The Duke of Hearts

by Jess Michaels

  The Duke of Hearts

  (The 1797 Club Book 7)

  By

  USA Today Bestseller

  Jess Michaels

  The Duke of Hearts

  The 1797 Club Book 7

  www.1797Club.com

  Copyright © Jesse Petersen, 2018

  ISBN-13: 9781947770072

  All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  For more information, contact Jess Michaels

  www.AuthorJessMichaels.com

  To contact the author:

  Email: Jess@AuthorJessMichaels.com

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  http://www.authorjessmichaels.com/

  Dedication

  For Leora Hansen. A true embodiment of class, dedication and kindness. Thank you for all you did for the hundreds of students who loved you. Rest well, dear friend.

  And for Michael, who I met in her class. Debate kids make the best marriages.

  Chapter One

  Spring 1812

  It could have been called a 1797 Club party, thanks to the number of friends Matthew Cornwallis, Duke of Tyndale, had in attendance. Dukes abounded, in seemingly every corner. Once upon a time, he would have enjoyed this moment when they were all together. It had become so rare over the years as his friends grew into their titles, their marriages, their responsibilities. But at present, it was not joy in Matthew’s heart as he watched them from a distance.

  It was something far darker, far uglier. Something he did not wish to name. More than half of his friends were here with their wives. They spun around the dancefloor in pairs, eyes locked, hands inappropriately low, laughter echoing, cheeks filling with color thanks to whispered words.

  They were all happy. He should have been happy for them. He was. And he wasn’t. Because he was standing on the outside now, looking in on a world he should have joined years ago. Except Angelica had died.

  All he was left with were regrets.

  Suddenly Robert Smithton, Duke of Roseford, slid up beside him. Wordlessly he handed Matthew a scotch and then lifted his own glass to clink it against Matthew’s.

  “To the bachelors,” he said, staring out at the dancefloor and their friends. “Those of us left, that is.”

  Matthew shut his eyes. There were days when his grief still felt so raw, no matter how many years had passed since the death of his fiancée. Today was one of them, and Robert’s words were like a knife in his heart.

  “Sorry,” Robert said softly.

  Matthew’s eyes flew open and he stared at his friend. Robert was almost his polar opposite, a man driven by pleasure and nothing more. He didn’t allow deeper emotions, so he never experienced the pain that went with them.

  But he was also a brilliant mind, a loyal friend and someone Matthew cared deeply for, regardless of his judgment of Robert’s decisions.

  “I must look like hell if you’re apologizing to me,” Matthew croaked out before he took a sip of his drink.

  The tension on Robert’s face bled away and he grinned, the rogue in full force at that moment. “I’m apologizing because I’m an ass,” he said. “But you know that. You’re always telling me much the same.”

  Matthew drew in a deep breath as the pain faded a fraction. Leave it to Robert to do that. He did appreciate it.

  “Well, you’re no more an ass than usual,” he said softly. “So I forgive you this once.”

  Robert tipped his head. “Much obliged, Your Grace.”

  Matthew sighed as his attention returned to the others. The music had faded now and they were joining up in little clusters, the women comparing gowns and smiling at their husbands. Every once in a while, Ewan, Duke of Donburrow, brushed his hand over his wife Charlotte’s swollen pregnant belly, and a shadow of a smile crossed his normally serious face.

  “It’s the end of an era,” Robert mused.

  Matthew jolted from his own thoughts and nodded. “I suppose it is. They have all found their matches, leaving only a handful of us without such happiness. But it was bound to happen, wasn’t it? We’re of an age to do such things. Someone will be next.”

  Robert snorted out a laugh of derision. “It won’t bloody well be me,” he said, and downed his entire drink in one slug.

  Matthew laughed with him. “No, my assumption is that you will be last—you enjoy your life too much to surrender it willingly.”

  For a brief moment, a shadow crossed Robert’s face. Matthew tilted his head at the sight of it, for it was an expression he’d never seen before on his old friend. Before he could press, Hugh Margolis, Duke of Brighthollow and another of their bachelor friends, approached.

  Matthew’s concern shifted. In the past six months, he’d seen a change in Hugh. His hair had grown out, his cheeks were slashed with stubble more often than not. More than that, there was something deeply troubled in his dark gaze. Whenever he was asked about it, he waved the question off.

  But tonight some of that trouble seemed faded. He grinned at his friends, back to the light and lively companion he’d always been. He even slung an arm around Robert. “And what are you two talking about so seriously, eh?”

  Robert rolled his eyes. “How very romantic our friends have all become. We were debating who would enter the snare of marriage next.” He winked at Matthew. “And we were discussing how miserable Tyndale is.”

