With that, she turned toward the door and moved outside. It was only Hugh’s horse waiting there, and she walked up to the beast and rested her head on his flank.
“I’ve ruined everything, Wren,” she whispered, and the horse whinnied as if he agreed.
She pulled away and stared up at the stars in the cold sky above. Once upon a time she’d wished on those stars, for frivolous things and silly things and deeper things like love. But now she had to put those wishes away. Now she had to be more careful. More aware. More cynical.
The world was a dangerous place and she could never fall prey to a rogue again. She could never, ever again let herself be so seduced by a false promise of love or adventure. It was staid responsibility for her for the rest of her days.
As empty as that sounded, it was what she deserved in the end.
Chapter 1
July 1815
Morgan Banfield smelled his surroundings before he could manage to find the gumption to look at them. Piss, shit, vomit, fear…it all permeated the air around him and his stomach turned at the pungent odor of decay. The sounds pierced his throbbing head next. Screaming in the distance. A constant scream, not intermittent. Banging closer up, but not so close as to make him feel endangered.
He had a feeling he knew exactly where he was, but he didn’t want to look. If he didn’t look, perhaps he could just ignore the truth. That was a fun way to live. He was good at it.
He opened one eye and looked around. Cold stone walls. A flat, straw stuffed mattress on the floor that was stained with God knew what. And, of course, the steel bars that blocked his or any other man’s escape from this hellhole.
Prison. Newgate, he guessed, based on the vague recollection of where he had been last night. Donville Masquerade, at first, looking for someplace to warm his cock. Once that had been dispatched with, he played cards. But he’d been sober there. At first.
Why had he started drinking?
It rushed back to him and he winced as he recalled who he’d seen at the game. A former friend he’d wronged. Gareth Covington. He’d been thrown off his game and he’d lost over and over. That was when he’d started drinking. Drank enough that he was asked to leave because he was causing a scene.
Morgan shook his head. He was very good at causing a scene. He’d moved on, he thought, to a different hell. One that wasn’t quite so discerning as Donville. That was where things got very blurry. More cards, he thought. More drink. Shouting, he thought. Had Covington followed him?
He must have. Morgan vaguely remembered that angry face in the crowd. Had it escalated? It must have. He worked his jaw gently and winced. He’d gotten punched, it seemed. He lifted a hand to tap his face and found his left eye was also sore when he grazed it.
When he drank and gambled, it was a bad combination. Had he continued to lose? Probably. He usually did in that state. And if he couldn’t pay…if that had led to a fight…well, depending on the man he’d swindled, that was a very good way to end up in gaol.
He flopped onto his back and dropped his arm over his eyes with a groan. “Shit.”
“Indeed. Shit. You’re certainly in it now,” came a voice from the other side of the bars. It was a voice Morgan knew well. He didn’t want to look at the man who owned it. And yet there was not really a choice.
He lowered his arm to find his half-brother, Robert Smithton, the Duke of Roseford, staring at him from outside the cell. He was dressed impeccably, just as he always was, not a hair on his head out of place. His expression was unreadable, though Morgan could tell he was irritated by the way his arms were folded tight across his chest.
“You look like shit, too,” Roseford added, and there was a hint of a smile that tilted one side of his lips.
Morgan slowly sat up and tried not to react to the searing pain that burned through his skull and into every joint in his body. God’s teeth, how much had he drunk?
“How did you know?” Morgan grunted. His mouth was so dry it was difficult to speak. “I didn’t even know I was here.”
That elicited a chuckle from Roseford. It was well known that Robert had lived a wild life, himself, for a very long time. Not recently, of course. Not since his marriage. “Do you actually need to guess?”
Morgan let out a long sigh. “Selina?” he asked.
Roseford inclined his head in the affirmative. Morgan slowly got up, hating the roil of his stomach as he steadied himself on the wall. Selina Oliver was another half-sibling shared by the two. They all had the same bastard of a father, along with God knew how many others. And while his relationship with Roseford was…strained and uncomfortable at times, his bond with Selina was much stronger. Perhaps because they were so much alike.
