A Wicked Duke's Prize: A Historical Regency Romance Book

by Henrietta Harding

  “If you can find it in you, Owen,” his father continued, deciding, it seemed, to dismiss Owen’s original question, “If you can possibly do it, fall in love with her. It’s the most beautiful thing in the world. And she’s certainly deserving of it. Of course, that father of hers…”

  “I imagine that if we do marry, you won’t have much to do with him.”

  “Good riddance,” Neil said, his voice heavy. He sipped a bit more of his drink and little bags appeared beneath his eyes, lending tremendous shadow to his face.

  Owen managed to skate the conversation to other topics after this. He nudged his father to conversations about the first few balls of his youth, the other women he’d courted before his mother, even the friends he’d been close to who had now either gone away or died. Neil was wistful, certainly, but he also became animated throughout various stories, his hands flashing like little spiders. Owen beamed at him, grateful that the time passed so swiftly, until Neil bucked his head to the side to spot the time – eleven at night. It was far too late for gambling. Although his fingers twitched, he rose up, walked around the desk, and placed his hand on Owen’s shoulder. His eyes were fatigued.

  “Thank you for tonight, son,” he said. “I know it was probably purposeful. That you wouldn’t spend so much time with me out of pure interest in my past.”

  “Don’t kid yourself, Father,” Owen replied. “You’re far more interesting than you could ever know.”

  ***

  Owen recited the events of his evening with his father to Theo the following afternoon, just prior to their preparation for the ball. Owen sat with a drink in Theo’s garden, his head tossed back so that he could catch full sight of the wispy clouds as they eased past.

  “He just sat and told you stories about himself?” Theo asked.

  “Like we were friends,” Owen admitted. “It was rather marvellous. I saw a side to the old man that I’d never seen before. Almost as though he was you.”

  Theo scoffed and striped a finger down his sideburn. “I don’t suppose you spoke to him about getting out of the old marriage arrangement?”

  Owen clicked his head to and fro. “I didn’t have the time. The effort was to keep him home, away from the gambling table. Perhaps if I find a way to earn back our family fortune…” He trailed off for a moment, as a larger cloud lurched over the sun and squashed its heat.

  “If you don’t act quickly, you’ll be standing at the church, giving your vows,” Theo said, chuckling.

  “And you?” Owen returned. “You must have lead Zelda on to some sort of assumption about yourself.”

  “I thought the wide world understood me as a playboy?” Theo said, arching his brow. “Besides. Zelda isn’t the sort of woman you marry, is she? We’ve nothing to speak about. A beautiful woman, truly. A dear one. But when she opens her mouth, all I hear is a shrill cry. Like an alarm bell, telling me back away! Run! As quickly as you can!”

  Owen laughed good-naturedly, although the concept of this did stir his stomach. He’d been a bit more like Theo in his more youthful days. But now, after conversation with Rebecca had thrilled him, and he was faced with the density of what forever meant, he wasn’t altogether pleased with Theo’s approach.

  “Tonight. Rebecca will be at the ball, yes?” Theo said. His hand swept down the flat of his stomach, and his eyes glittered almost evilly.

  “I suppose so,” Owen said. His heart did a strange leap into his throat and then backed down, returning to its proper placement.

  “And I suppose you will craft some sort of scheme as you go about your business tonight? Something to draw an even bigger wall between the two of you,” Theo said. He rubbed his palms together conspiratorially. “The entire county seems to speak about it. I only just heard at the brasserie last night. ‘Owen and Rebecca plan to announce their engagement. Let’s see if they make it.’ I couldn’t help but laugh along. How dreadfully close everyone is to the truth! It’s almost as though gossip has taken on a new dimension as of late. It’s become more like investigative reporting.”

  Owen didn’t respond. He sipped the rest of his tea and then excused himself to the guest bedroom, where he’d laid out his evening attire. He dressed slowly, sombrely, as though he was heading into battle. When he appeared before the mirror, he styled his black curls and furrowed his brow at himself. Did he care what he saw in the mirror anymore? It used to please him, as a more pompous young man. As though to counteract this, when he appeared back downstairs to find Theo, Theo himself stood before the hallway mirror for many moments, lending intense attention to his hair, his brows. When he finally turned to find Owen, he nearly leapt from his skin.

  “I hadn’t any clue you were there. How long have you been behind me?”

  “Not long,” Owen said, his nostrils flaring. “Shall we take a carriage?”

  It was just past seven-thirty. The air had a hazy quality to it, something that came along with the romantic nature of the near sunset, and the burning orange ball of sun cut low in the sky, yanking the blanket of darkness over everything else.

  The ball was held at the Covington estate, the home of the duke and his son, a man Theo and Owen had previously run around with named Baxter Covington. Although Theo and Owen had had their own rotund arrogance, Baxter had taken this to new heights and grown entirely obstinate. Secretly, Owen had always suspected that Baxter grew in rage for the two of them as, regardless of their lack of title, they’d never struggled when it came to women, to courting. Baxter had longed to be a sort of playboy along with them yet had failed mightily and was rumoured to be in an arranged engagement of sorts himself.

