Duke of Scandal (Moonlight Square, Book 1)

by Gaelen Foley

  Table of Contents

  Duke of Scandal (Moonlight Square, Book 1)

  CHAPTER 1. The Accidental Heiress

  CHAPTER 2. The Rogue at Home

  CHAPTER 3. Family Matters

  CHAPTER 4. Nocturne

  CHAPTER 5. Serenade for a Scoundrel

  CHAPTER 6. Patron of the Arts

  CHAPTER 7. Rearranging the Furniture

  CHAPTER 8. Just Once

  CHAPTER 9. A Losing Battle

  CHAPTER 10. Butterfly

  CHAPTER 11. Temper, Temper

  CHAPTER 12. Scandal’s Darling

  CHAPTER 13. Paterfamilias

  CHAPTER 14. Making Up Properly

  CHAPTER 15. Mt. Netherford

  EPILOGUE: As It Should Be

  Coming Soon!

  In case you missed it, Prequel Novella

  Visit other story worlds by Gaelen Foley

  About the Author

  Also by Gaelen Foley

  Copyright

  MOONLIGHT SQUARE, BOOK 1

  Duke of Scandal

  Gaelen Foley

  CHAPTER 1

  The Accidental Heiress

  “Are you sure this is really all right, dear?” Mrs. Brown asked with a fret as the ladies’ town coach rolled along.

  Miss Felicity Carvel pondered the question, but then could only sigh. Honestly, I’m not sure of anything where that rogue is concerned, she thought.

  “Perhaps you should have sent another letter,” her chaperone suggested.

  “He’s ignored the two I’ve already written,” Felicity answered with a shrug. Indeed, she suspected that her letters were, even now, sitting in a large basket of neglected correspondence on the duke’s desk.

  Naughty Netherford was too busy having fun.

  Felicity shook her head. “If the matter were not so urgent, I should not have minded waiting, but under the circumstances… Well, don’t worry, Mrs. Brown. We shan’t be long,” she assured the older lady. “And besides, we’ve taken every measure to ensure propriety.” As much as can be had when dealing with a rakehell of the first order.

  “Hmm, yes, well, I suppose it is early yet,” her chaperone conceded. “With any luck, we may escape his neighbors’ notice. These fashionable folk usually lie abed till noon. Keeping such late hours is not healthy,” she added with a disapproving frown.

  “No.” Felicity leaned toward the carriage window, peering out at the aristocratic neighborhood into which their coach now turned. “This place certainly is impressive.”

  “You’ve been to Moonlight Square before.”

  “Only at night, for balls and such, actually. Never in the daytime.”

  “Ah,” said Mrs. Brown.

  At night, Moonlight Square had seemed to her to brood beneath the stars in elegant, lordly excess, like some dark, decadent poet. Even now, the glistening spring morning full of sunshine and birdsong could not quite dispel the eerie cast of melancholy reflecting off all the smooth Portland stone facades. Perhaps its sinister history as a hanging ground explained the pall that still hung over the place despite its current terraced perfection, all classical, columned porticoes and lacy wrought iron balconies.

  In antique maps of London the area was labeled Hell’s Watch, but a decade ago, the Prince Regent’s own architect, Mr. Beau Nash, had built the magnificent garden square right overtop of the old, macabre memories of public executions and doomed rogues hanging in man-cages.

  Nowadays the ton called this place Olympus on account of all the peers who had moved in. With a duke on every blasted corner, it might as well have been the home of the gods. And yet it did seem to attract a certain type of resident…

  The wild, dark lords of Moonlight Square definitely made up their own dangerous breed. They fit right in with the haunted atmosphere that still lingered in this place, as though they were drawn to it. Each an island of gloom and brooding isolation unto himself, they drifted through Society like great, ominous thunderheads, crackling with the tension of pent-up lightning and liable to rage into a storm at any moment.

  No wonder he had moved here.

