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This book is dedicated to the fans of the series.
Your love and boundless enthusiasm for the
Lords of Vice have meant the world to me.
It’s been an amazing journey!
Contents
Title Page
Copyright Notice
Dedication
Epigraph
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
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Also by Alexandra Hawkins
Praise for the Lords of Vice novels
About the Author
Copyright
Vice is perhaps a desire to learn everything.
—Honoré de Balzac
Chapter One
April 1, 1826
“Am I boring you, Frost?”
Vincent Henry Bishop, the Earl of Chillingsworth, who many knew simply as Frost, allowed his hand to slide appreciatively over the contour of his current bed companion’s naked waist and hips. Widowed two years ago—if there was any validity to the rumors—the thirty-five-year-old Lady Gittens was on the hunt for a new husband.
If true, the dear lady had deplorable taste in men if she considered him a candidate for marriage.
“Did I seem bored five minutes ago?” His fingers separated as Frost cupped one of the fleshy cheeks of her buttocks.
He and the delectable widow had spent the better part of three hours in the lady’s bed. His companion was enthusiastic and inventive. The cooling sweat on his flesh and his pounding heart were proof that he had been fully engaged in their love play.
Maryann was reclining on her side with her buttocks teasingly close to his still-rigid cock. Frost sensed her smile.
“Not at all. Five minutes ago I managed to command all of your attention.”
He brushed aside her dark blond hair that was sticking to her damp flesh. “When I’m with you, I need all of my wits,” he murmured, kissing her on the bare shoulder.
“Then why have you checked your watch three times in the past hour?”
Although he had tried to be discreet, her plaintive tone implied it was a considerable offense. “And that is my sin?”
Women. They fretted over the oddest things.
“The hour is growing late, my sweet. As much as I enjoy our encounters, I have other obligations.”
“Another woman?”
Frost sighed. He and Maryann had been lovers for three weeks, and she was already displaying signs of possessiveness. Even though he had made it clear that she was not his only lover, the lovely widow was pressing him to set aside his other women. She thought she could dictate the terms of their little arrangement, and for a time he had been willing to indulge her whims.
Unfortunately, spoiled creatures tended to become tedious over time.
“Yes.” She stiffened in his casual embrace. He hid his smile in her hair. “My sister. I’ve been commanded to make an appearance this evening.”
Maryann made a soft scoffing sound. “No one commands you, my lord.”
He playfully swatted her on the buttock. She cried out in surprise.
“It is good of you to notice.” There was a slight warning in his tone, but his companion was oblivious. “However, I make a point of listening to Regan. She has a nasty temper when provoked.”
Maryann shifted in his embrace until her back was pressed against the soft mattress. She gazed up at him with limpid blue eyes. “Your sister is not the only one who gets cross when she doesn’t get her way.”
Frost gazed down at her body. She was a beautiful woman. White, unblemished skin that still held a ruddy blush from their lovemaking, full breasts with erect nipples, and generous hips that bore the marks of his hands and teeth. The thatch of hair between her legs glistened with the evidence of their lust. “You should have no grievances with me. You’ve had your way for half the afternoon, wench,” he said teasingly.
“Only because it pleased you to do so,” she said with a pout.
“And that is why we have gotten along famously.” He lightly ruffled the hair between her legs and kissed her on the lips. “You understand me all too well.”
With some regret, he began to rise. “I should go.”
Something akin to panic flashed across Maryann’s flushed features. She reached for his wrist to halt his escape. “There is no rush. It is early still, my love. Tarry awhile longer.”
The temptress parted her thighs as she guided his hand to her womanly folds. His cock stirred with approval as his fingers tested the proof of her desire. Frost hesitated. Sensing her victory, she arched her hips, the action allowing his fingers to deepen their penetration.
The three hours they had spent tangled in the sheets had passed quickly. If he had not promised his sister that he would join her and their friends for dinner, he would have stayed until his body was fully sated.
Frost grimaced. “I have no time for this.”
He withdrew from Maryann.
Her eyes snapped open with frustration. “How can you possibly stop now?” she demanded.
“With much difficulty and regret.” He covered her hand with his and gently peeled her fingers from his cock. “Be reasonable, my sweet. I do not want to start something that will take us hours to finish.”
“Then give me an hour more,” she pleaded, crawling after him when he stood. “Just one. I promise you will be grateful you granted me this boon.”
Without warning, Maryann dropped to her knees and took him into her mouth. She suckled the head of his arousal with enough pressure to make him groan with pleasure and discomfort. The lady possessed an exquisite mouth.
His fingers brushed her shoulders. “Maryann.” He drawled her name in a manner that was an equal balance of praise and curse.
It only took him a second to come to a decision.
“Stop.”
Stunned by his order, Maryann released him and lifted her bewildered gaze to meet his. Frost pounced. Hauling her to her feet, he spun her around and bent her over until her hand found purchase on the mattress.
