by Cecilia Rene
Copyright 2020 © Cecilia Rene
All rights reserved. No part of this publication can be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means without permission in writing from the author.
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This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales or persons is entirely coincidental.
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Edited by Misti Moyer
Cover Design by Holly Perret, The Swoonies Book Covers
Formatting by Champagne Book Design
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Epilogue
Acknowledgements
About the Author
To Papa, I love you always.
The Bachelor Duke has arrived in town for the Season. I am sure there will be broken hearts from here to Bath. It is an unfortunate truth that he shall never marry.
London 1821
Henry Livingstone, the Marquess of Heartford, read the scandal sheet out loud as if he were an eager debutante.
Remington Warren, the seventh Duke of Karrington, bristled at the description of himself. He greatly disliked that infernal title. The idea of breaking the hearts of eager misses gave him a very sour disposition. He’d have to engage them to break their hearts, and he had no plans of engaging them—at all.
He sighed out of frustration, sitting straighter on the Queen Anne settee. All he wanted to do was sit in his parlor and enjoy his brandy. He did not want to discuss the possibility of marriage or the cursed title.
The title was a bitter reminder of the fact that he would never marry; what he did not understand was why was it anyone’s damn business. It was true he had lived unmarried the past ten years. He’d never met a lady he desired enough to want to be in her presence for the rest of his life, let alone a fortnight. At the age of eight and twenty, he was not in any rush to marry and, frankly, did not care if a distant relative on his father’s side inherited the cursed dukedom.
“Please stop reading that filth in my home.” Remington used his most annoyed voice.
“You have to admit it’s very entertaining!” Heartford said excitedly.
“Entertaining for you perhaps, but for me, it’s loathsome.” Remington stood and walked over to the sideboard to pour himself another glass of brandy.
The large, lavish room was a prime example of his vast wealth. While he poured his drink, his gaze landed on the imperfection on the edge of the sideboard. A shiver ran through him as he looked at the old nick. The memory of his father beating him in this very room was fresh in his mind as if it was happening. The silver-plated cane with a curved hook was his sire’s favorite. His father had cornered him beside the sideboard and swung violently causing a young Remington to fall against the furniture. The last swing was aimed for his head but missed when he dashed out of the way, officially damaging the dark wood.
For years Mother Di begged him to replace it, but he kept it as a remembrance of what a cruel bastard his father was. A reminder that he never would be like him.
Mother Di had made it her mission to redecorate every room in both their London townhome and the ancestral home in Norwich. She was determined to rid their lives of the man she had married, three months after her friend’s death. She only married him for the sake of Remington, the child she had loved as her very own.
Remington’s gaze darted across the fine furnishings as he turned to listen to his friend continue reading.
“As you all know the Bachelor Duke is in position of one of the most powerful dukedoms in England. There is no end to his family’s wealth, another attribute that any lady would find appealing in a husband. Not to mention his dashing good looks.” Heartford continued reading, ignoring his friend’s mood.
The blasted title, The Bachelor Duke, was a constant reminder of his failures to fulfill the Warren family legacy. One he would rather forget. He’d seen firsthand the effects the Karrington dukedom had on the Warren men. They were cruel and violent to their families, each son worse than the father.
Remington Warren was a man who would never inflict harm on an innocent wife and child.
“It seems as if you will be the talk of the Season … again.” Heartford looked up from his reading, a mischievous look on his boyish face. The jovial man of seven and twenty had bright green eyes and white-blond ringlets that bounced freely as if he were still a boy in nursery strings.
“How fortunate I am,” Remington growled, not looking forward to the beginning of the London Season at all.
It always began the same way, countless balls and functions where one met overeager mothers and daughters—and even fathers—desperate to unleash their unmarried debutantes on any willing gentleman.
Silly girls with air in their heads and no concept of the cruelty of marriage or the hunger of men. He would protect them from himself, even if their parents did not have the decency to do so.
It was bound to be a long Season if he was the topic of the gossip sheets so early on. And to think, it had only begun.
“Please do not read that rubbish in my home,” Remington stated in annoyance, walking back to take his seat. His long limbs stretched out in front of him as he relaxed, not caring for propriety in front of one of his closest friends since childhood.
Heartford laughed, knowing how much Remington loathed the title. “Come now, man, you knew you would be the talk of the town.”
Yes, Remington was aware that he usually was the talk of the town before, during, and after the Season. He’d also hoped that a new subject would entertain them. Obviously, his hope was for naught.
“I had rather dreamed that a new gentleman would grace the pages of the gossip sheets, but I see the obsession is still so very strong,” Remington said.
