Addicted to a Rascal Duke: A Steamy Historical Regency Romance Novel

by Scarlett Osborne

  “I’m afraid there won’t be another gentleman,” Sophia said, falling into the chaise longue behind her and settling into the seat. “My father has made it very clear that Lord Montrose is to be my husband. It is the dynastic plan, and I am powerless to stop it.”

  At that moment, Sophia’s mother entered the room.

  “Oh, good. You’re here. I just heard the most exciting news from Lady Sanders. Apparently, a certain Earl has been talking you up at the club, and her husband told her the word marriage was mentioned.”

  Sophia’s eyes briefly flitted to Erin’s, and they shared a conspiratorial eye roll before Erin departed to get the tea.

  Sophia listened to her mother chatter excitedly about Lord Montrose and weddings and the idea of being connected to the Montroses, but her mind was elsewhere.

  Specifically, it was lingering on the fact that she was now going to be forced to marry a liar. Even worse, this was not Lord Montrose’s only downfall.

  Now that Sophia was honest with herself, she would admit that his constant self-referential discussions had rather begun to bore her. Indeed, he seemed able only to talk of himself, asking her few questions about herself. Sophia had thought him so enchanting, his voice so wonderful to listen to, but looking back, now she could see that his words were not enthralling. They were, rather, boring and filled with hubris.

  Men of the ton were often described as arrogant, especially those in financial positions such as the Earl. However, Sophia did not like to listen to rumors. After all, there were plenty of falsehoods floating around about herself that she hoped others paid no mind. It would seem, though, that in this case, the rumors were true. Those who said that Lord Montrose was an arrogant and insufferable fop were exactly correct.

  How could I have been so blind? Sophia went back over all their meetings this past month and winced at the irreverence which he had shown her.

  Talking only of himself, staring openly at her bosom, making the occasional lascivious remark. Sophia had thought all of this so romantic, so reminiscent of her favorite heroes, but now she could see it was the exact opposite. Heroes cared about others, cared about decorum, and what was right and wrong. Lord Montrose did not care about anything but himself and his wardrobe.

  A wardrobe that was a bit too dandy for my liking, if I’m now being honest with myself.

  She had thought his magenta waistcoat a tad strange that first day, but his hair and eyes and general swagger had been so distracting she had not countenanced it. Now, however, she looked back and nearly laughed out loud, interrupting her mother, as she thought of his inane outfits and the stories he told her about each and every one. He was the only gentleman she had ever met who bragged about his tailor, who he supposedly brought over from his Grand Tour of Europe and was “the most skilled man in the sartorial arts that you will ever find.”

  Indeed, was by far his favorite subject, and Sophia had been forced to listen to him wax poetic on the importance of a fine waistcoat just the previous week. He had spent no less than thirty minutes explaining in extreme detail the appropriate materials to line said garment. How had she endured such ridiculousness without comment?!

  Again, how have I been so blind?

  Infatuation, she reminded herself. That emotion that had ruined many a lady’s life, whether by leading her astray or tricking her into falling for someone who was not her equal. And Sophia knew, now, that Lord Montrose was certainly not her equal. He was, in fact, far below her.

  But Sophia also knew that, not perhaps this week, but certainly soon, Lord Montrose would ask for her hand. Her mother was telling her as much, and her father had hinted that he and Lord Montrose had discussions at the club concerning “aligning our interests more closely.” If her parents were to be trusted, and in this above all other matters they were, then Sophia would soon find herself Sophia, the Countess of Montrose. She suddenly felt ill.

  “Sophia? Did you hear me?” her mother asked, and Sophia looked up to find her mother staring at her expectantly.

  “No, Mama, I’m sorry. I was thinking about—”

  “The Earl. Of course you were. I am sure you can think of little else besides him. I know when I met your father I was nearly constantly dreaming of our life together. He was the most wonderful gentleman I had ever met.”

  Sophia thought her mother’s expectations of gentlemen must be very low indeed for her father to deserve such a proclamation. But then again, her mother never read novels, or plays, or any literature other than the gossip pages. She did not know the kind of love women and men were capable of, if they left things to fate and chance rather than society and expectations.

  Thinking about her literary heroes made Sophia slump deeper into the chaise. How could she return to Persuasion knowing that fate would never be hers? She would never be cherished like Willoughby cherished Anne. She would never find a hero who prized both brains and beauty like Darcy. She would never experience the magic of a kiss like the ones between the characters in her favorite novels. Kissing Lord Montrose, she was quite certain now, would be like kissing a dead fish. Odious, disgusting, and unnatural.

  And yet, there was no other option, and therefore literature would lose its appeal. Lord Montrose was her destiny, and so she could no longer read poems or sink into the tale of Emma and Mr. Knightly and imagine her future as a wife in love. Her story would never mirror theirs. Hers would not be a sweeping love story, but rather a perfunctory tidbit in the newspaper. “Lady Sophia Appleton marries David, Earl of Montrose, this April the ___.”