  At that moment, Felicity’s driver slowed the clip-clopping horses to a halt before the giant corner mansion of the Duke of Netherford.

  Right on cue, she felt her foolish heart begin to pound. She leaned toward the window, letting her gaze travel slowly upward over the five-storied splendor of his London mansion. She shook her head to herself.

  Lud, sometimes it was hard to believe that the scandalous seducer who dwelled in such pomp was the same wiry rascal of a boy who had gone traipsing through the countryside with her and her elder brother, Peter, growing up. Or rather, the boys had gone traipsing. She, four years younger and a mere girl—as though it were a disease—had been tolerated only so long as she could keep up.

  What happened to us all? she wondered. We used to be so close. We used to have such fun.

  Wistfulness filled her for the happy childhood that had faded like a dream. She had known such freedom then, and he had once been innocent.

  But that was long ago.

  Ah, well. It was obvious what had happened: they had all three grown up. Life had taken its toll on each of them in various ways, and now here they were. Her brother and Jason were still as thick as thieves, but Felicity had long since been left out of the equation.

  Of course, she had brought it on herself through her own youthful folly, throwing herself at her brother’s best friend that humiliating day eight years ago.

  She closed her eyes with a faint wince at the memory.

  Jason’s gentle rebuff still hurt a bit to this day, truth be told. Thankfully, however, she was long over her painfully intense infatuation with the heir to the Netherford dukedom, who had grown up on the neighboring estate.

  She supposed any girl might have fallen for him back then. He was funny and kind and took an interest in what she had to say; he was reliable and good-hearted, for all his teasing, merry roguery. It had been a concoction her young heart could not withstand. Unable to bear her secret adoration of him any longer, at the ripe old age of fifteen, she had finally confessed her devotion to the older boy.

  The then nineteen-year-old Jason had been, in a word, horrified.

  Felicity shook her head, cringing. Now twenty-three, she could not imagine what degree of everyday familiarity between them could have possibly made her imagine it was anything other than scandalous to plop herself down on his lap, drape her arms around his neck, and flirt with him the way she had, with a big, naïve, beaming smile.

  He had gone quite ashen, and too late, she had realized he was aghast at the position in which she had put him. Instead of declaring his undying love in return, as she had somehow foolishly expected, he had set her aside, stood up stiffly, and walked out the door.

  Later that evening, before she had even recovered from her shame, Peter had marched into her chamber and yelled at her for making a fool of herself, risking her reputation, and bothering his friend.

  Things between her and Jason had never been the same after that.

  She was lucky Peter had decided not to tell Mama, but he only kept it to himself because their mother was still fragile from losing Father the winter before to a fever. Peter, now man of the house, had said it would probably “kill” their mother to hear that her daughter had behaved in such a fashion.

  Ever since that day, Felicity had been very careful to comport herself with the utmost prim-and-proper rectitude at all times. No matter how bored she grew with her existence sometimes. No matter how much she might resent it.

  Ah, but back then, in her tearful innocence, she had told her brother she had honestly thought her be
loved Jason liked bold girls. Based on some rather scandalous conversations she’d overheard between the two rowdy young bucks, it was an understandable mistake. And she had so wanted Jason to love her as she loved him—for himself—who he was, not for his dukedom or his wealth or anything like that. Such things were meaningless to a lovesick girl of fifteen.

  But alas, her moment of brash forwardness had ruined everything between them. Jason had all but forgotten she existed, particularly after he had ascended to the title, taking the place of his horrid cold fish of a father.

  Felicity could only pray that perhaps by now he had forgotten the whole embarrassing debacle. Likely he had, given the sea of women these days who regularly threw themselves at the hard, polished libertine he’d become.

  Still, that was no excuse for him to ignore both of her frantic letters. It wasn’t as though she expected such an important personage as the Duke of Netherford to give her a personal response. She was quite content to deal with His Grace’s secretary.

  All she wanted was one simple piece of information: whether or not he was able to get a message to her brother for her.