  Hugh’s smile fell and his expression gentled. “Are you very miserable, Tyndale?”

  Matthew shook his head. It was a funny thing. Once you lost someone, it was like you turned to glass. Everyone else tiptoed around, trying not to upset or break anything. He was growing tired of it, in truth.

  “It’s been three years,” he said softly. “I suppose Robert is right that I ought to be over the loss by now and not roaming around like the maudlin hero of a romantic novel.”

  Robert shrugged. “In my experience, ladies trip over themselves for a maudlin hero. You must start using it to your advantage.”

  Matthew couldn’t picture doing anything of the kind, but he played along for Robert’s sake. “And how do you suggest I do that?”

  It was like he’d offered his friend a thousand pounds, Roseford’s eyes lit up so bright. He was practically bouncing as he said, “Let’s get out of this stuffy party and go somewhere fun.”

  Hugh shook his head. “I shudder to think what you define as fun, my friend. Where exactly do you mean?”

  Robert grinned wider. “The Donville Masquerade.”

  Matthew stared at him, his mouth slightly agape. “The sex club,” he said with a shake of his head. God’s teeth, everyone knew about the Donville Masquerade.

  Robert drew back. “You limit yourself, my dear old friend. Not just a sex club. There’s drink, gaming and dancing, and yes, I think a night with a comely lady would do each of us good.”

  “Christ,” Hugh said with a slight laugh. “You and your appetites.”

  Robert wrinkled his brow. “And since when is indulging in pleasure such a terrible appetite? It can’t have been so long since you did the same.”

  Hugh shifted. “Well…nine months,” he admitted.

  Robert’s eyes went impossibly wide and his mouth twisted in horror. “No. That…can’t be true. Is that even possible? Matthew, tell him that he will turn into a monk if he doesn’t change his ways.”

  The two men faced Matthew and now it was h
is cheeks that filled with color. “I doubt I’m the one to tell him such, considering how long it’s been for me.”

  Robert drew back. “Longer than nine months?”

  Matthew cleared his throat. “I’m not sure this is a proper topic—”

  “Ten months?” Robert pressed. “A year?”

  “Honestly, Roseford, you are—”

  “More than a year?” Robert nearly recoiled into the crowd.

  Matthew let out a long sigh. He knew his bulldog of a friend, and there was no way he’d let this go until he had uncovered the number. “Fine. Three and a half years.”

  Robert gaped, unspeaking. Even Hugh jerked his face toward Matthew like he’d declared he had decided to take over Spain. Matthew pursed his lips and forced himself to remain impassive beneath their horrified expressions.

  “How are you both not…dead?” Robert said. “You are dead, for that sounds like living in a grave.”

  “Roseford,” Hugh said, voice heavy with warning.

  Robert waved him off. “It’s settled, we’re going to the Donville Masquerade tonight. I have a membership and you two will come as my guests. I shall brook no refusals.”

  With that, he turned on his heel and strode from the ballroom, likely to call for his carriage.

  Matthew stared at Hugh and found him looking back. Brighthollow shrugged. “He isn’t entirely wrong, you know.”

  “Of course he isn’t,” Matthew said. “He never is. Not entirely.”

  “We probably both could use a break from our troubles. Nothing says you have to spend an evening with a lightskirt, after all.”

  Matthew shifted. He rarely thought about sinful things anymore. Those thoughts had seemed so wrong after Angelica’s death. Eventually he’d just purged them from his mind and become the monk Robert had first accused Hugh of being.

  “You’re right,” he said with a sigh. “And I’ll go, if only to keep him from having an apoplexy in the middle of James and Emma’s ballroom.”

  They moved to say their goodbyes to their friends, but Hugh caught his arm before they could reach anyone. He tugged Matthew to face him and his expression was serious.

  “You aren’t betraying her,” he said softly.

  Matthew’s lips parted and he nodded. “I know.”

  Except that wasn’t true. What Robert wanted from him felt exactly like a betrayal of the woman he had once loved, the one he’d lost. And that’s why he had no intention of doing it. Not even when surrounded by “temptation” at the wicked Donville Masquerade.

  Isabel Hayes straightened her mask before the door to the hack opened and a bored servant offered her a hand down. He took a few coins from her for the driver and motioned her toward the entrance of a dull looking building with an elaborately carved door.

  Only Isabel knew that there was nothing boring about this place. And nothing ordinary.

  She stepped into the foyer and found the regular man standing at a high table, a book balanced on its surface. “Good evening, miss. Your name or arranged name?”

  Isabel shifted. She certainly wasn’t going to use her real name here of all places. “Miss Swan,” she said, and her cheeks felt hot with the lie.