Years of being at the forefront of the gossips had not dwelled well with him. The entire ordeal, for lack of a better word, was exhausting.
“Every eligible lady dreams of becoming a duchess. Surely, even you can forgive the paper for appealing to their audience.” Heartford raised an eyebrow in challenge.
“I will do no such thing. See how forgiving you would be if it were you with such a reputation.” Remington tilted his head at Heartford.
“I shall welcome it, Karrington. After all, I’m only a lowly marquess. It would be a pleasant change to have to fight off the ladies,” Heartfo
rd teased with a roguish grin.
Glaring, Remington adjusted his waistcoat before lying back to ease his stiff muscles. The aches and pains were a familiar reminder of the strenuous activities he partook in daily. This morning’s boxing match had done nothing to calm his nerves, after listening to the gossip rag.
To avoid any manner of deprivation, Remington took great joy in several activities that would not bring scandal to his name as he had once done. Daily trots on his steed in Hyde Park, fencing every morning at his club, and boxing, all contributed to keeping both his mind and body occupied from the lack of feminine company.
“A marquess is as good as a duke in any eager mama’s opinion.” Remington tipped his glass toward his friend and grinned.
The scowl on Heartford’s usually buoyant countenance caused a bit of joy to fill Remington, especially after his friend was so pleased with reading that damned article.
“I am well aware of how my title ranks in society. I do not need a lesson in the peerage. It is not my title that makes me less appealing than you … it is the fact that you have one of the wealthiest and most powerful dukedoms. You cannot deny that makes you far more exciting than I with my boyish charm,” Heartford replied too cheerily to fight.
Remington groaned, knowing Heartford never would willingly spar with him on superficial subject matters. That was the difference between them. Where Remington was usually in a foul temper and ready for a verbal assault, Heartford had always been a happy sort of fellow.
“Do not underestimate yourself; you are also an eligible bachelor with sizable coffers. Trust me, any number of gentle ladies would find you appealing. Besides, you are more suitable for a wife than I.” Taking a sip of his brandy, he let the smooth taste soothe his rattled nerves.
“Perhaps I am a catch, but you forget my family’s greatest scandal.” Heartford’s body tensed, and he bowed his head slightly.
“Yes, your illegitimate sister, Lady Amelia Evers.” Remington shrugged his shoulders. “That particular scandal will always follow you, especially as Lady Evers is an extremely active widow.”
Heartford’s sister, the widow of the late Viscount Evers, bore a remarkable resemblance to her brother, bringing truth to the rumors that the Duke of St. Clara was not her father. The truth came to light when she was only a girl. The duke never disputed her legitimacy, keeping his wife’s affair a secret. But there was no denying her true paternity, especially since she shared the same vibrant white-blonde hair, green eyes, and long elegant Livingstone nose, as well as their tall, slender stature.
“I’ve grown to care for her, but the constant reminder of my father’s affair with her mother, and her affairs since her husband’s death, is all very unsettling.” Heartford ran his hand through his hair.
“Well, I believe she hasn’t been seen in town, so perhaps she has settled for one of her many suitors.” Remington took a sip of the dark liquor.
“I have not heard from her in some time. We did exchange missives during the winter months. It drives my mother mad that we’ve formed a friendship, but she is my only sibling, and I found I wanted to get to know her despite the scandals. I’m sure she will show for the Season. Amelia lives for it.” Heartford stretched his thin frame.
“I should’ve remained at Hemsworth Place. I do not know why I even partake in the Season, too much bloody drama.” Remington swirled the liquid in his glass, wishing he stayed at his ancestral home.
He found refuge and peace in the old home and the grounds that surrounded it. After his brief but disastrous youth, he took joy in the land and his tenants. It was one of the only things the Warren line had done correctly since King Edward VI granted them the estate for showing loyalty to the crown.
Heartford stood, chuckling as he walked to the sideboard. “If you did not attend, Mother Di would have your head.”
Bloody hell, Remington would rather had faced Napoleon at the battle of Waterloo than face Mother Di during a London Season.
Before he was able to respond, there was a brief knock on the door. Dayton, the butler, entered, followed by William Middleton, the Earl of Windchester and Remington’s cousin on his mother’s side.
“The Earl of Windchester, sir,” Dayton announced, formally bowing.
“Dayton, you’ve known me since I was a boy, surely you can say William has arrived, and he looks dashing!” Windchester laughed at the look of disdain on the butler’s wrinkled face.
“I could never, it would go against my station.” Dayton bowed, looking aghast at the mere thought of calling one of his betters by their given name.
“Do not allow him to upset you, Dayton. You know it is all in jest.” Remington laughed for the first time since that damned gossip was read.
