Her Wanton White: Dark Duke’s Legacy

by Tammy Andresen

  Her Wanton White

  Dark Duke’s Legacy

  Tammy Andresen

  Swift Romance Publishing

  Copyright © 2021 by Tammy Andresen

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Created with Vellum

  Contents

  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

  Epilogue

  Her Wild White

  About the Author

  Other Titles by Tammy

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  www.tammyandresen.com

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  Hugs!

  Chapter One

  April 1815, Dover, England…

  * * *

  Lord Justice White stood on the outskirts of a fucking ball, a crush of people crowding the large room as conversation and laughter filled the air. Justice participated in neither. Instead, he lamented the fates that had brought him to this exact moment.

  Justice hated society and nearly everyone in it. As the third son of a duke, he’d grown up around the opulence of England’s elite. He’d seen all the glitter and a fair bit of the gold that surrounded the upper crust and its participants. And he’d decided a long time ago that the shiny veneer only hid dirty darkness.

  Give him a back alley and a group of criminals any day.

  At least in that set, a man knew he was in the midst of trouble.

  Here at this ball, stuffed into clothes that caged his ability to move, everyone smiling and pretending to be happy, who could tell friend from foe?

  And there were enemies here. That’s the reason he’d come after years of quitting his former life with the ton. Because, though he hated society, Justice loved a good fight, and one was brewing.

  He glanced over to his two older brothers, each with a woman on his arm. Ben, the Duke of Whitehaven, was newly engaged while Dez, Lord Destrian White, was well on his way.

  He quirked a grin at that. The larger they were or however the saying went. His brothers had fallen hard.

  Fools, he thought as his grin spread wider.

  Perhaps it was the death of their father, the former duke and still a major asshole, that had convinced his brothers to finally succumb to the lure of marriage. Justice couldn’t be certain. All he knew was that he would never be that man. He’d never be standing on the edge of a party with a woman he was about to wed perched on his arm.

  It wasn’t just that his childhood had been a sham. Like society, the Duke of Whitehaven had looked picture perfect. He was rich and held a position power and prestige, surpassed by only the prince regent. But underneath he’d been ugly and mean, preferring to beat his children rather than hug them.

  Justice had hated his father with every ounce of his being, but once he’d made the decision to leave that life, leave his family, he’d been…happier.

  The rookeries of London were where he’d made a real home amongst fighters and brawlers. He’d found not only a profession as a bareknuckle boxer, but a place to live. A place where he’d been happy. Reasonably so. He’d found a way to channel his anger.

  Not that the dark parts of London didn’t have their pitfalls.

  But all the same, that life had felt real to him and not just some illusion. Men entered the ring with the intent of hitting. It was known. Unlike his father who masked his abuse as love.

  Still, when his brother Destrian had come to Justice and their brother Sayden with a proposition for a business, he’d been open-minded.

  As long as he didn’t need to join the ranks of gentlemen, he was game.

  Dez had set his two brothers up to manufacture gunpowder. Justice might have preferred it if they’d actually been breaking the law, but at least the job involved a solid element of danger.

  Not that Justice did much of the actual work. His end was more worksite safety. Meaning he made sure no workers stole their product and no outsiders sabotaged them. All in all, it was work he was good at. Enjoyed. It didn’t have quite the same satisfaction as being a fighter, but his face thanked him daily for remaining intact.

  Justice still did a fair bit of brawling. He found the act relieved the tension always brewing under the surface.

  Which led him back to tonight. And why he’d voluntarily attended this hellish soiree.

  Dez used his small fleet of ships to bring the gunpowder to the front lines of the war. But one of those ships had been destroyed in a fire a fortnight ago and as Dez investigated, it became apparent that his second in command, William Parricide, had set the blaze.

  Worse yet, Parricide had done so because he was using Dez’s ship to import illegal wine from France. And he was in league with French spies.

  As the man in charge of security, Parricide posed a major threat to their business. And while Sayden took a great many risks in manufacturing, and Dez in shipping, it was time for Justice to do right and see this threat eliminated.

  But Justice would have inserted himself in the fight regardless of his obligations to his brothers. It’s what he did best.

  He looked around the ballroom, his arms crossed over his chest.

  A treaty was being negotiated by the powers of Europe to try and put a stop to the war, and a Russian delegate had come to England as part of those talks.

  In fact, he was here tonight.

  And while Dez had no proof, he worried that the delegate was in danger from the same men who’d blown up their ship. Parricide had a vested interest in the war’s continuation.

  Which meant there might be trouble tonight.

  And that was just what Justice liked.

  He drew in a breath as he scanned the room again. Up on the balcony, the delegate stood with a general. If Justice wasn’t mistaken, a third man he knew to be the Viscount of Smithfield.

  He did a sweep of the other guests around them, seeing no one of interest.

  And then someone caught his eye.

