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  “Vices are their own punishment.”

  —Aesop

  Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Notice

  Epigraph

  Prologue

  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

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  Praise for the Lords of Vice novels

  About the Author

  Copyright

  Prologue

  October 2, 1806, Telcliffe Castle

  “Nicolas, there you are.” His grandmother’s sharp gaze settled on him as she beckoned impatiently for him to enter. “Come … join us. You may remain, young Vanewright, if you are able to refrain from disrupting our meeting.”

  “Thank you, madam,” Christopher blurted out automatically, and then winced when Nicolas’s grandmother and her male companions halted their discussion and stared at him. His friend shrugged sheepishly. “My apologies. It won’t happen again—madam.”

  Nicolas Stuart Towers, Duke of Huntsley, gave his friend a pitying look. He had stood silently on numerous occasions as his grandmother had reduced grown men to quivering, spineless specimens with a stern look. It was no surprise that his twelve-year-old companion was terrified of the wizened old dragon.

  In truth, even he was a little frightened of her.

  After he’d lost both of his parents to influenza six years earlier, his grandmother had come to live with him at Telcliff Castle. She had told the grieving Nicolas that he needed a strong hand and guidance now that he had inherited the dukedom, and the dowager was capable of delivering both. Not counting some distant cousins, his grandmother was the only family that he had left. She was a tough old bird, but he loved her dearly. There was nothing he would not do for her.

  Assuming Christopher would keep a respectful distance, Nicolas headed toward his grandmother and her companions. As he crossed the room, his gaze was drawn to one of the corners where a small child was inconsolably weeping. Even with her ruddy cheeks blotchy with tears, she was a pretty little thing with her mop of blond curls and a mutinous pout on her bow-shaped mouth. His smooth brow furrowed with mild curiosity as he observed a harried nursemaid wrap her arms around the two-year-old while uttering hushed, unintelligible assurances.

  Dismissing the unknown girl from his thoughts, he politely bowed to his grandmother and the two gentlemen. The man to her left was his grandmother’s solicitor, Mr. Porter. The other gentleman was a stranger.

  “Grandmother, I was unaware that we had guests this afternoon.”

  The child in the corner howled her indignation.

  The dowager’s left eyelid twitched and her mouth tightened with disapproval, but she did not glance in the girl’s direction. This was extraordinary, since his grandmother had patience neither for disruptions nor for the little girls who caused them. Instead, she placed her hand on Nicolas’s back and gently nudged him to join the two men.

  “Nicolas, you are acquainted with Mr. Porter. Allow me to introduce you to an old and dear friend of mine, Sir Auden Castell.”

  Nicolas bowed. “Good afternoon, sir.”

  Sir Auden appeared to be as ancient as his grandmother. In his youth, he must have cut an impressive figure with his height and girth. However, time had not been kind to the elderly gentleman. His shoulders had bowed with age, giving him a sizable hump on his upper back. What muscle he possessed had withered and turned to fat, but his brown eyes were friendly as they assessed Nicolas from head to toe.

  “Mary, you have a fine lad squiring you about these days,” Sir Auden said, his baritone voice warm with approval.

  Mary, Nicolas thought, his dark eyebrows shooting upward in curiosity. The gentleman was a very good friend of his grandmother’s to be bandying about her given name so freely.

  Not that his grandmother needed his protection. With the loss of her husband and her son, she had made a place for herself in a social world that was dominated by her male peers. The respect she commanded was to be envied and admired, and he was confident that gentlemen would see him in the same manner.

  His grandmother accepted Sir Auden’s compliment with a nod of her head. “It was a tragedy that Nicolas has been deprived of my son’s guidance. Nevertheless, he is a Towers. The strength of his bloodline guides him instinctively. He was born with the honor and compassion to be a protector of his people, and I have come to depend on my grandson in all matters.”

  Nicolas stood silently, a slightly dazed expression on his face. He felt as if his grandmother had cuffed him hard on the skull instead of offering praise. The dowager did not believe in false praise or coddling. In her opinion, it fostered weakness, which explained why there were always a few males in every generation who were incapable of living up to the Towers name. She certainly would not tolerate such flaws in her only grandson, who had a duty not only to the family name but also to the people who depended on him.

  After the loss of his parents, the dowager’s approval meant everything to him. His narrow chest puffed with pride with the knowledge his grandmother held him in such high esteem.

  “I am satisfied,” Sir Auden said to the dowager. “Porter, is the paperwork in order so we can make it official?”

  Mr. Porter gave the spectacles sliding down his nose an absent push before he gathered up the papers on his desk. “I will need both you and Her Grace to review what I’ve prepared, but I believe you will be pleased.”

  “Excellent,” Sir Auden said, clapping the solicitor on the shoulder. “Good work, Porter. I knew we could count on you.”

  “Yes, well done, Samuel,” the dowager concurred. “Your discretion regarding our delicate situation is appreciated.”