The butler left the room, with a small smile on his old weathered face.
“What have I missed?” Windchester walked to the sideboard to pour his own glass.
“The Bachelor Duke is in town for the Season,” Heartford announced before taking his seat.
Remington shook his head as Windchester’s booming laughter echoed off the wall. He did not appreciate the damned title and his popularity.
“I know. The women prattled on incessantly the entire carriage ride from Kent. My mother-in-law wished she could’ve snatched you up for my wife last Season. I took a cat’s sleep from Dartford to London to prevent myself from jumping out of the moving carriage.” Windchester huffed as he took a seat on the sofa.
Last Season, Remington found himself pursued by an eager Lady Oakhaven and her only daughter, the honorable Josephine Stint. Viscount Oakhaven amassed a rather large fortune during the Napoleonic wars with his shipping business. When the Viscount died, he bequeathed his entire fortune to his wife, leaving her an extremely wealthy lady. Because of her privilege, the rather vicious and tenacious young woman thought she could seduce Remington into marrying her. Alas, he barely paid her any attention at all.
“A blind man could’ve seen I was never going to marry the honorable Josephine. The woman is a viper. I’m sorry I did not prevent you from marrying her.” Remington tilted his head at Windchester.
“Of course, I am aware. After all, she was caught with Melville with her skirts up and his trousers down.” Windchester’s loud voice filled the room, causing the other men to chuckle.
“If only you would have allowed me to lend you the funds, you would not have had to marry her.” Remington exhaled, wishing he could’ve stopped his friend from making such a monumental error in judgment.
Their grandfather’s estate and properties were ruined by Windchester’s father, leaving the coffers empty. When his father died, Windchester inherited a title and a dilapidated estate.
“There was nothing you could do. I decided to be seduced by a pretty face, a large dowry, and an illusion that I would be the man of my household.” He shrugged his shoulders nonchalantly. “My wife was lovely then, but now—” Windchester flexed his neck.
“She was also ruined, and possibly carrying someone else’s child.” Heartford held up his glass in salute.
“Well, we’re a fine group.” Remington stood and stretched his long limbs.
“Two bachelors and an unhappily married man. One shall never marry, I am in an impossible situation, and what are you, Heartford?” Windchester called out jovially, placing his feet up on the French table.
“I shall go wherever the wind blows. I’m open to anything with the right lady. I, for one, cannot wait for the Earl of Hempstead’s ball tomorrow.” Heartford looked positively boyish with his bouncing curls and ridiculous smile.
Remington scowled at Windchester. “If you want to act like you were raised in the wild, please do it at your own home.” He kicked the earl’s outstretched legs in a very ungentlemanly manner, causing the other man to falter slightly at the abruptness.
“He cannot; he’s ghastly afraid of his wife and her mother.” Heartford chuckled. “Now, as for the ball, I have heard a great deal about Hempstead’s wards. I’m rather excited to
get a look at them.”
“I hope you both enjoy yourselves, because I do not plan to attend at all.” Remington relaxed back in his chair.
“What about your friendship with Hempstead? Surely you should attend out of respect for him alone,” Heartford reminded him.
Remington did indeed have a friendship with Theodore St. John, the Earl of Hempstead, one formed after fighting for various acts in the House of Lords. They became fast acquaintances last year when the earl’s family was in Yorkshire. He often spoke of his daughter and niece and how afraid he was about the girls finding good matches.
Even though he had never met the two young ladies, Remington was in awe of the type of father Hempstead was. If he ever were to have children, he hoped he would be such a father and not at all like the man who had sired him.
“Besides, your mother is sure to be in attendance. If you are not where the eligible young ladies are, she will find you and pull you by your ear like she did when we were boys,” Windchester said before downing his drink. “How fares your sister, Heartford?”
“I’m not sure. I was just telling Karrington that I’ve not heard from her. I suppose I may call on her. I am her real brother, after all.” The marquess’s tone was more of a question as his brow furrowed in thought.
“Well, the blaggard that is supposed to be her brother, the current Duke of St. Clara, doesn’t give a damn about her since she’s not his father’s legitimate daughter.” The anger in Windchester’s voice caused Remington to raise a brow. “Not to mention the current Viscount Evers, her stepson, wants nothing to do with her.”
Windchester downed the remainder of his drink, then stood, preparing to leave.
“Don’t tell me you still have a fancy for her from last Season?” Remington asked, remembering that his friend often tried to converse with Heartford’s beautiful sister.
Windchester cleared his throat, his gaze shifting toward the door. “No. I just feel it is all unfair treatment.”
Remington surveyed him, his eyes tightening into slits. “Where are you off to? You’ve just arrived.”
