!” Victoria encouraged her. “If you want, I can find a way to hide you—”

“No,” Ellie shook her head. “You are the first place they would check. I—I would need to go somewhere else.”

Rummaging in her reticule, Victoria drew a purse thick with coins and paper notes; she stuffed it into Ellie’s hand before adding, “I will go and find your relatives and stall them as long as I can. Your groom is not here yet, you need to go. Now .”

Looking at the purse, Ellie shook her head. “I cannot possibly take this.”

“You can.” Victoria made for the door. “And you will. Now go!” Her friend bolted from the room with purpose.

Emboldened but nervous, Ellie stuck the coins into the pocket of the coat she had worn to the church and slid it on. As she turned to the door, a door slid open—behind her. She spun on her heel as a man strode into the room, his form covered by a thick cloak and his eyes shielded by a mask.

“Pardon—” she gasped. “Who are you? W-what are you doing here!”

He had her up against the wall in seconds, the dark glass of the man’s crow mask shielded her attacker’s eyes. “I am getting you out of here. You will not marry that beast of a man.”

She glared while her breath came in short bursts, “That is for me to decide, not you. Who are you! Get your hands off me you—you bounder!”

The man yanked a cloth from his pocket and pressed it to her nose. “We can debate the merits of that sentiment later. For now, we need to go.”

Ellie made the mistake of taking a large breath to scream—but the chemical hit her lungs and brain in seconds. The world went hazy around her, and she slumped—before she knew it, all was black.