Addicted to a Rascal Duke: A Steamy Historical Regency Romance Novel

by Scarlett Osborne

  Indeed, she only ever danced with a gentleman when her father had orchestrated it beforehand, convincing the suitors that she was an amiable choice. The new Duke of Bersard, for whatever reason, had never been listed among those lucky gentlemen. Sophia thought this a shame, for if the gentleman was reserved and dwelled in the world of fantasy, they might be perfect for each other.

  “Anyhow,” her father said, interrupting Sophia’s thoughts. “The solicitor’s. We will leave after breakfast, and I do not want to hear a word in protest. Like it or not, my dear Sophia, you are my only heir, and therefore you must begin to understand what exactly that entails. You must understand our properties, our investments. It is a complex system that took me years to learn, and I had the benefit of a formal education. You, on the other hand, who hate sums and ignored the words of all your tutors, will struggle.”

  Sophia paid no mind to the comments. For one thing, she knew her father did not mean them as insults, but rather as observations. Insulting her would require some sort of anger or heightened emotion, which the dear Duke of Wellingson was incapable of showing.

  Sophia also knew that her father was wrong in his observations. She might not have taken well to her tutors and governesses, but that did not mean she was uneducated. Reading literature was, in her opinion, one of the greatest educations in the world, and also one of the least expensive.

  She had taught herself French and Italian by comparing translated works of original foreign fiction. She was thoroughly versed in world history as a result of various romantic epic poems and her father’s history tomes she had read before discovering the delights of romance. She knew her sums thanks to totaling the weekly number of pages she read. She also had a passable understanding of geography as a result of reading so many books set in far-off places, which she always made a point of looking up in the atlas and the globe sitting on a shelf in the library.

  She had all the knowledge necessary to one day take over from her father. She had a sense of duty, as well, and knowing how privileged she was to be able to take over an estate as a member of the female sex. Indeed, she had everything she needed, except a husband. And even that problem would soon be solved.

  She was reminded of just how soon when her father said, “I know it is hard to believe, my dear, but one day I will be gone. And I do not want poor Lord Montrose saddled with the task of managing the estate when he has his own affairs to attend to. You ought to be able handle it yourself.”

  Sophia felt herself pale at the mention of Lord Montrose. She had seen him the day before and found it extremely hard to restrain herself from berating him for his lies. She had only stopped herself when she had realized, halfway through tea, that to him, lies did not matter. Indeed, to society at large, little, petty falsehoods like what he had told her were of no importance. So long as he did not lie about his fortune or marital status, he could do no wrong.

  And yet to her they spelled doom for their courtship, for any hope of love blossoming between them. Because if Lord Montrose was a liar, he almost certainly possessed a whole host of other objectionable qualities that would spell misery for their shared life together. The prospect of sharing a bed with a gentleman who placed more stock in waistcoats than in the written word and, she guessed, the love stories made from it, was a fate practically worse than death.

  For the rest of their time together the previous afternoon, she had watched him carefully, trying to discern signs of other unfavorable parts of his person. However, all she saw was evidence of his complete and total confidence in himself. Hubris, really, but hubris that was so attractive, so seamless in the way it was presented, that it almost made her believe, for a moment, that perhaps arrogance was not so very bad a sin.

  Sitting on the settee, a teacup poised in front of perfect bowed, thin lips, Sophia had been truly amazed by the gentleman in front of her. He had been so relaxed, so serene. Even the way he had buttered his scone had been fascinating. He had done it wrongly, of course, in that the butter lashed this way and that, piling up in some areas and skipping out on others entirely, but he was so sure of himself as he did it. It was clear that the Earl of Montrose thought everything he did was right and correct.

  Sophia had marveled at the way gentlemen like him were able to move about the world. They knew fortune would favor them, that ladies would fall to their feet, money would pile up in their coffers. No mistake or misstep would ever truly reflect badly on them. God would smile down on them all their lives simply because they were gentlemen, high of birth and deep of pocket.

  Gentlemen like the Earl would never see any wrongdoing in their actions. Indeed, they could do no wrong. Living with such a gentleman was going to be truly insufferable.

  In comparison, what was a single trip to a solicitor?

  Sophia mused as she signaled for another cup of tea. To it she added a good pour of milk and three teaspoons of sugar, knowing that only sweet, milky, strong tea was going to keep her from crying out at the injustice of her life.

  Thus fortified, she and her father departed for the solicitor’s a half hour later. The ride to Tennant & Sons, where the Appleton family had been doing business for over a century, was slow-going thanks to the heavy rain pouring down in sheets from the grey, cloudy sky.

  It was a classic spring day in London, the rain almost sleet-like as it pelted the walls of the carriage, seeping its cold into the thin walls and making Sophia shiver. She hated April in London. May, the blooms would come to the trees and the sun’s warmth would shine down, but most days in April were dull, wet, and reminded one of the doldrums of winter from which it seemed they had only just escaped.