“I suppose she was there,” he admitted.
“Yes, at Donville Masquerade,” Roseford mused with a troubled expression. “Our sister is as wild as you are. Well, almost. But she isn’t my problem…yet. You are.”
Morgan pursed his lips and dropped his gaze to the floor. “No I’m not,” he grumbled, wishing there wasn’t so much revealing bitterness in his tone.
He had only come to know Roseford recently. They’d been kept apart as boys. Their father, the last duke, kept his by-blows far from his “real” son. Payments had come to keep everyone silent, rather than safe. Ten years ago, when his father died, Morgan had felt a genuine terror that those payments, which supported his education and his mother’s small comforts, would dry up.
And yet they hadn’t. Robert had continued to pay to support his father’s bastards. He’d even managed to get doors opened for them in ways the previous Roseford hadn’t tried. Morgan both appreciated his brother for making the effort…and resented him for wielding a power over him that Morgan couldn’t make equal.
“We’re only half-blood, Roseford,” he muttered. “I’m not your problem.”
“Yet here we are,” Roseford said.
As he said it, a guard approached. At first Morgan thought he might be there to escort his brother from the premises, but instead the giant oaf of a man pulled a ring of keys from a chain around his waist. After a few seconds of fumbling, he opened the cell door and swung it wide, motioning Morgan from the unpleasant accommodations.
Morgan blinked at the offer of freedom and then glanced at his brother. “What?”
“Your debts are paid,” the guard answered first, then flashed a rotten-toothed smile toward Roseford. “With our thanks for the extra, Your Grace.”
Robert sniffed his response and turned, motioning to Morgan to follow. “Come along, Morgan.”
Morgan looked around, but there seemed to be nothing he’d left behind in the nasty cell. He staggered after Robert, his stomach still roiling and his brain still a bit foggy from whatever had felled him last night. Normally he was capable of holding his liquor, so it must have been far more of a party than he recalled.
They weaved their way through the corridors, past men in cells in varying conditions. There were no words said until they exited the building at last and stood in the fresher air of the city. A cold rain drizzled down around them, and Morgan pulled his jacket closer and hoped he hadn’t lost his fine great coat in his foggy night of sin.
Roseford’s carriage came along at last. Roseford motioned him in, then said something to his driver before he joined Morgan. They were off in a flash and Roseford sat, silently staring at Morgan as they rode along.
If his brother had railed at him, Morgan would have preferred it. But when he sat silently, arms folded, gaze held firmly on Morgan’s, it made him feel worse than he already did. Like he needed to defend himself.
“You were just as bad as me,” he said at last.
Robert tilted his head back and let out a full, loud belly laugh. Morgan couldn’t help but stare. It made his brother look younger, more wicked. He could see the man he would have liked to run the hells with, rather than the stern duke who held the purse strings and scolded.
“I was that,” Roseford said at last. “I never ended up in
Newgate, mind you…but close. I have changed, though.”
Morgan shrugged. Everyone knew that story, even if he and Roseford weren’t that close. “Oh yes. Your great love.”
Roseford’s eyes narrowed at his dismissive tone. “Yes. Katherine changed me. Or made me want to change myself, which is better. And you may scoff, but I would wish you the same luck that you could find someone like her.”
“Hm,” Morgan said, staring out the window into the distance. “Not interested.”
Robert arched a brow. “You don’t seem interested in much.”
Morgan didn’t respond as the carriage pulled through the gate of Robert’s London estate and came to a stop on the circular drive. Robert cleared his throat as the carriage door opened. “Come in.”
Morgan shifted. He was in no mood to be clucked over and lectured to by a man who had been known as a libertine just three years prior. He wanted to go home, take a bath and try to remember what exactly had put him in the state he’d woken in.
