by Eva Devon
Augusta occasionally suffered pangs of guilt. She wished her sisters to be happy, but at the same time she did not believe that marriage was the way to happiness.
There had to be another way, some independent source.
"I truly believe that whoever marries the Duke of Blacktower shall be happy," Phillipa said firmly, picking up a pit of sewing from the box beside her chair.
"You are far too young to know any better," pointed out Augusta, wondering how her sister could be so optimistic, "to believe such a thing, and you read too many novels."
"You read just as many," Phillipa said, tugging firmly on an azure thread.
"Yes, but I don't let it affect my view of the world.” Augusta plunked down her teacup. “I simply let it, well, take me away for a bit, but I don't believe that my life is going to work out splendidly like it does in all the ends of those marvelous novels."
"Why can't it work out splendidly?" asked Philippa, her brow furrowing.
"Have you paid no attention to life?” Augusta asked, picking up the news sheet. “Do you not read the gossip columns? Look at what happens to so many ladies."
Phillip sighed. “Augusta, You need not be so glum."
How she wished her father could be the same father that he'd been when she'd been small before it had all been ruined. Once, she remembered him being so kind, so loving, so helpful. That had all fallen away when she'd been but a little girl. And ever since, she'd been doing everything that she possibly could to return him to that state.
She left him letters.
She chastised him.
She used any argument that she could.
Every answer had simply been for him to retire to his study with his brandy and his books. It was most upsetting, and it seemed like that there was nothing to be done. So she had taken matters into her own hands to make things as bearable as possible, but it seemed that she could no longer keep the fraying pattern of their lives even.
Not if debt collectors were about to start rapping on their door.
Somehow, she was going to have to do something, anything, to make it possible for them to survive the ton, which was absolutely an unforgiving place.
"Let us go," she said, doing her best not to let her worry show, even as her insides tightened. "It is time to get ready."
Augusta shoved aside her account book, knowing that she could do no more work upon it tonight or change the truth of the numbers within.
There was little more to say.
She gave a last glance to the headline upon the news sheet, her eyes locked upon Blacktower’s name.
Now, if only she had been born a man.
If only she had been born the Duke of Blacktower.
No, no. She would never wish to be him. He was far too foul a fellow. She could not abide him, and she would not even wish to inhabit his body. Beautiful though it was. From their first brief meeting years ago, she'd known what an absolute bounder he was, and she did not wish to be near him at all.
Not for anything. Not even a fortune.
Chapter 2
It was an accepted fact that marriage-minded mamas harried dukes wherever they went. Not even a stare that could cut a Hussar in his tracks would stop them. This was something that the Duke of Blacktower had come to acknowledge and live with since he’d reached his majority and achieved the title some years ago.
Wherever he went, he was followed, fawned over, and fought over as well. Acting the beast, and it was an exhausting act, did not dissuade them as much as he had hoped.
There were nights he feared for the cut of his coat, they harried him so greatly.
Only infinite patience kept him from roaring at the lot of them to hie off and that, at least in regards to himself, their pursuits were in vain. He’d finally actually tried roaring at the lot of them one night at Lady Sprocket’s yearly ball. . . It had only sent the ladies tittering behind their rapidly waved fans. Apparently, a growly fellow was the height of fascination.
This fine night was no different.
Adam did, in fact, love dancing, absolutely adored it. He could pursue it all night long, but he almost never did. It was one of the greatest misfortunes of being a notorious rake. It had happened to him. Slowly over the years, his reputation meant he could ruin a young lady with but a rakish glance.
So, he danced only with wives, not unmarried ladies. There was a distinction, of course, and generally he found it to be a good thing for, much to his sadness, young ladies did seem to be restricted in their ability to converse.
Most young ladies, through no fault of their own, when in his presence, could not put two words together. It was simply the state of things. It had nothing to do with their intelligence, he knew. The presence of a duke generally rendered half the population sheep brained. And he? He was the Duke of Blacktower, reputed throughout the land.
He hadn’t achieved his notoriety as The Beast entirely himself.
Largely, it had been the damned news sheets and their delight in reporting his escapades with exaggerated panache.
A duel or ten here, (he'd never been shot and only ever gave fellow’s a flesh wound), an affair or a dozen there, a host of houses and fortunes won at his club, leaving several titled young idiots utterly ruined year after year.
That, combined with his general scowl and apparent disdain have given the news men enough to launch him as the beastliest man to stalk the ton.
He eyed the dance floor, contemplating asking a lady to dance. Truly dancing was one of the few things that allowed him to think of something besides his work, and he worked most of the day. Society might believe him to be an utter rake and wastrel, and in past years back, that was true, but most of the time his mind was not engaged in carnal pleasures. Affairs of state ruled him now.
Running a country took a great deal of time, so when he could, he allowed himself pleasure, a great deal of it and he didn't restrict it. Still, he was hoping to find some measure of peace this evening. The day's meeting with the king had been particularly difficult. Things were not going well with him, and conversing with him was very difficult. The man was absolutely stubborn in his ways, and it seemed like he was beginning to lose his wits.