  Even with umbrellas held up by the footmen, Sophia and her father were still soaked by the time they entered the small townhouse that was home to the solicitor’s office just south of Chelsea.

  The rush of warmth as they entered the small hallway was pure bliss, and Sophia felt her cheeks immediately flush with the change in temperature.

  A butler appeared and began to take their coats, and a moment later Mr. Tennant himself came through a door down the hall and hurried toward them.

  “Your Grace! How good to see you, and the lovely Lady Sophia as well,” Mr. Tennant said, as he came to a stop in front of them.

  “Afternoon, Mr. Tennant. Terrible weather out there today, isn’t it?” her father said as he removed his hat and handed it to the butler.

  “That is London in springtime for you, Your Grace,” Mr. Tennant replied with a laugh as he bowed to the both of them. Sophia curtsied in response and smiled placidly as she handed off her own cloak, hat, and gloves. The butler disappeared up a small staircase at the left of the hall, and they were left to follow Mr. Tennant back through the door from which he had just come.

  The walk was a short one, as the townhouse was roughly a quarter of the size of her own family home. Still, it was suited for its needs. Mr. Tennant and his brother ran the business and, she knew, lived upstairs, though of course she had never seen their living quarters.

  She had visited twice before when she and her father were out on errands. Her third favorite bookshop was down the street, and often her father would pop into Mr. Tennant’s for a short meeting while she browsed the shelves of Whitman’s.

  As they walked through the large, heavy wooden door, they came onto a better-lit corridor with sconces lining the walls. Their light reflected the gold in the wallpaper, giving everything a warm, pleasing glow that was the exact opposite of the bleak cityscape outside.

  Comfortable, cushioned wooden chairs lined one side of the hall, allowing Mr. Tennant’s clients a good seat while they waited for their meetings. Currently occupying two such chairs were a tall, extraordinarily handsome looking gentleman and an older lady at his right.

  Both were wearing drawn, sorrowful expressions, and Sophia saw that the lady was clad entirely in black.

  Mourning, she realized. She was just beginning to wonder if perhaps these might be the new Duke of Bersard and his mother, the
new Dowager Duchess of which her father had spoken of just this morning, when Mr. Tennant introduced them.

  “Now, your Graces, have you had the pleasure of meeting the eighth Duke of Bersard and his mother, the Dowager Duchess of Bersard?” Mr. Tennant asked, waving his hand at the pair.

  Sophia smiled at her deductive skills. Her father spoke immediately, and she saw him draw himself up to his fullest height as he said, “Yes, we have. His Grace and I have seen each other a few times at the club, and I know that Lady Sophia and the Dowager Duchess must have met at one ball or another.”

  Sophia smiled at the Dowager Duchess, who returned her grin with a much smaller one of her own. Curtsying to them both, she found her eyes straying toward the Duke again. Sadly, she was interrupted from further assessment of the gentleman by her father, who again spoke, this time to offer his condolences.

  “Your Graces, please accept my humblest sympathies for the Duke’s passing. He was a very good gentleman indeed, and he will be sorely missed by society, Parliament, and his friends.”

  Sophia saw the Dowager Duchess flinch slightly at the mention of her husband, and she ached in sympathy for the lady. Whether the marriage was for love or connections, she imagined that any couple together that long would have formed a bond. How awful it must be for it to suddenly break, leaving the Dowager Duchess all alone.

  When Sophia’s eyes once again returned to the Duke’s, however, all sympathy left her, replaced by abject fascination with his form. Because oh, what a form he had, and now that silence had descended upon their group for however brief a time, she was able to finally appreciate the gentleman’s true good looks.

  Dark hair fell in short waves along his forehead and the tops of his ears. Perfectly arched brows and long, dark lashes framed eyes a startling shade of hazel. Light, celery greens, golds, and ambers mixed to create the most dazzling irises Sophia had ever seen.

  And when they fell on her, the breath left her lungs.

  His eyes were quiet, kind, but intense, staring at her like he was looking into the very heart of her, where all her secrets were kept. When his eyes fell from hers to scan her face, then lower, to her neck, her chest, and the waist of her gown, Sophia felt her whole body erupt in a blush so fierce she was certain she would burst into flames.

  She had hated the way that Lord Montrose scanned her body, looking at it like it was already his. And yet when the Duke of Bersard did it, it didn’t feel wrong. It didn’t feel distasteful. It felt…delicious.

  Sophia felt her cheeks flame anew, her earlier flush returning twice as strong, but she was saved from total self-immolation by her father. “Well, my dear,” he said as he turned toward her, “We cannot keep the Duke and Dowager Duchess any longer. Theirs is the appointment before ours, I would wager. Is that correct, Mr. Tennant?”

  “Indeed, that is correct, Your Grace. If you would be so good as to wait here, I will be with you as soon as business with His Grace and Her Grace is finished,” Mr. Tennant said.

  Sophia watched as the Duke and his mother rose, and her eyes did not leave his form until the door had closed behind him, leaving her and her father alone in the waiting room.