  “Together they own over half of the unentailed property in England, making them the wealthiest couple the ton has seen in some time.” No romance, no confessions of undying love. Just life as the ton dictated it. As her father dictated it. Sophia didn’t have a say at all. She was not the author of her own story. Indeed, she never had been. It had been foolish of her to ever think she could craft her own happy ending, not when family and the ton were there to do it for her.

  Wesley Fifett, son of the seventh Duke of Bersard and heir to the family title and fortune, was spending the afternoon doing his level best to ignore his lot in life.

  It was just after three in the afternoon and he was striding through his family’s large estate. It was a beautiful spring day, the sun set in a cloudless sky, allowing the full force of the sunlight to shine down through the trees above Wesley’s head. The branches had just this week burst into splendiferous color. At Wesley’s side was his trusty companion, Phillip, a foxhound who had no talent for the occupation that gave him his name, and was therefore freed of his duties and allowed to follow Wesley around as he pleased. And it pleased him to do so every moment that he was not asleep by the hearth in Wesley’s study.

  Wesley much preferred Phillip’s company to most people’s. Phillip asked for nothing but affection and scratches behind the ear, two things that Wesley was more than happy to give. Phillip did not treat him different because of his station, did not demand that he act a certain way, do certain things, marry a certain lady. Indeed, Wesley was quite certain that Phillip would be perfectly content for their life to continue in the same vein as it had done these past three years, forever more.

  Phillip was the most uncomplicated thing about Wesley’s life. He loved Wesley not because he was heir to a dukedom, but rather because he was kind and always had treats in his pockets. It was a blissfully simple relationship for them both.

  Because Wesley so doted on the dog, Phillip could usually be found at his side. At that very moment, however, Phillip spied the river up ahead, and bounded away from Wesley to crash down the riverbed and into the water. Some dogs were reluctant to interact with large bodies of water, but not Phillip. He delighted in it, finding infinite enjoyment in the various bodies of water dotting the Bersard estate.

  Wesley smiled as he watched the dog splash around the river, his face lit up with a canine smile. Phillip stuck his small muzzle into the water with gusto, but pulled it out suddenly and began barking ferocio
usly at what Wesley assumed must be an errant fish swimming by.

  He envied Phillip his insouciance. The life of a dog was so much easier than that of a human, or at least, a human in Wesley’s position. Being the only son and living heir of the Duke of Bersard was a heavy load to bear.

  Don’t think of it now, he reminded himself. This walk was, after all, supposed to take his mind off all the business lingering in the house behind him. He had come outside to escape from the papers piling up on the desk in his study, the physician flitting in and out of his father’s bedroom.

  A sudden tweeting sound came from above, and Wesley tilted his head back and looked up into the interlocking tree branches shading him from the sun. He could just make out the small feet of a bird as it flew from branch to branch, hopping happily upward toward the tops of the trees where the sun bled through.

  Wesley watched the bird for a little while, its tweeting mixing with Phillip’s happy barks, and serving to calm him down. He closed his eyes and took a deep, steadying breath. The air was clean and fresh, and he let it fill his lungs, expanding his chest and relishing in the feel of his soft shirt against his chest unconstrained by a waistcoat. Wesley detested waistcoats. Were he not the son of a duke, and thereby bound by the laws of sartorial propriety dictated by the ton, he would prefer to spend his days in loose breeches and a loose linen shirt that allowed him to move freely.

  However, such an outfit was unbecoming of a gentleman of his station, as his valet so often reminded him. There were expectations of Wesley as the heir to the dukedom of Bersard, one of England’s oldest titles, and they pertained not only to fashion.

  Wesley came from a long line of gentlemen who treated their titles like they were gifts bestowed from the heavens. His own father was positively referential about his duties, putting them above absolutely everything else, including his family. He was devoted to the Bersard properties and investments. He also never missed a session of Parliament—or at least, he hadn’t until now. His duties were his life.

  Wesley knew he would be expected to do the same, and so he prayed fervently every day that the dukedom did not fall to him for some time. At first, the prayers were almost whimsy. Wesley’s father had seemed so hale and hearty. Wesley had assumed it would be at least a decade until the weight of the dukedom fell to him. But then, this past year, his father’s heart had begun to give him trouble.

  The physician said it was the stress his father put on himself. Over the last year, Wesley had watched his father crumble from a formidable gentleman of tall, strong stature to a stooped, wrinkled figure who looked like a light wind would send him toppling to the ground.

  The Duke of Bersard now looked far older than his five-and-fifty years and, when he was not bedridden, was forced to potter about the house with a cane to provide him the balance his body could no longer find. He was withering before Wesley’s very eyes, looking every day closer to death.

  Wesley’s mother was in denial about the whole thing; she insisted that with the right tonics and poultices, his father would make a full recovery. But the physician had pulled Wesley aside just that morning and told him in no uncertain terms that his father would be dead by the autumn. There was nothing left to do but ensure that he was comfortable.