Tonight he'd wanted to support his closest friend’s sister and so he had agreed to come.
It was a mistake.
In general, he did everything that he could to avoid the fray of unmarried young ladies. After all, they were not the sort of people that he generally spent time with, for all they had in mind was the very thing that he would never do—marriage. No, marriage was not for him. Not anymore. Once...
Adam ground his teeth and forced his thoughts away. If he traveled down the dark hallways of memory, he would be lost to it.
He lifted his jaw, squared his shoulders, and made his way through the field of mamas as if he could somehow manage to not make eye contact with a single one of them. He certainly had enough experience and the height for it.
At last, only after being tugged upon and having a few handkerchiefs stuffed into his pockets, he made his way to the door at the end of the hall and quickly dashed out.
“Trying to run away, are you?"
He caught sight of the Earl of Brookhaven leaning against one of the doorways across the hall.
"Dukes don't run," Adam replied dryly.
Brookhaven's lips curved in a sardonic grin. "Indeed, old boy. It certainly looks as if they do to me."
"You are mistaken," Adam countered, finally able to take a deep breath in the barely lit hall. The heat of the ballroom was gladly left behind as was the array of perfumes and hair powders. “One cannot trust one’s own eyes, after all.”
Brookhaven’s dark brows lifted, and he took an easy step forward. “I thought that was the one thing that we could trust."
Adam shook his head with dramatic rue. "Indeed not, dear friend. Indeed not."
An amused laugh passed Brookhaven’s lips as he folded his arms across his broad chest. His perfectly tailored black evening coat str
etched to allow for the movement. “I never thought to see you escape from a room. I thought you had eschewed balls."
"I can't help it.” Adam sighed, lifting his eyes towards the elaborate plastered ceiling to feign martyrdom. “Your sister asked me to come and I couldn't turn her down."
"That's because wherever you go, you give credence to an event."
Adam bit back a groan. "I wish it wasn't so."
"Well, it is.” Brookhaven’s emerald gaze danced. “Not only are you a duke, you're a man of society. Everyone knows that your approval means approval from almost all."
“Which is why I can no longer dance at these damn things,” Adam drawled, hating that if he danced with a lady it would give much significance to her. Significance he likely didn’t intend, so he largely eschewed it all together. “My suffering is profound, for I do love to dance.”
Brookhaven laughed. “You dance better than most of the fools here."
It had taken a dark few years for him to finally embrace the fact that the only thing that was going to get him through this life was to actually live and live fully.
And so, every day, he threw himself at fun and pleasure as if his life depended upon it. For it did.
If he did not distract himself at every possible moment, well, he would slide down into a grief so strong it would coat him in tar, and he would never be able to free himself from it this time.
Once again, he shook his head. He was not going to think of it just now, not tonight. He didn't know why it was pressing in upon him. Usually, he rarely allowed himself thoughts of the past.
He'd done everything that he possibly could to eradicate the painful memories from his head, but perhaps it was the time of year.
Perhaps it was the mirroring of late winter, but his mind was wandering to darker things as of late.
"You look a bit troubled, old boy,” Brookhaven observed suddenly.
"Do I?" he queried with forced cheer.
"Indeed, my friend. It's not like you."
Adam forced himself to remain calm, to not let his friend see the pain that sometimes threatened beneath his surface. He was a mask-wearer extraordinaire. Almost no one knew a dark thought had ever traversed his brow.
To most, he gave off a look of bon vivant joy. Wherever he went, he was considered to be a rake, a man of pleasure, someone who was in touch with the joys of life. It had taken a great deal of curation to create that image and to embrace it.
"I think I better get the devil out of here if I'm going to have any pleasure of my own tonight," Adam said.
Brookhaven gave a quick, mock bow of thanks. "My sister will be deeply grateful that you came for a few minutes.”
Thank God, a few minutes was all it took for his approval to be made.
For it had been some of the longest minutes of his life. He'd managed to survive the horde of young ladies waving their fans at him, blinking up at him hopefully, and the mamas who'd all but grabbed his coat and shirt, desperate for him to possibly gaze upon their daughters.
Though they drove him mad, he felt for them.
All of those mamas had but one job to do and that was to ensure the economic prosperity of their children. It was no small thing, and he actually admired the tenacity of them for doing it. It took a great deal of work, confidence, and scheming to get a daughter married well these days.
He was grateful that he would never have to worry about such a thing.
Still, he didn't like being pawed upon, nor did he like having to, without as little offense as possible, deflect the young ladies and their mothers.
"I'm off,” Adam informed, relieved.
“Not I.” Brookhaven’s mouth quirked into an anticipatory smile. "There's a lady in there that I intend to pursue tonight. So, alas, you shall have to do without my splendid company."
"A lady?" echoed Blacktower.
"A widow," his friend clarified, waggling his brows.
Adam laughed. “I wish you luck then."
