Duke of Decadence (Lords of Hedonism Book 1)
Page 1
Duke of Decadence
Lords of Hedonism
Book One
Violetta Rand
© Copyright 2020 by Violetta Rand
Text by Violetta Rand
Cover by Dar Albert
Dragonblade Publishing, Inc. is an imprint of Kathryn Le Veque Novels, Inc.
P.O. Box 7968
La Verne CA 91750
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Produced in the United States of America
First Edition January 2020
Kindle Edition
Reproduction of any kind except where it pertains to short quotes in relation to advertising or promotion is strictly prohibited.
All Rights Reserved.
The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.
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Additional Dragonblade books by Author Violetta Rand
Highlands Forever Series
Unbreakable
Undeniable
Unyielding
Lords of Hedonism
Duke of Decadence
Viking’s Fury Series
Love’s Fury
Desire’s Fury
Passion’s Fury
Also from Violetta Rand
Viking Hearts
*** Please visit Dragonblade’s website for a full list of books and authors. Sign up for Dragonblade’s blog for sneak peeks, interviews, and more: ***
www.dragonbladepublishing.com
Amazon
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Publisher’s Note
Additional Dragonblade books by Author Violetta Rand
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
About Violetta Rand
Chapter One
London, 1808
Alonzo, the Duke of Pridegate, had longed to return to London for over a year. He craved the familiar and crowded streets of Town, his city, as he had always considered it. Every oyster had its treasure, and though he would never admit it openly, he considered himself the pearl of London. He attempted to dismiss that selfish thought from his mind—to train himself to be more humble. Even the scandal sheets went too far in describing him as the prince’s favorite and a lord of debauchery.
Under the latest headlines in the ‘Fashionable World’ section of the Morning Post, it stated: a certain DP has returned after a long tour on the Continent where he not only entertained the nobles of Paris, but the eccentric DP also indulged in endless debauchery, surrendering to his hedonistic tastes without pause…
He licked his full lips as he stopped in front of a shop window, checking his reflection to make sure his cravat, tied impeccably, had not been loosened by his rather vigorous excursion along St. James’s and Piccadilly, where he had been admiring a pair of boots. He had a long list of unusual habits, and the good people of London should be more forgiving of his greedy nature. Did he not provide a service to his country, after all?
The Prince Regent had referred to Farrington as a siren only two years ago when he last performed at the palace. A celebrated Verdi baritone already, endorsement by the royal only complicated his life—it attracted undesirables. There had been a woman—Madeline Hershey, an American heiress with her sights set on him—in search of an English title in exchange for her family fortune. It had not taken much to tempt Alonzo, for he preferred slim blonds with blue eyes and pouty lips that begged for many kisses. Which led to a scandal at the end of the Season.
Maddie allowed herself to be compromised, too skillfully for a young lady. He’d suffered a pummeling from her over-protective Mama and even paid her a handsome sum to go back to America—yet her letters still followed him wherever he traveled. Paris, Rome, and Vienna—just yesterday, one had arrived at his townhouse in Mayfair. Should he worry she had spies in London? The beauty was resourceful and rich enough to get any working-class man to do her bidding. He grinned at his flawless reflection and then turned about, casting a gaze of superiority down the sidewalk.
The street was congested with carriages and pedestrians. Farrington chose the sunny side of the street to stroll down, his gait that of an aristocrat without a care in the world. It was his nature to pursue beautiful women, to seduce them, to bed them. The fact that only one of a hundred had…
“Mama,” a feminine voice sounded from somewhere nearby, “is that…”
“Abby…” a more mature woman intoned.
“The Duke of Pridegate!”
“Abigale, cease such untoward behavior. If the duke wishes…”
Farrington knew what was sure to follow, so he picked up his pace, crossing the street as quickly as he could, darting between a variety of conveyances and making it safely to the other side. Surely, he would blend with the crowd.
“I know it is you!”
He looked up just in time to see the pretty debutante rushing across the road, waving her hand wildly with little regard for her physical wellbeing or reputation.
“Please,” she called to him. “If only I could speak with you.”
He sighed in frustration, where there was one… honey attracted flies, and at the moment, Farrington was a sweet treat for any gently-bred, young woman. He searched earnestly for a way around her, his goal never to humiliate a female admirer, only to avoid causing a scene.