  “I expect Mr. Tennant will be reading Bersard’s will to them,” her father told her as they took their seats.

  “Ah,” Sophia said, unable to think of anything more syllabic to say. Luckily, her father seemed perfectly capable of holding up both ends of the conversation. This allowed her mind to drift back to the Duke and those beautiful eyes of his. Meanwhile, her father prattled on about the gentleman’s family, wills, and the laws of primogeniture.

  The Duke’s eyes were exactly the sort of eyes a hero in a love story would have, complex and full of meaning. And their color—more beautiful than anything she had ever seen. So unique, so deep and intoxicating. She finally understood what authors meant when they talked about lovers staring into each other’s eyes for hours on end. She knew she could stare at his for the rest of her life without tiring of the sight of them. There would always be new depths to discover, new flecks of color lingering in secret areas only visible when two people were close, nose-to-nose.

  They were a good sight different from Lord Montrose’s eyes. His were just the plain, light, boring blue of a chilled, sunny day in March.

  March was Sophia’s least favorite month, even worse than April, and now she could look forward to a lifetime of being reminded of it every time she looked into her husband’s eyes.

  Hurrah.

  Sophia leaned over and rested her chin in her hand. It was not proper posture, but her father, who was still talking about peers and duties, did not seem to notice.

  Chapter 5

  Wesley knew he ought to be listening to the conversation between his mother and Mr. Tennant, but his attention was still turned toward Lady Sophia.

  How could it not, when she is by far the most enchanting lady I have ever seen?

  Light blonde hair that was almost white, dark brows and lashes, and those eyes. Honey-gold with flecks of dark amber and auburn, eyes that begged for a closer look.

  A small mole sat at the corner of her mouth, and Wesley had the oddest urge to lean in and kiss it upon meeting her. It was a scandalous thought, and entirely out of character for him, but it was a thought he could not seem to rid himself of.

  Over and over it turned in his mind, the idea of leaning in toward her, inhaling her scent and pressing his lips to skin he knew would be soft as silk. Would she giggle? Smile? Gasp? Oh, how he longed to know what her reaction would be.

  Wesley was not a forward man by nature. He did not delight in chasing females, was not excited by the idea of courtship. This was partly due to the fact that, however foolishly, he desired a love match.

  It was preposterous, of course—no one he knew had entered into such an arrangement, and for good reason. Finding love was nearly impossible, and when one did find it, it was often with someone who was the exact opposite of the sort of spouse expected.

  And yet still the idea excited him. He wanted a partner he could interact with, someone to go for long walks with, someone who would spend afternoons reading in the library with him and Phillip, engaging in lively discussions about the literature resting in their laps. He wanted more than a wife; he wanted a companion, a friend, and, of course, a lover.

  He did not want to waste his time on ladies at balls who were only looking his way because of his future title and fortune. He wanted someone who appreciated him simply for being himself.

  As such, he had never kissed a lady, much less kissed her mole. He was waiting for that special lady, the heroine to his hero. Thus, all the thoughts going through his head were entirely fanciful. His images were gleaned from books, his impressions of the carnal goings-on of men and women taken from stories.

  Despite his lack of experience, Wesley knew what he wanted, and so did his body. It had practically broken out into song earlier as his eyes scanned down the lady’s figure. She was petite but curved, and her form had been accentuated beautifully by a gown of white cotton studded with light blue flowers that made her look like springtime personified. His favorite season made in a fetching female image.

  Though she had looked at him with a hint of the shyness with which he himself was so often afflicted, there was a surety about her. She had not ducked in fright at the sight of him, had not tucked her chin to her chest and cast her eyes away from him. No, instead she stared at him straight on with the conviction of a statesman. She was strong, to be sure, but vulnerable, too.

  Just like me.

  She was the kind of lady men wrote poetry about, comparing her to a moon goddess of old who left a trail of men in her wake. She was smart, too, Wesley could tell from that wry twinkle in her eye. There was wit there underneath her prim and proper stance, and he longed to hear evidence of it. He longed to hear her voice, full stop.

  She had stayed silent throughout the whole of the greeting process between his family and hers, so he had no way of knowing whether her
voice was high or low, raspy or smooth. It made it difficult to imagine conversing with her, so instead, Wesley decided that it only made sense to fantasize more about kissing her mole. And perhaps the set of lips next to it. Kissing, to the best of his knowledge, required no exchange of words whatsoever.

  Using the powers of his imagination, he was able to have quite an enjoyable few minutes of fantasizing before he was interrupted.

  His mother cleared her throat, which he knew to be her silent way of saying, “Do pay attention and stop dawdling around.” He had certainly heard that noise enough as a boy to recognize its true meaning.

  Turning toward her, he saw that she was staring back at him expectantly, her head tilted slightly toward Mr. Tennant. Mr. Tennant was wearing a similar look, if a little less severe, and Wesley realized he must have missed a question voiced by the solicitor.