"I don't need luck," said Brookhaven, lowering his arms and starting for the ballroom. "I just need a bit of charm."
“Shall I see you later for some gin at the Maiden’s Legs?” Adam asked, wondering if his friend was going to start another great amour.
"No,” Brookhaven replied. "My hope is to be in the arms of that angel until dawn."
"You're a lovesick fool, then. I'm worried for you.” Adam shook his head with mock severity. “You shall soon be dancing the dance of matrimony."
“Never in a month of Sundays shall I trip that reel,” Brookhaven countered.
"We shall see," warned Adam. "All fools fall, you know."
“Careful.” Brookhaven wagged a finger at him. “You might be prophesying your own future."
Adam merely allowed a ghost of a smile. He wasn't about to tell his friend that he'd already danced that dance.
Almost no one knew the truth of his past, and he wasn't about to start letting others know. There’d be too many questions. Too much pain.
So with that, he turned down the hall, ready to head out into the night. It had been a long day at the halls of Cabinet, and it would be an even longer night if he didn't get out of there and find a bit of pleasure.
It was all he could do to get through his day, at times, arguing for the betterment of his country, attempting to make the men in the halls of power understand that there were more important topics than simply the protection of titles, land, and money.
But it was his lot in life and his desire to do so. As a duke, it was also his privilege to influence others. He did it as best he could. But it was becoming harder and harder, especially since the king was not doing well at all.
Soon, he had a rather terrible feeling that there would be an impossible argument between the prince and his father, and sides would soon be drawn.
He did not like that idea.
It meant that there was going to be difficulty in the country, and difficulty meant political instability, and instability was a very dangerous thing indeed.
Despite the fact that it was extremely ungenteel, he tugged at his cravat. He didn't give a fig for propriety. It was another privilege of his dukedom, doing largely as he pleased.
Long ago, he’d forgone the elaborate fashions of the upper classes and had donned a simple black coat, cream waistcoat, and starched cravat.
He couldn't be bothered to spend hours dressing like some of the men he knew, but he did like the simpler attire that was becoming more popular.
However, he didn't mind at all rumpling his cravat and he happily drew it away from his neck.
He felt a bit stifled tonight.
He longed for a cool evening now and the ride to Covent Garden where he'd be able to find a game of cards or perhaps a game of dice and enjoy himself and the excitement of that. Perhaps, he'd meet a few of his friends who were poets and scientists and they'd be able to regale him with the newest inventions and discoveries of the day.
That too might take him away from himself. Often, escape was something he longed for.
It was hard to believe that he could complain, for he was one of the most powerful men in the country, but every day was full of exactly the same thing. The same causes to be fought, the battles to be won.
And sometimes he did feel worn down by it.
Still, he wouldn't give up.
It was one thing that he would never do. Not for anything. It was the only thing he had worth living for, the fight to better people's lives. It sounded so cliché, he supposed, but there it was.
He was never going to get married.
He was never going to have children of his own.
So, the only thing he could do was to try to improve the lives of others.
The papers, of course, would have others not believe such a thing.
The gossip sheets loved to paint him a rakehell, a rogue, a wild man. And he was all of those things to some degree, there was no question.
But they weren't all that he was.
Even so,
in the end, he was happy to have society believe it.
It was easier to be swept aside as a fun-loving pleasure-bound man and not have to worry about the fact that he might seem like a truly marvelous prospect on all accounts to the mamas out there.
He drew in a long breath and started for the darkest part of the hall, trying to recall which turn would lead him to the foyer. He was ready to let his mind wander to happier things and to leave this stuffy ball behind. Tonight he needed a bit of fun. Perhaps even a little bit too much fun.
Chapter 3
Augusta stood at the edge of the ball, observing.
It was what she did. At every ball.
She waved her simple fan—there were no beads or lace or painting upon it—slowly before her.
The countess's ball was a crush!
Packed to the gills with the wealthiest, the room was filled with the most powerful people in the country, and of course, people like her. People who were on the fringes of importance, desperately hoping not to be completely shoved aside. She didn't desperately hope not to be shoved aside exactly.
It was more that she feared being swept into the disastrous corners of a life of true poverty.
She'd seen it happen to other young ladies, and the fates of those other young women, well, they became the subject of novels, and she had no desire to become a subject of such a thing herself.
Her life was difficult enough as it was.
She could only imagine how hard it would become if things grew worse.
In the five years that she had been standing on the edge of the ballroom, she had been asked to dance three times. All three times had been failures. She was not a particularly good dancer, and she did not know how to converse elegantly. Blunt speech seemed to betray her every time.
Bandying polite words was something that caused her lips and tongue to trip. It was disastrous for her, but there it was. Her sisters, on the other hand, were happily dancing about the ballroom with handsome young men who enjoyed their company immensely.
It was a tragedy, of course, that they had so little fortune that it was impossible to believe that any man of any substance would ask for their hands in marriage. Her middle sister danced for enjoyment. For her true love was not here this night.
