Contents
Epigraph
Chapter 1
Epigraph
Chapter 2
Epigraph
Chapter 3
Epigraph
Chapter 4
Epigraph
Chapter 5
Epigraph
Chapter 6
Epigraph
Chapter 7
Epigraph
Chapter 8
Epigraph
Chapter 9
Epigraph
Chapter 10
Epigraph
Chapter 11
Epigraph
Chapter 12
Epigraph
Chapter 13
Epigraph
Chapter 14
Epigraph
Chapter 15
Epigraph
Chapter 16
Epigraph
Chapter 17
Epigraph
Chapter 18
Epigraph
Chapter 19
Epigraph
Chapter 20
Epigraph
Chapter 21
Epigraph
Chapter 22
Epigraph
Chapter 23
Epigraph
Chapter 24
Epigraph
Chapter 25
Epigraph
Chapter 26
Epigraph
Chapter 27
Epigraph
Chapter 28
Epigraph
Chapter 29
Epigraph
Epilogue
An Announcement Page to Dukes Behaving Badly
About the Author
By Megan Frampton
Copyright
About the Publisher
Epigraph
From the unedited version of A Lady of Mystery’s serial:
It was delightful outside, the sun shining directly overhead, the birds chirping loudly, while nannies walked their young charges in the park.
No one could have anticipated the drama storm horror that was to come, not on this perfect day in London.
Certainly not the young girl lady who sat waiting for her betrothed on a park bench.
But that is the nature of such tales, isn’t it? Because if horror could be anticipated, perhaps it could be prevented.
—THE PRINCESS AND THE SCOUNDREL
Chapter 1
1842, London, the Gentleman’s Pleasure House, Second Private Chamber on the Right
“And then what will you do to me?” Nicholas didn’t care so much for the particulars of the response—he knew the woman currently sitting on his lap would do what he wanted her to, and he would be gentlemanly enough to ensure she found enjoyment as well.
He was a very egalitarian lover.
“What do you want me to do to you?” she countered.
Clearly, she did not know that when he asked a question, he wanted an answer, not another question. He suppressed the feeling of irritation and, yes, boredom, and concentrated instead on placing a strawberry between her breasts, then lowering his mouth to capture the succulent fruit. Of the strawberry, not her breast. That appetizing treat would be for later.
He put his mouth to her ear and spoke, so that neither of the two ladies, one on either side of him, could hear. “I want to keep your mouth busy so you can’t speak. And when you are able to speak, you’ll be screaming my name.”
She wriggled on his lap, her plush arse riding his cock, which had already jerked to attention. She leaned her head back on his shoulder. “I’ve heard about you, m’lord, and I am very eager to find out if what they say is true.”
Nicholas wrapped his hands around her waist and slid his thumbs up so they were in the soft crease under her breasts.
This was his favorite part of being with a woman—the anticipation, wondering what her face would look like as she came apart, wondering how her body would feel under his hands, how she’d want him to take her. The actual doing of it, well, that was pleasurable as well, but none of the women he’d been with had lived up to his expectations.
But each time, with each new woman, he hoped this would be the one. This female would be able to send him to a new height of ecstasy, of wanting, of being able to lose himself, forget thinking just for a few moments of bliss; would be equal to him in bed, in conversation, in life.
Not that he thought he’d find that kind of woman here, in a house of ill repute, no matter how well it catered to men of his class. But he wasn’t particularly interested in courting a young lady of his own class only to find, once he was married, that she was no true companion to him in bed or in conversation, but that he was now married to her—for life.
He’d considered it very seriously when he’d met a lady a year or so ago—but she’d entered into another engagement before he could figure out if he actually wanted to or not. So he remained single, and singly determined not to be wed, at least not unless he was absolutely certain about the wife in question.
But he wasn’t going to eschew the pleasures of the bed just because he was pessimistic about his chances for long-term happiness. Short-term happiness, for now, would suit him just fine.
It seemed that other gentlemen in London felt the same way—the house was stocked with lovely women, rather like a well-tended fishpond, and it was as easy to catch one as baiting a hook. A hook made of money, and a few well-chosen words. He had both in abundance, which was why he currently had three women surrounding him.
He was in one of the more opulent chambers, not on the enormous bed that dominated the room, but instead seated on a long, low sofa upholstered in a dark purple hue. The furniture was also dark, and candles on several surfaces cast a warm, sensuous glow in the room. As though Nicholas and three willing ladies were not sensuous enough.
“M’lord?” The woman had turned in his lap so she faced him, while the other two women—women he’d had before, both of whom were quite skilled and enthusiastic—ruffled his hair and ran their fingers down his chest and murmured soft words, mostly involving him, and them, and what they were all going to do together later.