“No,” he said. “I—”
Robert pivoted back and stuck his head into the carriage again. His dark eyes were lit up with emotion now. Frustration. Anger. Fear. Fear for him? Morgan couldn’t believe that. They weren’t that close. Why would Roseford care what happened to him, beyond how it affected his own reputation?
“It wasn’t a fucking question, Morgan,” Robert snapped. “Get your arse out of my carriage and come into my parlor. Now.”
For a moment, Morgan thought to refuse. He’d had one fight in the last twenty-four hours, why not two? He had a feeling Robert could scrap, no matter how fine his waistcoat was. But in the end, he couldn’t stomach it. He trudged from the carriage and followed his brother into the beautiful house for the dressing down he knew he deserved.
“Good morning, Jenner,” Robert said, bright as could be.
Jenner inclined his head. “Welcome back, Your Grace. Mr. Banfield, I see you have no coat.”
Morgan glared at his impassive face. “No coat, no gloves, no hat. I’m every bit the mess I seem to be.”
“Very good, sir,” Jenner said, without inflection or reaction. “Your Grace, Her Grace and Miss Oliver are in the blue parlor.”
“Excellent. Will you have a bath prepared for my brother?” Robert asked.
Morgan huffed out a breath. “I don’t need you to get a bath for me, Roseford. I can go home and do it myself.”
Roseford ignored him and strode up the hall, leaving Morgan no choice but to follow. He heard feminine voices in the distance. Musical laughter. As they entered the room, he saw Roseford’s wife, Katherine, sitting with their sister, Selina. Their heads were close together and they were giggling like schoolgirls.
“In the face?” Katherine was saying.
“Where else was I to do it?” Selina asked as she took a sip of her tea. “I wasn’t trying to maim him, just put him in his place.”
“I’m certain you put any man in his place without even trying,” Roseford said as he swept into the room. The women got up and he crossed to press a brief kiss to Selina’s cheek. Then he caught Katherine’s hand and brought it to his lips. “I’m back.”
“So I see,” Katherine said, placing her fingers to her husband’s cheek.
Morgan scowled. If his brother had brought him here in order to show him the joys of the bond he had with his wife, he was wasting everyone’s time. Not that Morgan didn’t like Katherine. He did like her, enormously. No one could deny her kindness and welcoming demeanor, nor question her utter beauty. She had come through a great deal, it was rumored, but she didn’t seem embittered by it all. Morgan sometimes wondered how she did it.
“I found him,” Robert said, motioning to Morgan, who still stood in the doorway.
Selina moved to him with a soft smile. She caught his hand and squeezed briefly. “Good morning. You look terrible and you smell worse.”
“I hear I have you to thank for sending the nursemaid to collect me,” Morgan said with a frown for her, even as he squeezed her hand in return.
I’m sorry, she mouthed, though she looked anything but as she flitted away to the sideboard, where she poured him coffee without asking how he took it. Unlike his relationship with Robert, his bond with Selina had been established years ago and had always been strong. They were so very alike.
Katherine approached him next. She flitted her gaze over him and her concern was written more gently on her face. “You weren’t injured? You’re well?”
Blood heated Morgan’s cheeks at her question, asked with such sincerity. That connection she created with her kindness wasn’t one he’d sought very often. So he flashed her a smile that pretended away any negative response to her query. “I’m right as rain, Your Grace.”
Her lips pressed together and she looked unconvinced, but she nodded regardless. “So you say. I’m just glad you’re here.”
She seemed honest in that response even as she stepped away. She moved to Robert’s side and touched his arm, lifting her gaze to him and creating a world of unspoken communication. Robert’s expression relaxed and he smiled at her with pure adoration.
Then his gaze turned to Morgan and all the softness bled away. “I’m concerned about you,” he said.
Morgan rolled his eyes and strode over to the sideboard. “I need a bloody drink.”
“That’s what started all this, isn’t it?” Robert snapped, and Morgan felt him watching him as he dug under the sideboard for a bottle of whisky.
