Page 2 of Promised to the Worst Duke in England (Disreputable Dukes of Club Damnation #2)

June 21, 1815

Tattinger House

Berkeley Square

Mayfair, London

All Alan Tattinger, seventh Duke of Averly, wanted to do was tell his Aunt Dorcas to fuck the hell off, but he was slightly afraid that she would rap his knuckles with the spine of her fan as she’d done when he was a youth.

Since she was the only surviving sister of his now dead father, he thought he ought to be kind to her. Additionally, because his own mother had moved permanently to Rome after his father died, he must humor his aunt, for he didn’t wish to cut her out of his life. But that didn’t mean her visit wasn’t the height of annoying. Thankfully, his mother was enjoying far too much being the dowager duchess with her own independent means, so at least he wasn’t bedeviled by both at the same time.

As he came back from the sideboard with a cut crystal glass of brandy in hand, he tamped down on the urge to huff in frustration. “Why are you here, Auntie?”

The older woman, no doubt approaching her mid-sixties, briefly pointed her eyes to the ceiling before pinning her gaze on him. “Can I not call on my favorite nephew without a reason?”

“First off, I am your only nephew, and secondly, you can, but I don’t trust your motives.”

“And well you shouldn’t. I’m not your father’s sister for nothing.” She chuckled but her mossy eyes held a mischievous grin. “I have known you for each one of your nine and thirty years. For thirty of those years, you have been engaged. The whole of the family has waited for you to do the responsible thing and finally marry your intended.”

Oh, God.

“Why the devil are you here, Aunt Dorcas?” he asked again, but the knots in his gut gave him a decent clue. “Just speak the truth.”

“Very well.” She nodded. “The family is tired of waiting, my boy, and we’re not getting any younger. I’ve already written to your mother in Rome. She gave her blessing.”

“For what?”, he said around clenched teeth before he took a hearty sip of brandy.

“Don’t be daft.” His aunt shook her head. “You are finally going to do right by your title, and in doing so, it means your nodcock cousin won’t have to inherit it in the event that an angry husband or rival puts a ball in your heart.” One of her eyebrows rose as if she dared him to challenge her. “So, in three days, you’ll marry Miss Mattingly and make inroads into filling your nursery. Once you beget an heir and perhaps a spare, the title will be secure, and we will all breathe easier.” She snorted. “Well, except perhaps your cousin.”

“What?” Alan choked on his next sip of brandy. After a coughing jag concluded and he wiped his streaming eyes, he shook his head. “You have planned a nuptial ceremony?”

“I did.” Her expression was this side of sly as he gawked at her. “Don’t give me that look. It’s time for you to stop hiding, Alan.”

“I’m not hiding. When have I ever consigned myself to the confines of this house?”

“Pish posh.” With a wave of her hand, she dismissed his argument. “A man can hide in more ways than that. Don’t you think that is what you’re doing by constantly giving into vices?”

“I… Well, I…”

She surged on without letting him catch up. “I realize you had a significant heartache in your past, but you have had ample time to wade through the angst.” The woman wagged a finger at him. “Life goes on, and so must you.”

Still stunned, he shook his head. “I don’t wish to marry.”

“That matters not. You are meant for more in this life than causing scandal and spending most of your time with your mistress.”

“I don’t.” Why the hell was he allowing her to dictate to him?

“Lies.” Then, she did rap his knuckles with her hand, just as he’d feared. “You do, and if you’re not, you are brooding here even though you tell me you don’t. Regardless, it’s not attractive.”

Was the woman daft? “Counterpoint, it usually is. Ask any woman who considers herself a romantic.” He huffed. “As for the vices, a man must do something to fill the time.” Drinking, horse racing, gambling, easing physical needs, yet he hadn’t done that with his mistress in a few months. Didn’t mean he hadn’t seen a courtesan a time or two to indulge in the rather darker side of his carnal play.

“You could try being responsible and respectful for once in your life.” His aunt tsked her tongue while shaking her head. “It’s well enough your father isn’t here to see what you’ve done with the family name.”