He was quite looking forward to it.
So he was not so happy when he heard his brother, Griffith, calling his name.
Griff wasn’t bad, as brothers went; in fact Nicholas quite liked him. But Griff, unlike his older brother, did not habituate houses of ill repute, or even houses of good repute, instead usually staying in the library to spend more time reading.
“Excuse me, ladies,” Nicholas said, removing the woman from his lap and placing her gently beside him on the sofa. He did up the buttons of his shirt and ran a hand through his hair, which he knew was entirely disheveled, thanks to the sensual stroking and playing that had been done to it.
“In here, Griff,” he shouted, getting to his feet. He was just tucking his shirt back into his trousers when Griffith entered, his brother’s eyes widening as he saw what must have appeared to be absolute and total debauchery in the room.
Or, as Nicholas liked to call it, Tuesday.
“What is it?” he asked, since Griff’s mouth was opening and closing like a chiming cuckoo clock.
“Here.” Griff thrust a piece of paper at him. “I don’t think you’d believe me if I just told you.”
Nicholas unfolded the paper, heavy parchment that already gave whatever was written on it more weight than he wanted. He scanned the lines, filled with legal jargon, and then raised his head to stare at his brother. “This says—this makes me—”
Griff nodded. “The Duke of Gage.”
Nicholas looked back at the paper, as though it would explain it all. Well, it did, actually, but he couldn’t comprehend all the whereases, in testimonys, and further reviews.
“This can’t�
�but how?” He looked at his brother, as though Griff could explain it.
“It seems that there was a dispute of lineage in a different branch of our family, quite remote, but the end result is that the current Duke of Gage isn’t really, because a few generations up there was some bigamy.” His brother could explain it. Excellent.
Only now— “And the dukedom or whatever it is called goes to me? What about all the other relatives who were next in line?”
Griff shook his head. “That bigamous marriage affected many of the offspring. It’s just like the War of the Roses, which began because John of Gaunt made his mistress his wife, and then that made their children not bastards, only—”
Nicholas punched his brother on the shoulder, not hard, just enough to make him stop talking. “I don’t need a history lesson, and I sure as hell hope this doesn’t result in a war.”
“Right. Of course.” Griff grinned and rubbed his shoulder. “Better you than me, I have to say.”
Nicholas raised an eyebrow. “Well, if it were you, it would mean I was dead, so yes, I’m very glad it was me. So what do I do now?”
Griff shrugged. “The current duke is contesting the finding, of course, but it seems as though the legality of it is on your side. Or the illegality, rather.”
Nicholas frowned. “And how is it that you know about this first, rather than me?”
Now his brother looked embarrassed. “Well, the solicitor came to the house, only you weren’t there. And I thought you’d want to know right away.”
Right. Because he was here, while his brother was at their shared abode, no doubt doing something worthy with his life rather than keeping company with no fewer than three loose women at a time. Unless that really was a worthy endeavor, and everyone in the world was wrong about suitable pursuits.
Not for the first time, Nicholas wondered just how it came to be that he and his brother were so different, yet so close—Griffith was happiest when his nose was buried in a book, while Nicholas was happiest when his nose was buried in a breast, preferably two.
His older sisters—both of whom were married—were entirely respectable as well, but they were only his half sisters, so they didn’t count as much.
He turned to the women, who were busy with each other. He had a pang as he saw just what one of them was doing to the other one, while the third watched, her eyes heavy with desire.
“It seems, my fair companions, that I have some urgent business that requires my attention.”
All three of them paused to look at him, disappointment creeping over their expressions. The one in the middle, he thought her name was Sally, said in a pouting tone, “Are you sure? Your friend there could join us, just for a little while.”
Nicholas glanced at Griff, whose face had turned an alarming shade of red. If it got any darker he would match the sofa, in fact. “I wish we could stay, ladies, but we have to go.” He didn’t want Griff to explode in some sort of embarrassed lust conflagration. That would be difficult to explain to their relatives.
He didn’t wait for any response, just took Griff’s arm and led him out the door, dropping a few coins into the hands of the woman who ran the establishment.
“So early?” she remarked, tucking the coins into her pocket. “We’ll see you soon, my lord?”
Nicholas shook his head. “I regret to say I doubt I will be returning, at least not for some time. It appears I have a dukedom to inherit.”
And with that, he pushed the door open and stepped out into the foggy night, his brother right behind.
Epigraph
From the unedited version of A Lady of Mystery’s serial:
“Miss Jane? You are waiting for Mr. Lord ArbuthnotShireSton?”
The lady glanced up from her lap book. “I am. And you are?”
She took a moment to look at him, noting his saturnine expression, his ink-black hair, his thin lips, his predatory air. She closed the book and met his gaze.