  Justice drew in a long slow gulp of air as his body tightened in response. He didn’t know if she was suspicious or just so stunning, he couldn’t look away. Her strawberry blonde hair was piled atop her head, the glints of red catching in the candlelight. Her gown had a shimmer of silver that sparkled in the dim light and cinched her tiny waist. And the way she moved. Others walked but she glided up the stairs, her gloved hand skimming along the rail.

  He stared, watching the effortless sway of her hips, the lush curve of her ass as she ascended the stairs and started toward the delegate, the viscount, and the general.

  The crowd seemed to part for her and in moments she reached the three men he’d been watching. She greeted both the delegate and the general, then slipped her hand into the viscount’s arm. Her husband?

  It shouldn’t matter.

  But Justice took a few steps forward as he continued to stare. Was she perhaps a young wife married to a much older man? One who might be interested in the delights a certain fighter might be able to provide? Finding out would also mean meeting the Russian delegate. Which might be key in keeping him safe and catching Parricide.

  He took three more
steps toward the stairs.

  He started up the grand staircase, growing more enamored with his plan with each step. A tinkle of laughter filtered down to dance along his ear and down the skin of neck. Was it her? He glanced up again to check when he stopped halfway up the curved stairs.

  He’d been so entranced by the woman that he missed the man trailing behind her. Average height and medium brown hair, he looked as unremarkable as a man could. And yet, Justice knew for a fact, he was far from nondescript.

  Justice’s gut clenched. William Parricide. A criminal. A likely spy. And a possible murderer.

  And as Parricide approached the woman Justice had been eyeing, she let go of the viscount’s arm.

  Parricide reached for her hand and brought it to his lips.

  Justice let out a growl.

  How was she connected to Parricide?

  There was only one way to find out. Cracking his neck, he finished the climb up the stairs.

  Miss Violet Wright attempted to suppress the shiver of revulsion as Mr. Erwin Macklemeyer brought her hand to his lips.

  Next to her, her father beamed at her, his smile partially hidden by his large grey mustache. Resting his left arm on his stomach, he reached out his other hand to shake with the Macklemeyer. “Mr. Macklemeyer. Good of you to come.”

  “Glad to be here,” he replied, his gaze sweeping down Violet’s body and then back to her face. “It’s always a pleasure to spend time with your family, my lord.”

  Her father chuckled. “And you, son.” He did not use the term just as an endearment. Mr. Macklemeyer had come courting and her father had graciously accepted his overtures on behalf of his daughter.

  Because she didn’t have a choice.

  Violet had objected at first.

  It wasn’t Mr. Macklemeyer’s position as a merchant or even his rather generic appearance she didn’t like. He had the sort of face that blended into a crowd. Brown hair, brown eyes, regular nose, narrow shoulders, and average height. But she could have accepted all of that considering their position.

  Genteel poverty.

  Her uncle, a general and currently in command at the Dover Castle shoring up England’s home defenses, had kept her father from being sent to debtor’s prison. She might not have known this detail, it wasn’t usual for a lady or a daughter to be so aware of the family finances, but when she’d tried to reject Mr. Macklemeyer’s suit, her father had insisted.

  He’d informed Violet that she had no dowry and no prospects. Her clothing would be furnished by her uncle for the express purpose of finding a husband in the very near future, a rich one who would pay for the privilege and relieve her uncle of the burden of supporting them.

  Her father had said a great deal more. Something about bad luck and how he’d hate for her to have to find a position to support herself.

  Every word had been aimed at making one thing clear…. Denying Mr. Macklemeyer’s attentions would have dire consequences.

  And so she stood with her gloved hand under his thin lips and waited, with what she hoped was a reasonably genuine smile, for the exchange to be over.

  “Come, son. Allow me to introduce you to our distinguished friend. You know my brother, of course, General Wright.”

  Her uncle gave a silent nod. He’d not said a word, but Violet got the impression he liked Mr. Macklemeyer about as much as she did. Perhaps it was the way he always straightened when Macklemeyer was near or how a frown line creased his forehead at the mention of Macklemeyer’s name.

  “General,” Macklemeyer replied, letting go of her hand. She attempted not to sigh in relief.

  “And this is Russian diplomat, Vice-Chancellor Alexander Ivanovich.”

  Macklemeyer gave a stiff bow as the other man dipped his head. “A pleasure, Mr. Macklemeyer. Viscount Smithfield tells me you are in the business of shipping.”

  Macklemeyer smiled. “Yes. That’s right.”

  “Though what he ships, precisely, he keeps to himself, but we know he’s quite successful.” Her father chuckled as though he’d made a rather funny jest and not spoken a truth that was mildly alarming.

  “You give me too much credit,” Macklemeyer said with an easy smile. “I’ve explained. I own a shipping company for hire. It means I have no regular product but that I help businessmen in need. It’s both rewarding and lucrative.”