  It was urgent, and since Jason could apparently not be bothered to answer his mail, she had come in person to get the details she needed from someone, anyone, on the duke’s staff.

  As her coachman walked back from the driver’s box to hand the ladies down, and her footman ran her card up to the front door, Mrs. Brown tapped Felicity on the shoulder. “My dear?”

  About to get out of the vehicle, she glanced back at the matron. “Yes, ma’am?”

  “What will you do if we see the duke?” Mrs. Brown asked, worry in her dark eyes.

  Words quite failed Felicity at the question.

  Hope the earth opens up and swallows me? But she dared not reveal any sign of her misgivings to her chaperone, who was even more prim and proper than she was.

  “That isn’t going to happen,” she finally clipped out, forcing a confident smile. He’s probably sleeping it off in a brothel somewhere across Town right now, anyway.

  With that, Felicity stepped down, smoothed her ebony skirts, gripped the handle of the black reticule draped over her arm, and walked to the rogue’s front door with her head held high.

  Her plump chaperone and skinny maid, Dorcas, who’d been riding on top of the coach, both hurried after her for moral support, and together, the three of them presented a bastion of respectability at the Duke of Scandal’s door.

  His butler had already answered and taken her card from the footman.

  “Miss Carvel?” the butler greeted her in astonishment. The sweet-faced old man had lit up when he had read her card, obviously recognizing her by her brother’s last name.

  Peter did tend to have that effect on people—bold, swashbuckling charmer that he was, and a decorated war hero, too.

  “Goodness me! Miss Carvel, do please come in, come in!” The butler beamed, opening the door wider for them. “Ladies,” he added, nodding kindly at her two attendants as they walked between the sculpted topiaries flanking the elegant entrance.

  Mounting the few front stairs, the three women filed into the duke’s opulent entrance hall.

  The butler was still staring at Felicity, rather marveling, as though she were a wonder of the world.

  Odd.

  “I am Woodcombe, Miss Carvel. How may I be of service?” he asked gravely as he shut the door behind them.

  Felicity faltered as butterflies crashed about in her stomach. She suddenly felt just a bit idiotic standing there. Despite her outward composure, she could not believe she was standing in Jason’s house. Her heart pounded with ridiculous excitement. She tried not to gawk while she glanced around at everything.

  Was this a mistake? What on earth would he think when he learned from his servants that she had popped by? Would he fancy, in his vanity, that she had come around mooning over him again?

  Worse…would he be right?

  All things considered, she despised herself for the illicit thrill she felt at this small glimpse into her former idol’s current life. His home was certainly beautiful…

  The butler raised his bushy white eyebrows, waiting for her to state her business there.

  Felicity cleared her throat, pulse thumping. “Yes, thank you, Woodcombe. You know my brother, I believe? Major Peter Carvel.”

  “Oh, yes, indeed, miss! We are all great admirers of the major round here. He is a very brave man, if one may say so. We are all most eager to see what discoveries he might bring back from his grand expedition—especially His Grace.”

  “Hmm, yes, quite. That is the reason I am here, actually. I have written two letters to His Grace over the past sennight. Perhaps you noticed them?”

  “Why, yes, miss. I put them on the master’s desk personally.”

  “Did you? Oh! Well, thank you very much. I must say, I am relieved to hear it. I was beginning to think they hadn’t arrived.” Thank goodness at least somebody here had a brain—and was sober. “Um, I don’t know if anyone’s had a chance to read them yet,” she ventured ever so politely, “and I promise I should not have disturbed you all if the matter were not so terribly urgent—”

  “No trouble at all, miss! You are always welcome here,” Woodcombe averred, his heartfelt utterance taking her and even himself off guard, it seemed, by the widening of his eyes.

  With that, the old butler sealed his mouth shut, as though he suddenly feared he’d said too much.

  She and Mrs. Brown exchanged a puzzled look before Felicity returned her gaze to the butler.

  “Ahem, right. As I was saying,” she continued, “the only reason I decided to come in person is that I do need an answer to my question.”