His eyes were like two dark wells, impossible to see to the bottom. She repressed a shudder.
The man didn’t reply, just sat down on the bench beside her. He stretched his arm along the back of the bench so he nearly touched her. She flinched, then edged forward on the seat.
There were people all around them. She was safe. Wasn’t she?
“And you are?” she repeated.
“I am the Prince of LaGordonza. And you are to be my bride.”
—THE PRINCESS AND THE SCOUNDREL
Chapter 2
“Did you hear? About the Duke of Gage?”
Isabella’s mother pursed her lips. “We have not heard anything. If you are about to spread idle gossip, Maria . . .”
Isabella’s aunt bounced in her chair, setting her curled ringlets swinging around her head, her eyes wide with excitement. “No, not idle gossip, Jane! It appears that the Duke of Gage is not.” Isabella’s aunt was wearing an extravagantly wide skirt with several ruffles at the hem, and her motion made the ruffles lift up just slightly.
“Not what?” Isabella’s mother’s tone was aggravated, impatient, and imperious. Her usual tone.
“Not the Duke of Gage! Aren’t you listening?”
Isabella pricked her finger on her embroidery. She didn’t want to speak, barely wanted to breathe. Did this mean—?
“How can the Duke of Gage not be the Duke of Gage?” her mother responded. “Honestly, it is hard to believe you and I are sisters; you are by far the silliest woman I have ever known.”
Maria stiffened, her own lips tightening into a thin line. The curls stilled. “If you wish to hear the news from someone else, I beg you, continue to insult me. But don’t be surprised when your precious plans for your precious daughter come to naught because her intended is a charlatan.” She nodded in triumph. “And then where will you be?”
Not married to him, thank God, Isabella thought, even though the question was not addressed to her. She glanced at her mother, whose face had changed from its usual supercilious mien to something more hesitant.
That might be the most unexpected news today—that her mother was humbled, if only for a moment.
Isabella was wearing her most suitable gown for the occasion, of course; she was never less than perfectly gowned and coiffed and all those other things her mother deemed necessary for a future duchess. Which was also why she was doing embroidery when she’d much rather be with her sister out walking in the park, or being anyone but herself, actually.
“Tell me, then,” her mother said in a clipped tone.
Her aunt, never one to hold a grudge—quite different from her sister in that regard as well—bounced again. “It seems that there was some sort of inquiry into the duke’s lineage, for some legal dispute or another, and they’ve discovered some sort of impropriety in the duke’s family, one that invalidates his right to be the duke.”
Isabella wanted to shriek in joy, or hug her aunt, or run around the room waving her arms in triumph.
She did none of those things, only allowing herself to take a deep breath as she continued sewing. The duke might not be a duke any longer, but her mother was her mother in perpetuity, and would not appreciate it if her daughter were so uncircumspect.
Her mother rose, gesturing Isabella to stand as well. “We will have to find out precisely what is going on. Your father will wish to look into this.”
Isabella felt herself shaking—in joy, or shock, she wasn’t sure. The possibility of freedom, of not having to marry the duke, dangled before her like a beautiful jewel she just had to reach out and take. And her freedom was more precious than anything, since it was so rare, rarer than the rarest diamond. She’d never even had it, not for a moment of her life, whereas diamonds, for a lady in her position, were relatively easy to see, if not own.
Her mother glared at her, as though it were her fault the duke was no longer the duke. Isabella wished she could tell her mother that if she had the kind of power to unduke someone, she would have used that power to entirely extricate herself fro
m any kind of marital agreement. Or maybe make herself look less beautiful so people would stop bothering her.
“Stop dawdling, Isabella. You can see yourself out, Maria?” It was not a question, but at least her mother gave her aunt the courtesy of pretending it was.
“Of course.” Maria patted Isabella’s hand. “I am certain you will be fine, Isabella. You will marry well, no matter who you marry.”
Isabella merely nodded, even though she wished she could tell her aunt, tell somebody, how she felt about marrying well. About how marrying well meant a very different thing to her than it did to her family.
If she didn’t have to marry the duke after all she could find someone, perhaps, who would care for her. That would be a good marriage, not one where her husband’s title was more important than if he was a pleasant man. She didn’t require love, but she wanted companionship, and friendliness, and perhaps a measure of fondness.
The duke—at least, the only Duke of Gage she currently knew—had never shown her any of those things, or any possibility of them, instead treating her as her mother did, as someone to be corrected and scolded into perfection.
Perfection Isabella had achieved, even though she wasn’t proud of it. She had been molded into the perfect duchess, only now—only now it seemed as though there was no duke to fulfill her training. The thought made her want to laugh, if only because it so thoroughly ruined her mother’s plans.
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