She laughed with delight. “Yes, please, my lord.”
Frost was not seeking her permission. He used his foot to widen her stance as his hand curled around the length of his hard flesh. “Is this what you want?”
His vigorous thrust filled her and she gasped at the swift invasion.
“Yes. Hard and fast. Let’s not waste a minute of the hour!”
Seizing her roughly by the hips, Frost set a pace that would have made a seasoned prostitute at a brothel wince. However, Maryann moaned in pleasure as he buried himself into her sheath over and over.
Frost suspected he would be late for Regan’s gathering, but his sis
ter would forgive him. His gaze admired the curve of Maryann’s spine as he reminded her who was in control of their relationship.
He intended to pleasure her for the hour he had promised, and then he would walk out of her life without a single regret.
Chapter Two
“Lord Chillingsworth,” Lord and Lady Pashley’s butler announced as Frost entered the dining room three and a half hours after he had first joined Lady Gittens in her bed.
“Good evening, all,” Frost said to the twelve people sitting at the long rectangular table. Lord Pashley, or Dare, who also happened to be his brother-in-law, was seated at the farthest end. All six gentlemen were as familiar to him as his own reflection in the mirror. His friendships with Dare, Hunter, Saint, Sin, Reign, and Vane were formed when they were still boys. As for the ladies, with the exception of Regan, who was his sister, claiming any kind of familiarity with Grace, Catherine, Juliana, Sophia, and Isabel real or just fanciful wishing on his part would likely end with his jaw being broken, since the ladies were happily married.
Over the past six years, his dearest friends had fallen in love and married. As often was the case, the demise of their little band of merry bachelors had begun with Sin.
The Marquess of Sinclair or Sin, as he was often called, was so besotted with Juliana, no one except Frost had foreseen the consequences of what his friend had started. One by one, his friends had sacrificed their freedom for the marriage bed.
He was surrounded by couples, Frost noted with silent amusement, and he, the lone bachelor of their little group. “Ah, I see it is just family this evening. Good, I am famished.”
He bent down to kiss his sister’s cheek.
“You are late,” Regan said, tilting her cheek to accept her brother’s kiss, which was part affection and part apology for his tardiness. “If you were so famished, you should have arrived before the first course was served.”
“My apologies, brat. Something came up unexpectedly.”
The six gentlemen seated at the table smirked and chuckled at his response. There was a good reason why the ton referred to the seven of them as the Lords of Vice. His friends could hazard a guess on how he had spent his afternoon.
Frost had little doubt the ladies had guessed as well.
After all, his little sister had been practically raised by him and his friends. Too often, she had glimpsed compromising situations that had made her old beyond her years.
Regan gave him a knowing glance. “Indeed.” She grasped his left ear before he could escape, pulling his head down so she could kiss him on the cheek. “You have been missed, brother mine.”
Frost briefly shut his eyes as he savored his sister’s caress, and then he pulled away. Regan was the only woman who had a claim on his heart. She was proof that he was not the coldhearted bastard he had often been accused of being by angry mistresses and half the ton.
He acknowledged his brother-in-law with a nod. Dare had been his friend long before the gent had set his sights on Frost’s little sister. Believing Regan deserved someone better than a Lord of Vice for a husband, Frost had tried to discourage the relationship. He had even sent his sister away to Miss Swann’s Academy for Young Ladies in the hope that time and distance would extinguish Regan’s affection for the handsome scoundrel. Alas, his efforts to keep the young lovers apart had failed, but he was not disappointed with the results. Not only had he gained a brother, but Dare had proven to be an excellent husband and father.
“My apologies for disrupting your conversation,” he prompted his host so Regan could not question him further on why he was late for their dinner party. “What did I interrupt?”
Dare was not fooled by his friend’s apology or feigned interest. He likely deduced that anything Frost had to say was best discussed away from the ladies. Shrugging, the man said, “We were discussing your nephew’s new game of repeating every word he hears.”
“And how is the lad?” Frost leaned back in the chair while the footman placed fine china and silver cutlery on the table in front of him. Now eighteen months old, Bishop Wells Mordare held the lesser title of Viscount Wrenne. He was a beautiful boy with his father’s good looks, his mother’s mouth, and his uncle’s charm. It would be a potent combination as young Bishop grew older.
Dare shook his head and sighed. “Bishop overheard your sister and the housekeeper discussing a slight mishap in the kitchen.” At Frost’s raised eyebrow, he explained further. “It was nothing. Some crockery was knocked over and one of the maids cut her hand as she picked up the shards.”
“How tragic,” he drawled, earning him an amused look from Saint’s wife, Catherine.
