Chapter Two

So far as duels went, this one had been almost pleasant.

Gregory Carter, Duke of Ashworth, returned the smoking pistol to his second with a smile.

“I feel we’ve settled our differences amicably,” he said.

“Ashworth.” Percy Randall, his second, best friend, and semi-constant drinking companion, glared as he put the pistol away. “You shot at each other.”

“We both missed! Deliberately.” Gregory looked back at Winston Falkes, his opponent. The dewy young man handed over his own gun and continued to glower in Gregory’s general direction. “At least, I missed deliberately.”

“You’re lucky Falkes is a terrible shot.” Percy groaned as he climbed into his saddle. Gregory did the same. They had to hurry; dueling was a gentleman’s activity, but it was still bloody illegal. The respective parties cantered off as the dawn rose over Hampstead Heath.

“The whole thing was madness, anyway.” Gregory’s horse trotted alongside Percy’s at a leisurely pace. “I never touched the man’s wife.”

“Then why did you agree to the duel?”

“I felt rather sorry for the poor sod.” Gregory had returned to town for the Season a mere month ago. Already, the married ladies of the ton had set their collective cap at him, a rather racy cap with salacious notes tucked into the brim. Mrs. Falkes had been particularly aggressive, trying to seduce him behind a potted fern at the Duchess of Fenwick’s gala. “His wife loathes him. Who knows, this dueling episode might make him more attractive to her.”

“You’re a true philanthropist,” Percy drawled.

“What I am,” Gregory said, “is tired. I’m two-and-thirty, and every married woman from Oxford Street to Hyde Park keeps trying to slip into my bed.”

“Poor bastard.” Percy chuckled. “My heart bleeds for you.”

“Point is I’m well past the age for affairs. It’s time to settle down.”

“Marriage?” Percy asked.

Gregory shuddered. “I hate it when you joke in that obscene way.”

“Come on, Ashworth. You’re quite serious about never taking a duchess?”

“The second kindest thing I could do to any woman is not to marry her,” he replied. “The first is unmentionable in the presence of innocent horses.”

He was serious, though. His entire life, Gregory had been surrounded by matrimonial shipwrecks. Everywhere he looked in London, he saw women stranded on deserted islands with fashionable addresses, desperate to be rescued from their boorish husbands. Gregory knew that at least some of those unions had been love matches, and look how those had turned out. Then, of course, he only had to remember his own parents to put him off the idea of marriage entirely. “No, the best thing to do now is mellow into eventual middle age and attend brothels in peace.”

He wished the ton’s matrons would take the hint. Though really, Gregory only had himself to blame for this sordid state of affairs. Over much of the past ten years, he’d solidified his reputation as London’s most devastating rake. There was said to be a whole society, the Carter Club, which met for tea twice annually to recall their fondest memories and most pleasurable positions.

But as his notoriety had grown, so had the number of embittered husbands wanting their honor satisfied. Today’s duel marked the second in four weeks.

“You’re going to get yourself killed,” Percy said, as if reading Gregory’s mind. His friend was uncomfortably good at that. “Or end up on trial for murder.”

“I’m sure the Carter Club has a betting pool on when precisely that’ll happen,” Gregory mused. “I wonder if I could lay my own wager. Though I’d be dead, which would make collecting the winnings difficult…”

“Must everything be a joke with you?” Percy appeared irritable.

“I only joke about serious things, Perce. You know that.”

Percy sighed. “All I’ll say is that marriage to a respectable lady is the surest way to save yourself from being dead in a field or at the end of a noose.”

“I could also leave town and never return. Travel to foreign parts where no one knows my sterling reputation.” Gregory considered for a moment. “The Canadian wilderness, perhaps. Though I’m told the bears are territorial.”

“I don’t know why I bother with you,” Percy grumbled.

“Yes. It does suggest something rather questionable about your character.” Gregory winked at his friend.

They said their goodbyes, agreeing to meet at their club later in the week, and Gregory finally turned for home. He arrived at his address in Grosvenor Square and entered Carter House to find his butler, Peele, waiting for him with a silver tray of calling cards.

“Already? It’s barely midmorning.” Gregory picked up one after the other. Mrs. Edmund Travers, Lady Cosgrove, the dowager Duchess of Gateshend. Half of these had been sprayed with scent. One woman had even planted a rouged kiss on the back of her card. At least none had left behind a lacy garter. Again.

“There was also a Mrs. Worthington, Your Grace.” Peele gave a hefty sigh. “And a, er, Mr. Worthington arrived not ten minutes after her.”

When married couples called on him in sequence, it was never a good sign.

“Perhaps His Grace might reconsider attending the ball this evening?” Peele furrowed his graying brow. He’d always been protective of Gregory, ever since the duke was a small boy in an empty house.

“Don’t worry, Peele. The Weatherfords are old friends. I’ll make a brief appearance before climbing over the garden wall and running away.”

“An elegant solution, Your Grace.” Peele bowed as Gregory went up the stairs, loosening his collar as he did. He hadn’t been to bed last night. Not going to bed before dawn was something of a habit with him, though preparing for a duel was not the most enjoyable way to spend an evening. Perhaps he should be a bit more careful.

Ironic, wasn’t it? Neither of his recent duels of honor had been merited. Gregory was living every man’s dream: more women than he could handle were chasing him, desperate for a single night in his arms, yet he didn’t want any of them. Since his return to England, he hadn’t engaged in a single dalliance. Perhaps he really had grown tired, or older, or both. The wives of London, however, were anything but tired or discouraged. Mrs. Falkes had been so desperate for his attentions she’d nearly pulled them both into the punch bowl. Gregory couldn’t blame the ladies, not really. After all, the tales of his prowess were warranted. Though he’d only tied a mistress up that one time, and now everyone yearned for the same treatment. He shook his head. That would teach him to experiment.

On the second floor landing, he paused beneath the family portrait. Gregory always thought or spoke the word family with a small amount of irony.

The three people in the painting looked as if they couldn’t wait to be away from one another. His father stood behind his mother, who was seated upon a chair with a small dog in her lap. Off to the side, like an afterthought, there was a small boy with dark hair and gray eyes. Gregory vividly remembered standing for that portrait. It was one of the handful of times he had been in the same room with both his parents. As soon as the portrait artist dismissed them, his father had called for a carriage and his mother had gone back upstairs, reminding Gregory’s governess that she had no wish to be disturbed for any reason to do with the boy.

The boy.

Well, the boy was quite the man now, and he was determined never to make the same mistake his parents had. Gregory didn’t avoid marriage purely for his own sake; he could never saddle any woman with the burden of a lifelong commitment to him. He could never be that cruel. If the thrill of affairs and romantic conquests had diminished, perhaps the time had come to retire to his estate at Lynton Park or resume his global travels. The life of a dukely recluse could suit him well.

But before all that, there was this ball. Gregory shambled toward his chamber, rubbing his eyes. First he’d get an hour or two of sleep, then he’d break his fast and prepare for tonight. He must look presentable, after all. Even exhausted rakes had appearances to maintain.