  “What’s it been since we last saw him?” Theo murmured, as the carriage halted before the grand mansion, its stone walls stoic. Music poured out from the large room in the back, where, Owen remembered, double wide doors opened out into a gorgeous garden with unique shrub landscaping and pouring fountains.

  “Perhaps a year. Maybe more,” Owen replied.

  “I wonder how much more boring he’s become,” Theo said, clicking his tongue.

  “And here we are again. Back at the mindset that caused such a rift between us,” Owen said. “I do hope you remember that we’re his guests tonight.”

  “In a sense we were always his guests, Owen,” Theo said. He bucked open the door and dropped his foot to the gravel below. “The man is the son of the duke. We’re all his constituents. Don’t you remember, he continually reminded us of this fact?”

  The grand staircase wrapped around the side of the house, then swept them in through the double doors. There, at the entrance, Owen took in the stunning view of the garden. The last of the summer sunlight sprinkled through the fountains, the light separating and pouring into the basins below. Theo grunted into his ear, “That’s enough of your poetics, isn’t it?” which forced Owen back around to view the immaculate ballroom, with its enormous hanging chandeliers, its twenty-piece orchestra in the corner, most of the players with bald heads that reflected the light from the chandeliers themselves and, thusly, became even more of a source of light.

  Already, nearly fifty guests had arrived and were in the midst of early ball conversation. A few pairs had taken to the dance floor, their chins high and their steps even and sure. It was clear. if one thought to take the floor so early in the night, one considered him or herself a nearly perfect dancer. All eyes were upon them, and the pairs could receive no ridicule.

  Amongst the dancers was Rebecca. The sight of her built several stones in the base of Owen’s belly, and he paused and took in the full view of her beauty – her red curls that whipped out behind her, the delicacy of her step, the quickness of her smile when she and her partner performed a particularly illuminating step. Theo’s eyes ducked toward Owen, analysing him.

  “I see you’ve taken on a new form,” he muttered.

  “What’s that?” Owen felt endlessly distracted.

  “You’re a jealous man, now. A man who feels ownership over someone. If I wasn’t so di
sgusted by it, I might think it was adorable,” Theo said. He sauntered off towards a server, who was carrying a tray of wine.

  Rebecca whipped around to allow Owen full view of her dance partner. There, attached to her, was that snivelling imbecile, Augustus. Yes, the man was one of her dearest friends, a man who purported to care about her wellbeing. But Owen was far too versed in the intricacies of the minds of men and thusly knew that Augustus was up to far more than a simple, friendly gavotte.

  When the music concluded, Rebecca’s hands sprung back, and her mouth erupted with laughter. She clapped lightly, then bowed her head towards Augustus, seeming to thank him. When Augustus spun back around, he glowered, seemingly enraged that Rebecca had taken her leave.

  Conscious, suddenly, that Owen had spent the previous several minutes ogling his never-bride, he cut back across the growing crowd, through the frantic conversation and volatile laughter, to find Theo once more at the drinks table. He’d fallen into conversation with a pretty brunette Owen had never seen before. He turned quickly, eager to latch on to anyone, anything, so as not to seem perplexed with his stirring emotions. His eyes quickly found Zelda, her shoulders slumped forward and her eyes studying her sloshing wine.

  “Zelda! Good evening!” he said, his words overly zealous. He’d never been so thrilled to see the young woman before.

  “Oh. Hello, Owen,” she said. Her eyes darkened upon his arrival, then were cast beyond him, toward Theo.

  Ah. So he wasn’t the only one simmering in jealousy.

  “I trust you’re well? You look quite lovely, as usual,” he said.

  “I suppose it’s always that way with the two of you, isn’t it? You ensure that you pick up the pieces of your thrown-away women. Ensure that none of us falls to pieces in public,” Zelda said. Again, her brow furrowed still more, so that she looked rather like a child in the midst of a temper tantrum.

  “Theo’s simply a sociable man,” Owen said. “He couldn’t wait to see you this evening.” He cut around to face Theo, urging him to approach.

  Zelda flicked her hair, taking a tiny blonde curl and twisting it manically around her finger. “I suppose I’m being rash. I grow so anxious before these sorts of events. All day, swimming in doubt about the gown I’ve picked or the man I wish to dance with. And yet, the first that I see of him, my heart leaps and I yearn to rush towards him, to tell him all the thoughts I’ve had of him the previous days. Oh, Owen. It’s particularly dreadful to be a woman. I suppose it’s a clever thing, your engagement with Rebecca. She doesn’t seem to be the sort with her heart on her sleeve. If she ever actually cares for you, I’m sure she’ll show it with fits of sarcasm and banter. That’s the sort of creature she is. I daresay she’ll never utter the words ‘I love you’. Not as long as you’ll live together.”

  Embarrassed, suddenly, Zelda smacked her palm over her ruby lips and shuddered. Owen let out a volatile laugh.