A snort issued from him at that. “Who the hell do you think taught me to indulge?”

Again, she waved his comment away. “It doesn’t matter. You’ll marry Miss Mattingly in three days, and that’s the end.” One of her eyebrows rose. “I don’t want my brother’s legacy squandered because you can do nothing more than gamble, chase skirts, and drink your life away due to a broken heart.”

What did she know about it? Hot anger rose in his chest, but he tried to temper his reaction so as not to do something horrible to his aunt. “It isn’t so much a broken heart any longer.” Certainly, though, he harbored large portions of bitterness and annoyance, for he’d proved a disappointment to everyone he’d ever met and had become hurt in the process.

And now his aunt would push him to the brink with this damned nuptial ceremony.

She clucked as if she were an outraged chicken. “Stiff upper lip, my boy. Great things are expected from you, even if you are called the worst duke in England by society.”

“I don’t care.” He narrowed his eyes. “What if I don’t wish to marry Miss Mattingly?”

“It doesn’t matter what you want. You’ve squandered the years when you could have been getting to know Miss Mattingly.” Her gaze bore into his. “The two of you remain strangers, and your mother refuses to return to England until you’re sorted. She’s washed her hands of you. Do this and put your life back into good standing with the beau monde .”

“Has it ever been? Father died six years ago. He never pestered me about this marriage, even though he brought it up each year on my birthday, but he wasn’t the paragon you apparently think he is.” A frown tugged at the corner of his lips. Was that true, or did he remember things through a different set of memories that clouded his judgment?

“That was his own failing, but the time has come for you to settle down and see what else you can do as a duke that won’t cause gossip.” His aunt sighed. “Think of your mother.”

“Why? She has never given a damn about me, same as Father.” In fact, the two had barely tolerated each other. Any time he had spent around them in his formative years or when home from university had featured heated arguments and copious amounts of vitriol until the day his father had died.

“Because she is one of the only people left in your family, and it will please her if you marry and start a family.” His aunt lowered her voice. “To not live in your father’s shadow. You might not have realized this, but your mother has wished for nothing more than for you to be a better person than he was. Though Richard was my brother, I know he had many shortcomings.”

He hadn’t known that his mother had left permanently for Rome. They didn’t correspond regularly, and when she did write him letters, he very rarely sent her one in return. Because he was naught but a bounder after all. Perhaps she was just another person he’d disappointed.

God, what is wrong with me?

If he did this to please both his aunt and his mother, the truth was that his life wouldn’t change all that much. In fact, if Miss Mattingly was of the same mind as he, perhaps they could enjoy separate lives… after she bore him a son, perhaps.

Finally, he nodded. “In three days, I’ll wed a stranger. Where?”

Surprise and happiness warred for dominance in her expression. “Here, of course. In your drawing room.”

“What time?” And why did he feel he was agreeing to his doom and downfall?

“Ten in the morning with a large celebratory breakfast to follow at my townhouse, for my circle of friends is larger than yours.” Her grin bordered on the predatory. “No doubt you’ll want to spend time with your new bride privately at some point, so you wouldn’t want guests underfoot.”

What a damned coil.

Perhaps because he was the worst duke in England, he shook his head. “Actually, I’ll leave straightaway with my new bride for my country estate in Kent. I’d rather not conduct the early days of my forced marriage in the fishbowl that London is during the summer with nothing else to do that might deflect attention from me.”

She snorted. “Like a coward.” It wasn’t a question.

As he shrugged, he narrowed his eyes. “It is my prerogative. And will force my bride and I to concentrate on each other. If I’m to be bored, she should be as well.”

Truly, he had no idea what sort of woman Miss Mattingly was and neither did he care. Their fathers had struck the deal when the chit had still been in leading strings; he’d been all of twelve if he remembered right. Coin had exchanged hands as well as property, that had been enjoyed and used over the intervening years. Then his father had died after his heart had attacked him, and her father insisted that the contracts remained unbroken.