  This shocking news was in fact what had driven Wesley out of the house and into the grounds. He needed the fresh air, he needed the solitude of a walk with Phillip by his side to clear his mind. He needed all this, because when he walked back inside later that afternoon, he would have to relay the news to his mother, and he could only imagine the devastation it would bring to her. She was devoted to his father, the picture of the perfect duchess.

  Her title defined her. Soon she would be dowager, nudged out of her role as matriarch and made to wait until such time as Wesley could provide her with grandchildren to occupy her for her remaining years. It was almost too much for him to bear.

  Phillip came bounding back up onto the grass a moment later, distracting Wesley from further depressing musings. They continued their walk about the grounds, returning through the back entrance of the estate just as a cold wind started to blow through. The sun was slowly being enveloped by clouds, and Wesley could tell that rain was coming. Whether he liked it or not, the time for walking was over.

  He walked directly into the room off from the kitchen, which was used for cleaning and shining boots. The old, muddied pair of Hessians he was wearing were covered with bits of wet grass and the odd smudge of dirt. He had taken both off and set them on the table in the middle of the room when his father’s steward came rushing into the rom.

  Mr. Patrick Berkeley was a kind man with a nervous disposition. He was never still, indeed, he seemed to be in perpetual motion. If he was not fast walking throughout the house, he was pacing, and if he was not pacing, he was wringing his hands, playing with the nose of his glasses, or any half dozen other physical tics.

  It tipped Wesley off immediately, then, when Berkeley came to a complete stop at the doorway to the room.

  “My Lord,” he said, and Wesley looked up to find Berkeley staring down at him nervously. His eyes were staring boldly into Wesley’s with intensity, wholly unlike the steward. Berkeley’s eyes normally reflected his kind, affable nature. His gaze never failed to put Wesley at ease. However, just now his stare was bereft of its calming, steadying slant. He looked almost worried. Berkeley never looked worried.

  Something must be wrong.

  Further supporting this idea was that Berkeley was standing perfectly still. He was normally a man of a fidgeting nature, always moving or twitching. Now, however, his hands were hanging by his sides, his fingers perfectly immobile. There was no foot tapping, no shifting from one leg to the other. He was practically as motionless as a corpse.

  A corpse. The words repeated in Wesley’s mind, and he knew, before the steward said anything, the reason for his coming to find him.

  “He’s dead, isn’t he?” Wesley asked, shocked at the steadiness of his voice.

  “I am afraid so,” Berkeley said, nodding his head. “I think it best if you follow me.”

  Wesley held his hand out and waited for Phillip to rise from his supine position on the floor, and then they both followed Berkeley out of the room. It was only when they were halfway up the stairs leading to the upper bedchambers that Wesley realized he was barefoot. He had the sudden urge to laugh at this oversight, but then he thought of his father, and his reaction to the state of his son’s undress.

  And then Wesley realized that he would never again receive censure, praise, or anything else from his father. All he would receive was a title, and that was the very last thing he wanted from the man.

  Chapter 4

  “Oh, Papa, do I really have to? I went to Marcum’s yesterday and the new serials were in. I’d much rather spend the day in the library than at your solicitor’s, if you don’t mind,” Sophia said to her father over breakfast.

  Her father was looking down at the newspaper and did not immediately respond to her pleas.

  “Papa? Did you hear me?” she asked, struggling to keep the annoyance out of her voice. It was just like her father to ignore her protestations, but she would not have it. She was going to be suffering for the rest of her life thanks to him and his choice of suitor, the least he could do was relieve her of one day of mundane errands. It was only fair.

  And yet her father still did not respond, looking far too interested in whatever it was he was reading. Sophia had just begun to contemplate throwing her teacup at the wall just to get his attention when finally, his eyes lifted off the inked pages and rose to meet hers.

  “I’m sorry, my dear. I was just reading the death announcement for the Duke of Bersard. Seems the poor fellow died last week, and now his son will take over the title. His health deteriorated greatly this last year, but I had hoped he had more time. He was such a good peer, always so stable in his moods, so logical in his opinions. I am not entirely certain that his son will fill his shoes,” her father t
old her as he lifted his cup of tea to his lips.

  “Oh. How very sad,” Sophia said. In truth, she did not know the late duke, but it seemed the response her father was looking for judging by the succinct nod he gave her in response.

  “Indeed. I only hope his son is able to adequately assume the role. He is so much more reserved than his father. Quiet, and I suspect like you that he dwells too much in the world of fantasy,” he told her.

  Sophia held back a snort at the comparison.

  “I have only met the new Duke of Bersard a few times, but he does seem smart. An Etonian, and a Cambridge scholar as well, if I am not mistaken. Hopefully his intelligence, combined with the pressure, will be enough to ensure he does well. Perhaps I will schedule to meet with him, to see what aid he needs.”

  “Mm,” Sophia said, poking at the coddled eggs on her plate. She couldn’t remember ever meeting the duke’s son, but then, she spent a good portion of balls hugging the walls with the rest of the wallflowers, trying in vain to converse with them. She was usually ignored—she knew that many of the ladies found her a bluestocking, and were therefore loath to associate themselves with her.