“Charlotte Jameson,” he heard another woman say primly. “I insist you come back here right now.”
/> Dear God. He took a quick count; there were four young women headed in his direction, all with determined faces, all wanting a piece of his… morning coat? He felt the strength of a hundred fingers at his back and the sound of fine fabric ripping. Were they mad? Barely escaping their panicked hold, he dashed across the street again, desperate for sanctuary. A crowd had started to gather on both sides of the popular roadway. He swore he recognized a few faces, some laughing at him, others pointing.
With a brief look to his left, he found his friend, Ramsey, the Earl of Ravenly, who seemed to be enjoying Farrington’s less than ideal circumstance. Having reached the end of the row of shops, he followed a narrow walkway to an alley and sprinted through an open doorway at the back of the building.
There must be somewhere to hide before the herd of young ladies trampled him, or even worse, did more damage to his clothes. He blindly threw open a wooden door, then another, bursting into a hallway where… he collided with something or someone, for a loud whoosh filled his ears.
Recovering from the force of the collision, he stared down where an elegant tangle of golden hair and slim limbs were sprawled before him. With urgency, he knelt and tried to help the woman to her feet, to no avail, for he was met by the angriest yet most intriguing wide brown eyes he had ever seen. Those eyes were framed by golden lashes that vibrated with movement like hummingbird wings. Never a favorable sign from a lady.
“Madam…”
She scooped up the pile of books she had dropped. “Sir, if you wish to speak with me, please do so when I am recovered and on my feet.”
He sighed, sure he would get a tongue-lashing as soon as she righted herself. He rose to his feet and waited politely, wishing she would accept his assistance, but there was an air of confidence about this woman and a natural beauty that made him want to preen.
“If you wish to spar,” she said, “I am sure you could find a rival at Gentleman Jackson’s Rooms.”
Now that she was standing in front of him, he promptly assessed her as he would a mare at market… were her features arranged attractively? Bosom—generous… neck—as sleek and lovely as a Greek pillar… the shape of her face… the preferred oval… nose—pert and straight… eyes, which he had already taken note of—very dark and very bright and focused on him… hair—golden with streaks of darker blond, even copper if he weren’t mistaken, pulled back with a blue ribbon, ringlets accentuating her attractive face… teeth—white and straight… skin—flawless… hips…
“My eyes are up here,” she spoke again, forcing his gaze to a more respectable area of her person.
When their gazes met, she shook her head in obvious annoyance.
“The public is not allowed to use the back entrance to the bookstore,” she chastised. “The front of the store is in that direction.” She pointed for clarity’s sake.
“Madam,” he said again. “I assure you, I am not part of the general public, nor interested in any of the tomes such an establishment would sell.” He lifted his head arrogantly, looking down at her as if she should know better than to categorize him with just any man she would meet on the street. Didn’t she recognize him? To think if she didn’t…
She frowned at him, one of her brows lifting in disapproval.
Damn it, he never meant to come off as superior. The lady before him possessed something he admired, qualities he had—and what he’d give for a chance to seduce her.
“If this establishment holds no interest for you, then why did you darken our doorway?” She shifted her books from one arm to the other.
“May I carry those for you? Hail a hackney to take you home?”
She drew the books protectively closer to her body. “You have made it abundantly clear that you care nothing for books, sir.”
“Alonzo Farrington,” he said.
Her cheeks reddened attractively, and she averted her eyes for the briefest moment, unintentionally giving away her status as an innocent. The duke usually dabbled with widows or women who never planned to marry, but this divine creature standing so bravely before him, uninhibited by his rank, did not back down.
“I wouldn’t dare refer to you in such a familiar way, sir. Now you are being provocative for no reason, if only to rankle me.”
“Nonsense,” he disagreed. “We have only just met, so why would I aim to vex you?”
She made to step around him, but Farrington simply uncrossed his arms and naturally filled the archway he stood under, the only apparent exit route.
“Who are you, sir?”
“The Duke of Pridegate.” He offered an elegant bow to settle her nerves. “At your service.”
Surprisingly, his title did nothing but make her laugh aloud. “A duke?”
“Yes.” Had he stuttered while giving his name or title?