  “I’m terribly sorry!” Zelda spouted. “I shouldn’t have spoken so. I know very little about Rebecca, only that she doesn’t seem to be the romantic type. And it’s not as though I even look down on women who live like that. In fact, I crave it in my own self. I’m a dreadful monster, a woman who’s a slave to her emotions in nearly every capacity. If you actually do marry Rebecca, I pray you’ll tell her to help me.”

  Theo abandoned his conversation with the pretty brunette and swept toward them, his white smile glittering. Zelda seemed to open like a flower, casting back her original fears and beaming up at him, her eyes shining.

  “Good evening, dear Zelda,” Theo said, his voice a few octaves lower than normal. “How beautiful you look. I couldn’t keep my eyes off you throughout that dreadful conversation. Do you know that woman? I believe her name is Gretchen, and she can talk for hours about two things – the price of a pound of salt these days, and whether or not the sun will return tomorrow. For five full minutes, she told me she projected rain. I’ve never been more excited to step away from anything in my life.”

  Owen knew Theo’s game, knew even that Gretchen was surely not so boring, that she might have mentioned the concept of rain, which had allowed Theo to craft this storyline. The orchestra sprung into another tune and Theo asked Zelda to dance. She leapt for him and, in moments, whipped about the floor with him, her chin high and her curls dancing. Owen yearned to roll his eyes. He collected a glass of wine from the table and studied the growing numbers, the women with their stunning curls, their glossy cheeks, their bright laughter, and the men who lived to both please them and to tell the tale. Everything seemed to hover above the ground with anticipation. It was difficult to deduce what would happen next.

  Augustus appeared beside Owen. He grabbed his own glass of wine and cut his eyebrows high in greeting. After a strange pause, Owen finally mustered, “Good evening!” although he still swam with jealousy. He yearned to stamp it out.

  “And to you,” Augustus said. “It seems we continue to run into one another. No escape in these societal times, hmm? Oh, I’ve just lost touch with my dear Rebecca. I suppose you must have seen us dancing. We were always such stellar partners. We learnt many of the dances together as teenagers, if you can believe it.”

  “No, I must have missed it,” Owen said. “I haven’t seen her yet this evening.”

  “It seems that the son of the duke has taken her prisoner,” Augustus said, his eyes growing shadowed. “I was off for only a moment, discussing something with an old friend, and when I returned, whatever his name is…”

  “Baxter Covington,” Owen said.

  “Of course. An old friend of yours, I believe?” Augustus replied.

  “Something like that. Although it’s rather difficult to remember as the years stack up, isn’t it?”

  Augustus sipped his wine. “I do hope she’ll find a way out of that. I’ve always found Baxter to be quite dreadful. A stain on the concept of conversation.” He cleared his throat, then added, “I heard him ask about your engagement. He said that if he knows anything about the two of you, it won’t ever be announced.”

  “Is that what he said?” Owen asked. Slight laughter escaped his lips, although he felt no pleasure at all.

  “It’s the mindset of the county,” Augustus confirmed. “We’re all waiting with bated breath. It’s some of our biggest entertainment, and we know the two of you won’t let us down.”

  The crowd parted to allow Owen a straight-on view of Rebecca, in conversation with that scoundrel, Baxter Covington. In Owen’s mind, Baxter seemed to stand entirely too close to Rebecca, his lips hovering just above hers, and his stomach mere inches from the swell of her breasts.

  “Perhaps she’ll marry the duke’s son, then?” Augustus said. “I can’t imagine she’ll be happy. But if she orchestrates it herself, then she can successfully spite her father, which is assuredly all she’s really after. She told me briefly that even her older sister Evelyn has been after her, checking up on her engagement. Everyone yearns for her to marry. And, due to arrogance and spite, I imagine she’ll naturally marry the wrong man.”

  Owen clicked his tongue. “And I suppose you know who the proper man she should marry is?”

  Augustus’s cheeks flashed red as he blustered, “Of course not, no. Although I do imagine that I know the mind of Rebecca much more than many other men. It’s a matter of time, you see. She’s told me things, secrets about herself, that I know she’s hardly told anyone, except Tabitha.”

  “Of course. The almighty Tabitha,” he said.

  Owen couldn’t wait a moment more. Rebecca’s face had shifted, her cheeks grown sallow with boredom. He collected another glass of wine from the table and hardly said a word of excuse as he abandoned Augustus. As he marched away, he heard Augustus muttering to himself, words Owen couldn’t fully articulate, nor care about.

  When he reached Rebecca and Baxter, Baxter was in the midst of one of his overly exhaustive stories.

  “And I told the man that of course, I couldn’t come with him to the West Indies. Not t
his year, and perhaps not ever! There’s so much at stake if you go. Consider the travel time, for one. My back is quite bad after sitting on a coach for endless hours. And when you arrive, I heard that you’re suddenly attacked with mosquitos, covered in welts and bites. And many of those insects carry diseases, which could ultimately result in your death, anyway.”