He came up with it in his hand and slammed it on the tabletop before he pivoted to face his brother. “I know I wasn’t at my best,” he barked. “I’m not a fool, no matter what you think of me. But I don’t need a father, Roseford. And if I did, it wouldn’t be you.”
Roseford flinched, as did Selina at Katherine’s side, and for a moment they all stood in the wake of Morgan’s imprudent retort. One he wished he could take back as he saw its impact. Too much, too far.
The story of his life.
Robert drew in a long, shaky breath and Morgan waited to be kicked out of his parlor once and for all. Instead, his brother ran a hand over his face as if he were very tired. Then he said, “I would never try to be that to you,” Robert said softly. “I’m too young, for one.”
Morgan smiled slightly at the attempt at the joke. It cleared the room of some of its tension. “You’re seven years older than me. Thirty-three is ancient.”
Robert shook his head. Seemed he wasn’t willing to play away the serious issues at hand as easily as it had originally seemed. He glanced at Selina and Katherine, almost with uncertainty.
“Morgan, when you started having trouble last year, when I got wind of…of the problems you’d caused. Of the consequences you were about to face, I never judged you, did I?” Roseford asked.
Morgan flinched. That was how the two of them had come to meet face to face. He’d gotten into some trouble with that same friend who had been at the club last night. Roseford had been the only place to turn in order to avoid…well, to avoid a dire outcome, indeed.
“You didn’t,” Morgan agreed through clenched teeth. “Though it appears you intend to do so now.”
To his surprise, Roseford’s expression softened. “No,” he said quietly, holding Morgan’s gaze. “I would never. Not only because I have no leg to stand on when it comes to behaving badly.”
At the fireplace, Katherine let out a tiny snort and Robert shot her a playful glare.
“But also,” he continued, “Because I have no idea of what would make you feel you have to behave in this manner. I know you’ve lost in your life—”
Morgan held up a hand. “I will not discuss that with you.”
Robert inclined his head, though Morgan thought he saw a flash of hurt in his eyes before he hid it. “Very well. Perhaps one day you’ll trust me with some part of yourself that isn’t the act you present to the world. Or not. That’s your choice. What isn’t your choice is how your behavior affects those around you.”
“Like you,
” Morgan sneered.
Roseford shrugged. “Yes. Me and our family name—”
“It’s not my family name,” Morgan interrupted.
“Morgan,” Selina said softly from behind them. When he glared at her with the same ferocity he had gifted their brother, she shook her head. “Glare daggers at me all you like, but Robert is not the same as our father. He doesn’t deserve such censure.”
Morgan pursed his lips. “Perhaps not,” he conceded with great effort.
Robert sighed. “I can take the censure, I assure you. My greater concern is that you are wrecking yourself and you have been for some time. Do you deny you are running through your money?”
Morgan folded his arms. “Checking up on me, I see.”
“What choice do you give me?” Robert threw up his hands. “Yes, the account is one I can look in on and I choose to do so. It is obvious you need a settling influence, Morgan. To find your place in the world by one way or another.”
Morgan stared at him, confused by the true worry of Roseford. He didn’t have many people left in his life that truly gave a damn about him. He didn’t let most people close enough to care or to damage. He knew better than to be such a fool.
So he turned, as he always did, to frivolity to mask the darker emotions, to put up the wall he required. “Are you arranging a marriage for me?”
Selina snorted, and even Katherine laughed as she stepped up next to Robert and placed a hand on his forearm a second time. “I think your brother has something else in mind, Morgan.”
“Have you ever met my friend Hugh Margolis, the Duke of Brighthollow?”
Morgan shifted at the question. His brother had a group of friends, everyone knew about them and their close bond. Everyone said they were like brothers…and Morgan hated that the description stung him. He didn’t want to be brothers with Roseford. So why the hell did he care if Robert found other men to care about in that way?
“I think I’ve met him in passing,” Morgan said with a shrug. “Stuffy fellow, yes?”
The Love of a Libertine: The Duke’s Bastards Book 1 Page 2