She eyed him severely. “You do not strike me as a pink of the ton, though I would perhaps call you a rake.”
It was Farrington’s turn to laugh. That she even knew the term pink of the ton demonstrated why women shouldn’t read so freely. Spirited and sharp-tongued, the pretty woman needed a set down. No, deserved one, or in the very least, a husband. He’d be happy to break her in for the unlucky fellow who would wed her in the future.
“I have not deceived you. And now, if you would kindly return the favor—what is your name?”
She cocked her head, curiosity momentarily getting the best of her, for she was assessing him the way he had her. “You may call me Miss Castle.”
Did he know her family? “Your full name, if you will.”
“Miss Julia Castle.”
Yes, he thought, as his eyes swept over her again, the name Julia fit her well. If he had to describe her to a friend, he’d be forced to say she was a mix between a diamond of the first water and a bluestocking, though a few other words of choice spiraled through his mind—like harridan. Stubborn and proud, unaware of the effect she had on men, even a duke, though she did not believe he was one. “It seems we have reached an impasse.”
“Only because you are blocking the door, Your Grace,” she said in a stinging tone.
Farrington relaxed, leaning against the doorway, opening enough space for her to slide by if she so wished. “Do not let me be the cause of your delay,” he said. “Perhaps your father or mother are waiting for you?”
She chuckled uncharacteristically for a woman of gentle breeding. “I come and go as I please.”
“How unfortunate,” he said with severity, disapproving of such loose rules for any woman. His youngest sister, Anastasia, would never be about Town without a chaperone. But something more urgent kept surging to the front of his mind. The young lady before him could not be a day older than eighteen, how was it she did not know who he was? His popularity had surged as of late among women of her age.
“If you’ll excuse me, sir.”
“Your Grace,” he corrected.
“Sir.”
“Your Grace.”
“I have no reason to believe you,” she said. “A man of such rank and means would not act as you have.”
“I assure you, Miss Castle, I am a duke. A famous one at that. If I may…” He reached inside his morning coat and pulled out a square card and offered it to her. “If you find yourself available tomorrow evening, please accept this invitation.” He bowed, breathed in her pretty countenance again, then swept through the back door, leaving her alone.
Chapter Two
Before Julia could draw a full breath, the inner door to the bookshop opened, and her best friend, Lady Willa Bradbury, stood in the hallway staring at her.
“What has happened, Julia? You look as if—”
“I was prevailed upon by a devilishly handsome man pretending to be a duke?”
“What?”
“Yes,” she said, his features etched in her mind forever, her body only now starting to cool down from her physical attraction to him—and her irritation at his audacity to treat her as he had. As if she were his subordinate—perhaps even a servant.
Julia agreed. She was in no state to hail a carriage or even walk on her own. “I would be most grateful.”
She followed her friend back into the small but neat shop that catered more to masculine tastes in literature, though before Julia had provided the necessary money for Willa and her widowed mother to finance the store, she had made a special request for an area dedicated to women who had intellectual curiosity for books normally unavailable to ladies. Of course, Willa had been only too happy to accommodate her, creating an elegant place in the back of the shop where women could sit in semi-privacy and enjoy a forbidden book for the afternoon.
Once inside the store, Julia relieved herself of the armful of books she had been carrying when the supposed duke had knocked her over.
“Tell me,” Willa pressed her. “What was this mysterious man like?” She leaned her elbow on the counter, resting her chin on her hand.
“Rude, to be sure,” she said.
“Rude? Is that all?”
“Arrogant.”
Willa’s brow rose. “And?”
“Running from someone or something.”
“Oh?”
“Oh, indeed. And if I’m not mistaken, though his attire was of the best quality, I could swear there was a long, narrow strip of material missing from the back of his morning coat.”
“How very odd.”
“Yes. And he claimed over and over again to be a duke.”
“Maybe he is one.”
Julia clicked her tongue in disagreement. “Wouldn’t I know one if I saw him? After all, I was raised by one.”
“All dukes look and act alike, then?” her friend asked.
“Willa…” Her best friend had a habit of teasing her.
“A fair question, is it not?”
“I suppose it is,” she said, giving a noncommittal shrug. “There was something untrustworthy about him, even predatory, as if he was undressing me with his eyes.”