  “What is going on, Grandmother?” Nicolas politely interjected.

  Sir Auden blinked in surprise. “Have you not told him?”

  The dowager drew herself up at the mild rebuke. “There was no point in involving the boy until we had come to an agreement and all parties were present.”

  “Tell me what precisely?”

  She glanced impatiently at him, for it was uncommon for him or anyone else to interrupt her. “Your marriage to Lady Grace Kearly. It is an excellent match. Your bride is the daughter of a duke and possesses an exceptional dowry. Her pure lineage and wealth will be an asset to the family. I hope you appreciate your good fortune.”

  Good fortune? Nicolas could not form a proper response to the outrageous statement. He was too young to marry. What about his education? And his private thoughts of traveling the world? Hell, he had yet to bed his first female!

  Out of desperation, he looked to Christopher for silent support. His friend was the Earl of Vanewright, and as far as Nicolas knew his family was not trying to marry him off before he grew his first beard. Unfortunately, Christopher was blithel y oblivious to his friend’s plight. At some point, he had wandered over to the pretty nursemaid and her young charge. The little girl was sitting contently on Christopher’s hip while he flirted with the servant.

  What a fine friend he was, Nicolas thought. He was in trouble and Christopher was chasing after a bit of skirt who was never going to let herself be caught.

  “Nicolas, did you hear a single word I’ve uttered?”

  He swallowed thickly and shook his head. His skull felt like it was stuffed with straw; worse, he worried that he might disgrace himself and faint.

  “I’m too young to marry.”

  His soft admission earned a few sympathetic chuckles from Mr. Porter and Sir Auden. The dowager, on the other hand, had pursed her lips together, a visible sign of her displeasure.

  “Who said anything of you marrying this very day?” she snapped, and for Nicolas, it might as well have been a lash. “These arrangements are often set in place years before the actual marriage takes place. I thought you would be more grateful.”

  “I am, Grandmother,” he mumbled, not feeling appreciative at all. He was old enough to know that money and beauty did not always go hand in hand. What if he had to marry a lady so long in the tooth that no man would have her?

  “So I can see,” the dowager replied.

  Too vexed to speak further on the subject, she beckoned for his friend to join them. She was probably going to banish him and Christopher from her sight. They would be lucky to get supper this evening.

  Still holding the two-year-old girl, his friend crossed the room with the nursemaid following in his wake. “How may I be of service, Your Grace?”

  Braggart, Nicolas thought uncharitably.

  “Such a pretty child,” his grandmother said, opening her arms. “I believe she likes you, Vanewright.”

  “I suppose,” Christopher replied cautiously as he finally sensed the tension pouring off his friend.

  “Give her to me.”

  “Of course, Your Grace.” He took a step forward and handed the girl to the dowager.

  His grandmother smiled at the child. She cast a shrewd glance at her grandson. “Your parents’ early deaths deprived you of siblings, Nicolas. Come … why do you not hold her a moment.”

  Considering the amount of trouble he was in, Nicolas immediately held out his hands and accepted the light burden even though he had no interest in the child. His thoughts were on bigger problems. Unused to handling young children, he felt awkward and the two-year-old seemed to sense his discomfort. She immediately reached out for Christopher and made soft anxious sounds.

  Rebuffed by a sniveling girl. Nicolas doubted his afternoon could get worse.

  “She’s as twitchy as a monkey,” Nicolas said with false cheer, struggling not to drop her as she tried to free herself from his grasp. “Does she have a name?”

  “Of course,” his grandmother said drily. “Lady Grace Kearly.”

  The girl slipped through his boneless grasp, her backside hitting the floor first. Everyone in the room gasped. Lady Grace promptly let out an earsplitting scream.

  “It was an accident!” he hastily explained to the scowling adults.

  Horrified that he might have hurt the child, Nicolas fell to his knees and wrapped his arms around her with the intention of collecting her off the floor. This—girl—was his bride? Was this some kind of jest?

  Frustrated and in no mood to be handled, the girl leaned forward and sank her teeth into his wrist. Nicolas yelped in pain. Those tiny sharp teeth sliced into his flesh and drew blood.

  Evidently, Lady Grace didn’t think much of their arranged marriage, either.

  Chapter One

  February 2, 1825, near Frethwell Hall

  It was a cold bitter night for traveling the rough northern countryside roads on horseback. Stubborn and foolhardy, Hunter silently acknowledged his current predicament as he thought of the dry, comfortable coach he had abandoned at the last inn three hours behind him. Warm and his belly full, his coachman was likely savoring his fifth pot of ale in front of the hearth as he regaled his companions with raunchy tales of his master’s exploits and the madness that had burned in his brain like a fever.

  Not madness, Hunter amended.

  Fate.

  And the lady had a name—Lady Grace Kearly.

  She was the reason he and his horse were tearing up miles of road on this godforsaken night. He had fought this inevitable meeting for too many years, but he had run out of time.