That was fair, and with the marriage never having taken place over the years, she couldn’t move forward with her life, and her reputation was called into question.

“Take heart, my boy. Perhaps you’ll fall for her.”

“Ha!” He tossed back the remainder of his brandy and swallowed it in one gulp. Damn, but that burned the throat. “Such an event will never happen. I don’t believe in love and romance. It is nonsense at best.”

Despite that, his aunt grinned. “Well then, that only means the betting books at White’s and Brook’s or the like will be quite busy for the next few months.” She stood up from the chair she’d occupied. “If you’ll excuse me, I have much planning to attend. Unlike you, I’m looking forward to your wedding breakfast and celebration. It’s been a while since I’ve been the center of attention at a societal event.”

With a megrim looming behind his eyes, Alan waved her off. “Bah. Why can I not be one of those dukes who are left by themselves to rot in their own vices?”

She hooted with laughter. “Because you are better than that. I’ll pop in tomorrow, and for the love of God, have a tailor in for a new set of evening clothes.”

That night

Club Damnation

43 St. James Place

Mayfair, London

“Leave the bottle, Kerner,” Alan said to the footman that came through the room with various liqueurs and glasses on his silver tray.

The Duke of St. Eggleton lifted a brown eyebrow that was peppered with silver hairs. “Desperate to drown your sorrows or complaints tonight, Averly?” He had founded the Club Damnation many years ago as an alternative to the more popular clubs like White’s or Brooks. Also, the membership at Damnation wasn’t nearly as exclusive as those, and it wasn’t reserved for titled gentlemen either. Their membership was refreshingly mixed.

“Not at all. I am attempting to treat a megrim.” At least it wasn’t a full lie.

“I’ll wager excess brandy is the reason for the ache to begin with,” Eggleton said with a grin as he lifted his glass in tribute.

From another chair in their grouping, another man snickered. His light brown hair was a touch longer than was popular, and it also refused to be tamed with pomade, not that the man used such a product, but he was dressed in the first stare of fashion. Was he a duke? Not in the usual way. In fact, he carried the title of “duke” only as an honorary, and as was tradition in the club, he’d taken his name from literature.

“Out with it, Nottingham. What do you find amusing about this?” Alan wished to know. “To be honest, I’m annoyed I’m being forced into it, and quite frankly, I don’t want to.”

Eggleton shook his head. “You sound like a petulant child.”

“Agreed.” Nottingham’s grin widened. “You have had your freedom for longer than most. It’s time to pay the piper, so to speak.”

“Do shut up, Nottingham.” What the hell was the man’s story, anyway? “What do you know about being married?”

“Quite a lot, actually.” Shadows filled his eyes as he took refuge in his whiskey. He lowered his voice. “If you must know, my wife divorced me years ago with assistance from her powerful father.”

Shocked silence went around their small group as they stared at him.

Nottingham nodded. “It isn’t something I talk about because it doesn’t reflect well on either of us, and the history of it doesn’t matter now.” Except there was a profound sadness there that was gone at his next blink. “So, yes, I have some experience.”

“Ah.” Alan poured another measure of brandy into his glass. “I don’t know what to say.”

Eggleton didn’t suffer from any such hesitation. “Why the hell didn’t you tell us?”

“Why should I?” Nottingham shrugged. “It is in my past, and there is nothing to be done about it now.” That statement resounded with much defeat.

“Well, perhaps you should marry Miss Mattingly,” Alan said with bitterness in his voice. “I certainly don’t want to.” He shook his head. “There are rumors afoot that she killed a man.”

Nottingham’s eyes widened. “Did she?”

“How the hell should I know? How can she be a duchess with such a reputation?”

Eggleton scoffed. “How can you be a duke with the same?”

“Touché.” Alan frowned. “What were the circumstances? How and why did she feel the need to murder? Surely it couldn’t have been a lover; she was engaged to me.”

That set Nottingham off into a string of guffaws that made other members of the club glance their way. “You didn’t follow the same honorable path.”