A bowl of what looked like milk soup was served. Perhaps goat’s milk? With a delicate shudder, he signaled the footman to remove it. Regan displayed her displeasure with a slight pout. Thankfully, she resisted the urge to scold him. Boiled mackerel with a fennel and mint sauce swiftly replaced the unwanted soup.
Dare took a sip of his wine. “Well, a few hours later, Lady Netherley called on Regan. Of course, she insisted on seeing Bishop when he awoke from his nap.”
“Naturally,” Frost said, laying his linen napkin across his lap. “The lad has been charming ladies since he was pulled from his mother’s womb.”
Vane paled at the casual mention of the birthing process. His wife, Isabel, was in the seventh month of her pregnancy, and this was their first child. It mattered little to his friend that many of the ladies seated at the table had given birth to healthy infants. Vane fretted over his lady. He blamed himself for Isabel’s delicate condition, and rightly so. Unfortunately for his sweet-natured wife, she would have an overbearing husband on her hands until she delivered Vanewright’s heir.
“Bishop adores Lady Netherley. She doesn’t understand most of his chatter, but she enjoys her brief visits with him.” Dare winked at Vane, who happened to be the elderly marchioness’s son. “She is anxious for her new grandchild to be born.”
Isabel placed her hand on her rounded belly. “She isn’t the only one,” she said, sounding tired.
Dare and Regan shared a rueful smile. “When Regan settled Bishop on Lady Netherley’s lap, he said rather clearly, ‘Mama bwoke cocks.’”
Sin burst out laughing. Dare, Reign, Saint, Vane, and Hunter joined him, while the wives fought back smiles. Regan’s eyes watered as she tried not to laugh. It was not the first time his friends had heard the tale, but the humor of it had not grown stale in the retelling.
“I was dreadfully embarrassed,” Regan confessed, using her napkin to dab at the moisture in her eyes as she laughed. “Especially when Lady Netherley asked Bishop to repeat his words because her ears were weary that day.”
Frost smirked at his sister. “I’ll wager you whisked our boy out of the drawing room before he could utter a sound.”
Regan closed her eyes and groaned. “And you would be correct, dear brother.” She gave Saint and Catherine an impish grin. “See what you have to look forward to?”
The implication was obvious.
The Marchioness of Sainthill was carrying Saint’s child.
The announcement came as a slight surprise to Frost. Although it was not common knowledge, Catherine’s upbringing was vastly different from those of the other ladies at the table. There was also a little history between him and Catherine, but their tryst was so brief it was barely worth mentioning. On one occasion, Saint had privately admitted that Catherine was concerned she might be incapable of having children when she had not conceived a child during the first year of their marriage. Thankfully, their good news proved that her worries were unfounded.
“I say, congratulations are in order,” Frost said, raising his glass of wine to the couple. “A toast to Catherine and the health of her unborn child. May the son possess the temperament of his sire!”
Saint grinned, looking ridiculously pleased with himself. “Frost, only you could make a toast sound like a bloody curse.”
“To Catherine and Saint,” his companion
s echoed.
* * *
The next two hours passed by in a leisurely albeit noisy fashion. Instead of the gentlemen adjourning to Dare’s library for brandy and port, they had joined the ladies in the drawing room. It wasn’t long before Bishop’s nurse appeared at the threshold with the little charmer rubbing the sleep from his eyes. Regan gathered her son in her arms and strode over to Dare. His friend’s gaze lit up with joy and love as Bishop reached out for his father.
It was a good thing he hadn’t quietly murdered Dare when the gent slipped Regan out of the house one evening and married her without Frost’s consent. Regan’s happiness meant more to him than his pride, though he would never admit it.
Soon his nephew was joined by Sin and Juliana’s son and Reign and Sophia’s little girl. High childish shrieks of delight and dismay were heard over the din of the adult conversations. To add a little civility, Juliana offered to play one of her recently published musical compositions on the pianoforte.
If the marchioness hoped that music might calm the little beasts, her efforts were in vain.
Frost brought his fist to his mouth to conceal his laugher as the lady’s son zigzagged around the room with a small replica of a tall ship clutched in his hands. Even more entertaining were Sin’s futile attempts to catch the lad.
“Did you ever think you’d ever witness the day that Sin was bested by a child?” Saint asked as he approached Frost. In his hands, he had two glasses of brandy. Thankfully, he was willing to share.
“Never.” Frost accepted the glass and took a sip. “Though to be honest, Sin’s expertise lay in chasing skirts rather than little boys. Do you know what you are getting into?”
Frost was referring to the announcement of Catherine’s pregnancy and Saint’s impending fatherhood. The brilliant smile on his friend’s face was more eloquent than words.
“Does anyone?” Saint shrugged. “If I can persuade Catherine, I’d like to fill the nursery.”
Frost chuckled, shaking his head in disbelief. There was a time when he would have wagered that no lady could have claimed the marquess’s heart. “You might want to pace yourself, gent.”
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