  It was time to collect his unwanted bride.

  I should have visited Frethwell Hall two years ago when Porter urged me to set aside the time.

  Not that Hunter hadn’t tried to rectify his mistake.

  In the past nine months, he had tried to visit Lady Grace. Twice. Both times he had been turned away. The butler had told him that his mistress was not in residence. She had been away visiting friends, and no one seemed to know when she would return.

  At the time, a part of him had been relieved by his unexpected reprieves. However, time was running out for both him and Lady Grace, and his impulsive visit to Frethwell Hall this evening was bound to delay his return to London.

  You had nineteen years to collect her, gent.

  Hunter shook off the twinge of regret before it took hold of him. Besides, anger was more palatable. In truth, he had his grandmother to thank for his lamentable circumstances. If the wily old woman had not died when he was still young enough to be intimidated by her, he might have been able to talk his way out of this arranged marriage.

  His horse squealed as Hunter abruptly tugged on the reins to bring the animal to a halt. Annoyed with his rider’s rough treatment, the horse snorted and shook his head while Hunter squinted at the lights in the distance.

  He absently leaned forward and patted the horse’s thick-muscled neck. “There, there … Draw comfort in knowing that your misery is almost over, whilst mine is just beginning.”

  Lady Grace awaited the prize his grandmother had promised her grandfather.

  She would soon be the Duchess of Huntsley.

  “I’ll wager she has teeth that’ll remind me of a mare and hair thick and coarse like thatching,” Hunter said, glaring at the country house in the distance. “Not to mention, a nasty disposition and voice that suits a sailor rather than a duchess.”

  His solicitor, however, would vehemently disagree with Hunter’s description. According to Porter, Lady Grace possessed a beauty that would inspire artists, a voice that made angels weep with envy, and a sweet disposition.

  Ha! Porter was capable of lying to gain Hunter’s cooperation. The old scar on his wrist and the young lady’s elusiveness proved that the hoyden still lurked beneath the social polish and instruction that she had received over the years.

  A cold drop of rain struck him on cheek, causing him to glance heavenward. He was going to be soaked if he tarried. It was just one more thing that he could blame Lady Grace for since she had first announced to a dismayed Porter a year and a half ago that she was beginning to have second thoughts about the marriage contract struck when they were children. Porter’s visit with the stubborn wench last month had proven Lady Grace’s opinion on the subject had not improved.

  Well, it was up to Hunter to change her mind.

  With a wordless shout, he spurred the weary animal toward the distant lights.

  * * *

  As Hunter had predicted, the rain was almost blinding by the time he had reached the house. Cold, hungry, and too angry to be civil company for anyone, he tethered the horse and strode to the front door with an impatient stride. He pounded his fist against the solid oak surface and was forced to wait five minutes before his knocks roused someone’s curiosity.

  A thin, middle-aged man opened the door wide enough to poke his head and a small lantern through the opening. Hunter recognized the man as Lady Grace’s butler.

  “’Tis a foul night for a man to be out on the roads.”

  “No truer words have been spoken, my good man,” Hunter said, striving for a civil tone. If he could not get past Lady Grace’s gatekeeper, then he would have no success with the mistress of Frethwell Hall. “My apologies for interrupting your supper. Due to this abominable weather, the journey took longer than expected.”

  Obviously deducing from Hunter’s speech that his unexpected visitor was a nobleman, the servant straightened and opened the door wider. “There’s no reason why you should tarry in the rain. Come into the hall, Your Grace.”

  So the man recognized him. This was an unexpected boon. Hunter was happy to oblige. “Ah, good! Then you know who I am.”

  “Your disappointment at our last meeting made an impression.”

  Belatedly, he recalled his tired, wet horse and grimaced. “My horse will need attending as well.”

  The butler’s brows lifted in surprise as he peered outside. “You were not traveling by coach?”

  Hunter chuckled, “Only a madman would brave such weather on horseback, eh?”

  His coachman had said as much to his face.

  “Or a man in love,” the servant replied while he shut the door, missing his companion’s look of astonishment. “However, I suspect you have not succumbed to either affliction.”

  “How can you tell?”

  “Simple enough, I suppose. My job requires me to take a swift measure of a man’s character,” the butler said casually as he walked by Hunter to set the oil lamp on a narrow table. “I wouldn’t be protecting my mistress if I opened the door to just anyone who wandered down the gravel road, now would I?”

  With admirable efficiency, the butler stripped Hunter of his greatcoat and hat. “Stay here. You’re making a fine mess on the floor, and I’d rather mop up one large puddle instead of a dozen smaller ones. I’ll get you a blanket and summon one of the boys to see to your horse. Then we’ll see about getting you dry, and, if you have the inclination, something to warm your belly.”

  “Wait!” Hunter called out. “Before you see to the blanket, you might want to let your mistress know of my arrival.”

  “It is unnecessary, Your Grace.”