  “Shall I fetch Mr. Richardson for you, miss? He is His Grace’s man of affairs. He is here even now, working on the household ledgers.”

  “Oh, that would be very fine, indeed!” she exclaimed. “But perhaps, Woodcombe, you may know the answer to this yourself.”

  “I shall be happy to try, miss. What is the question?” the dear old fellow asked, tilting his head attentively.

  “I need to get a message to my brother. That is all. I-I know His Grace has him off in some jungle…or valley…or desert somewhere in the…general vicinity of the, um, Himalayas? But that does cover…quite a bit of ground, and since His Grace is the mighty, moving force behind the team’s expedition, I just wondered if the duke might have a way, that is, some special means o-of getting in touch with my brother somehow?”

  To her dismay, Felicity’s eyes suddenly welled with tears. “I’m afraid it’s a-a bit of a family emergency…”

  # # #

  Oh, bugger all. Muffled voices woke him, coming from somewhere below.

  Frowning, Jason Hawthorne, the sixth Duke of Netherford, obstinately refused to open his eyes. What was the point? He always hated this moment. Waking up.

  Back in Town…another useless day.

  But the people mumbling downstairs wouldn’t shut up, and then he became aware of the snoring harlot nearby.

  No, wait—two snoring harlots.

  God. With half a mind to blow his head off on any given day, Jason finally decided he had nothing to lose by admitting that he was awake.

  He opened his bloodshot eyes—and promptly found the ceiling fresco staring down at him, a lush, gaudy mockery. All the coy cupids and tawdry, romping demigods and amorous goddesses up there, still selling the lie that the fleshly life was one big, nonstop celebration.

  To be sure, it all might start in gaiety and wine, but he was by now intensely aware of the truth: that the end of this road only led to despair.

  Which was where he now resided.

  Self-disgust rose in his throat. Surely it was grotesque of him to lack for nothing and yet to feel so alone. He wouldn’t have believed it, but despite his best efforts to the contrary, it was beginning to look like maybe money really couldn’t buy happiness, after all.

  Who’d have bloody thought it, he mused in cutting sarca
sm. Surely he could’ve learned at least that little lesson from his rich and miserable parents.

  Having just returned from his ancestral pile in the country where they—or rather, the servants—had raised him, his parents were on his mind, though both had long since departed from this earth.

  Still irked at the voices coming from below, he heaved himself up to a sitting position on the divan where he must have passed out, and noted that his private party with the cyprians had never made it to his bedchamber last night.

  The drawing room was littered with empty bottles and articles of clothing after his little welcome-home celebration.

  Squinting against the golden morning sunlight and wondering what ungodly hour it was, he spotted his latest playthings, soon to be discarded.

  He supposed they’d have been horrified if they could have seen what they looked like right now, sprawled and snoring, their mouths hanging open.

  The room spun a little, but thirst consumed him, so Jason forced himself up from the divan. As he stood, he noticed he was still wearing the same clothes from last night, though these were unfastened. Well, the girls knew their trade.

  Whoever the hell they were.

  He did not recall actually having sex with them, though. If memory served, he’d had them both on their knees last night, taking turns at pleasuring him with their filthy red mouths, and then he’d enjoyed the show of watching them pleasure each other.

  Same old.

  He stepped over one prostrate, scantily clad form and then the other as he headed to the door to bellow for Woodcombe to bring him a pitcher of spring water, a glass of juice, and maybe a loaded pistol.

  But on second thought, not knowing who the voices in the hall belonged to, perhaps a wee hint of discretion was in order.

  On the way to the closed door of the drawing room, he glimpsed his own reflection in the pier glass on the wall and scoffed.

  You look like hell, mate.

  Indeed, he looked as debauched as he felt—tousled hair, eyes nearly as red as a demon’s, body stripped half-naked by his latest pair of whores. He buttoned the placket of his trousers and then gripped the handle of the door, opening it a crack.