Heat crept up the back of his neck. “Yes, but I’m a duke.”

“Ah, because how sacred is an engagement, hmm?” Eggleton asked with a raised eyebrow. “The point here is you can’t expect something from her that you weren’t willing to give as well. Duke or not.”

“Indeed.” Nottingham leaned forward in his chair. “I rather doubt a viscount’s daughter is a cold-blooded murderer. Perhaps she’d done it during a scuffle? I seem to remember bits and pieces of the rumors. Wasn’t their London home vandalized?”

“I have no idea. As I said, I’ve not met her, nor did I ever see her in London during any Season. It’s quite odd.” And why was that? Had she been tossed into prison somewhere? An asylum? Couldn’t he renege on the engagement contract if she was a bit insane?

Silence reigned between them while the men savored their liquor of choice.

Finally, it was Eggleton who spoke first. “On the other hand, having that sort of reputation makes her immediately more interesting than a regular miss, though, doesn’t it?”

“It doesn’t matter.” Instead of pouring another measure of brandy into his glass, Alan set it onto the tray of a passing footman. Then he took up the bottle and drank from that. “I don’t want to wed anyone. It’s nothing against her.” Well, it was a bit against her, even though he’d never met her. “After the disaster of my last romance, I’m not inclined to go through that emotional quagmire anymore.” That day would forever be imprinted on his memory, for it was the day he’d lost his fiancée as well as his sister, but not in ways anyone would think. It was a story he’d not told any of his friends, at least not in its entirety.

Eggleton held his gaze. “Do you wish for advice or merely support?”

“Honestly? I don’t know.” Alan took another swig from the bottle. He’d need at least two more bottles to render himself pissing drunk, and another two to completely black out. “This has been at the back of my mind for years while I lived without having my wings clipped. Now, my aunt has decided to upend my life in the guise of being responsible to my title, so I won’t prove an embarrassment to my father’s legacy.” He blew out a breath. “As if my father would know, and if he were still alive, he wouldn’t have cared regardless.”

Nottingham looked at him with empathy. Once more, Alan wished he knew more of what drove the man. “What about your mistress? You’ll need to postpone or quit your relationship, at least until you get an heir.”

The thought of letting Miriam go frightened him more than marrying a stranger. For the longest time, they had been more than lovers. In fact, she was the closest thing he had to a best friend. “Why should I?”

“Because a new wife won’t stand for a mistress pulling your attention away from her. And besides, what if you decide your young bride is better between the sheets than a mistress who is at least ten years older?”

As if any of them knew that for certain. “Interesting theory.” But if Miriam was suddenly not in his life, what would become of him? She’d been there any time he needed to talk or needed comfort, beyond the bedroom. “But that doesn’t erase the fact that I don’t want a wife.”

Eggleton huffed. “Buck up, Averly. You will apparently wed in three days, and that’s the end of your bachelorhood. I quite expect your aunt to drag your arse to the altar. Perhaps I should put that into the wagering book at White’s.”

Notthingham chuckled. “Not a bad idea.”

“Shut up, the both of you.” He drained the bottle then set it on a nearby small table.

“Then consider this,” Eggleton said as he rested an ankle on a knee. “Take Miss Mattingly to wife. If she is even remotely attractive, you’ll have the pleasure of bedding her at your leisure. Enjoying a good fuck every day until she falls pregnant is not a crime, especially once you’re wed.” He shrugged. “Where is the harm?”

Where indeed? It was rather more complicated than that, and since he had no idea of Miss Mattingly’s looks, it wasn’t something he could worry about in this moment. “I suppose it’s a problem for another day. Tonight, I’m going to drown myself in however much liquor I can find, fall into my bed drunk, and perhaps remain in that state for the next three days.” And if he was fortunate, spend part of that time with Miriam and hope she might have a plan to get him out of this awful coil.

I don’t want Miss Mattingly in my life in any capacity. And truth be told, I merely wish to be left alone. Title be damned.