  Her father laughed again, as though that were the most amusing thing he’d ever heard. Violet dipped her head, attempting to hide her frown.

  But a voice behind her had her head snapping up once again. “What products have you shipped recently, Mr. Macklemeyer?”

  Who was that? The voice was deep, not loud, but somehow it carried. Slowly, Violet turned, wondering what the man with such a voice might look like. She wasn’t disappointed.

  In fact, it took every ounce of self-control not to gasp aloud.

  He was tall. That was what she noted first. And broad. His shoulders were so wide she felt like she had to swivel her head to take them both in. His chest was broad and even in his finery, she could tell he carried a great deal of muscle.

  Her eyes drifted up to the thick cords of his neck, the hard square line of his jaw, his angular cheeks and then lower to his full lips. They were the only thing soft about him.

  His dark eyes pierced into her very soul as their gazes met and she sucked in a small breath then because it felt as though he’d actually touched her.

  “Do I know you?” Macklemeyer said next to her, his fingers wrapping about her elbow. Tightly. She looked down at his hand even as he pulled her closer. She resisted the urge to jerk her arm from his grasp.

  “Come now.” The tall, dark, and dangerously handsome man gave Macklemeyer a hard stare. “We’re old friends.” Then he looked to her father, giving a bow. “My lord, I don’t believe we’re acquainted. I am Lord Justice, here tonight with my brother, the Duke of Whitehaven.”

  “Ahh,” her father said. “I was sorry to hear of your father’s death, but glad to see you and your brothers rejoining society. I am most pleased to meet you.”

  Lord Justice? What an unusual name for such a…compelling man.

  “And I you,” Lord Justice answered.

  Introductions were again made but after the men were introduced, her father turned to her. “And this is my daughter, Miss Wright.”

  “A pleasure,” he murmured, bending low over her hand. Even through her glove, she could feel the roughness of his palm against the silk.

  The strangest tingling started up her arm as she gave a nod in return. “The pleasure is all mine.”

  He let go, straightening, but he continued to hold her gaze.

  “How does your brother fare in his new duties as duke?” her uncle asked.

  “Very well,” Justice replied, finally looking away. Violet’s shoulders slumped in either relief or disappointment. She couldn’t be certain.

  “I hear he is newly engaged,” her father interjected.

  “That’s right. We’re thrilled,” Justice said, his eyes looking to the ceiling. Was that an eyeroll? “My other brother, Lord White, will wed soon enough as well.”

  “Is that so?” her father asked, smoothing his white hair back from his forehead. She knew the gesture. He was plotting... “You boys have all decided to marry, have you?”

  Justice only smiled, his gaze travelling from Violet to Macklemeyer and back to her. Whenever his gaze touched her, her skin heated in the strangest way. “Do I give the impression of a man intent upon marriage?”

  “You’re here, aren’t you? Why else would you rejoin society?” her uncle said, stepping up onto her other side. He deliberately took her hand, and tucked it into his elbow, pulling her from Macklemeyer’s side and forcing him to release his grip on her elbow.

  “Fair point, General.” He gave another sparkling smile.

  “You should have dinner with us,” her father interjected. “We’d be delighted to aid you in rejoining society.”

  “Most kind,” he said with quirk o
f his brow. “But I am here tonight in support of my brothers.”

  “You’re in business together.” Her father moved closer, tweaking his mustache. “I’ve heard of your success.”

  Violet’s brows lifted. Was her father still considering other options for her hand? She assessed Lord Justice, her pulse fluttering at the idea of being married to such a man.

  “My brother and I have been shipping war supplies but with talk of peace…we’ll have to shift our focus I imagine.” And then he looked at Macklemeyer, his jaw tightening.

  Vice-Chancellor Ivanovich nodded. “Smart. From what I hear talks are going exceedingly well, and if Bonaparte can be defeated Europe will know peace for the first time in fifteen years.”

  Lord Justice smiled and a chill shivered up Violet’s spine. “Peace. What a lovely idea.”

  “If you and Lord White are in shipping,” her uncle said as he looked over her head to her soon-to-be fiancé, “doesn’t it stand to reason that you and Macklemeyer are acquainted?”

  “Quite right.” Macklemeyer frowned. “I’d forgotten.”

  Even Violet’s father paused at that. “Really? Hard to mistake a White. You’re all so…large.”

  Justice’s smile only grew. “True. The height is a White trait. And so is a large personality. We can be quite difficult to forget.”

  “My lord,” Macklemeyer interrupted with another bland expression aimed over Violet’s head at her father. “I apologize for my interruption, but I do believe we have business to discuss.”

  Her father tweaked his mustache as his eyes twinkled. “We do, indeed.”

  Violet’s own pulse started beating wildly again but this time it didn’t thrum with excitement but thick dread. The business Macklemeyer referred to her was certainly her hand. The urge to run curled her toes in her dancing slippers.