  He scanned over the book and made a little mark. “Good evening, Miss Swan. Welcome to the Donville Masquerade.”

  As he said those words, he came around to a secondary door and swung it open wide, allowing her in to the inner sanctum of the place.

  Immediately, she tensed. That was always her reaction when she entered this home of sin and seduction and wicked pleasures that women such as herself were not supposed to crave.

  And yet she did. Desperately.

  The first room was a wide, open gambling hall, and she stepped inside. She’d been here three times, if she counted tonight. And she was still nervous as her eyes scanned the hall.

  Some of it was what one might expect. There were tables scattered about and men and women playing games at them. Normal, if scandalous. But there was more, too. Against one wall, a lady and a gentleman leaned together, kissing wildly as his hands ran over her body. On one of the tables, a couple was copulating like animals right out in the open as a handful of men watched and cheered.

  Isabel’s stomach fluttered at the sight, her own body aching as she edged around the room, trying to stay small so she wouldn’t be noticed as she watched.

  She liked to watch. She’d discovered that scandalous secret about herself some time ago, and this was one place to feed that desire. The only place, considering how time was running out for her.

  She shook her head, pushing away those unwanted thoughts, and instead leaned against the wall to watch the patrons around her. Watched them talk and kiss, watched anonymous hands go under skirts and cocks be pulled from trousers, watched as some of the couples disappeared down the hallway to slake their needs in the private rooms they paid extra to access, while others didn’t wait and had their fill out in the open.

  Her knees were already weak and her sex throbbed, but in that moment the atmosphere in the chamber changed. There was a murmur that seemed to touch every part of the crowd and people began to crane their necks toward the entrance. She did the same and saw three masked men had entered the room.

  “Excuse me,” she said, motioning to one of the servants.

  “Yes, miss?” he said, and it didn’t escape her notice that his gaze moved up and down her frame. She blushed, for it was one thing to look and another to be seen.

  “Wh-who are the men who just entered?”

  He looked and shook his head. “I know the one in the middle is the Duke of Roseford. He makes no effort to hide his identity, even though he wears a mask. The others? I don’t know, miss. Excuse me.”

  He moved back off to the crowd and Isabel worried her lower lip as the men entered the chamber. They were all three tall. One had brown hair that was a bit too long and thick with wild curls. The one in the middle, identified as a duke, had an air of confidence and a wicked quirk to his mouth.

  But it was the third who caught her eye. He had hair as dark as pitch, close cut. She could not see his eyes thanks to the distance and the mask that shaded them, but he had a well-defined jaw with a hint of a beard, and fine lips.

  She jolted. Fine lips? Who in the world called a man’s lips fine?

  She watched as women from the crowd swarmed up to the new arrivals. Most seemed enamored of the duke in the middle, leaning over to him, putting themselves on display as he grinned.

  She noted that her mystery man seemed the least interested of the three. Oh, he looked, but he stepped away, as if he wanted to avoid the trouble about to be started by hungry hands and experienced mouths.

  She had a less experienced mouth, of course, but she wondered what that man would taste like.

  Pivoting, she lifted a hand to her suddenly trembling lips. Great God, what was wrong with her? She came here to watch, not participate. She hadn’t the courage to do so, nor the ability to forget all she had been taught as a lady. Well, something like a lady, at any rate.

  She certainly wasn’t here to wax poetic about a stranger, or determine his taste. That would be unseemly. He was here for the lightskirts.

  He moved away from his friends into the crowd and she forced herself to put her attention back to what she’d come for. The night was drawing later, and as always, that meant the activities in the room were growing more heated. Gaming became desperate, more and more of the people gave up on it entirely to surrender to their hedonistic needs. She heard the music from the back of the room, where there was a stage for acts so scandalous that they made her knees weak.

  And yet, as she watched the games, her mind kept returning to that man at the door. When she watched a man strip a woman’s dress open at the front and bury his face in her breasts, she pictured herself in that position, only with a masked man with full lips.

  “Hello, pretty lady.”

  She froze at the sound of a drunken vo
ice beside her. Normally, she was very aware of the other patrons and moved herself out of the way of anyone who leered. But she’d been distracted and now when she turned there was a very large, very drunk, very focused man standing over her, licking his lips as he looked at her.

  “What a pretty little chick you are,” he drawled. “Looking for a fox to come into your henhouse?”

  She stepped back, but the crowd had swelled and there was very little space to be put between then. She forced a smile. “You mistake me, sir, I am not here for…foxes.”

  He laughed. “Well, if you like hens, I’d pay you ten pounds to watch.”

  Her eyes widened. That was one thing she hadn’t seen during her time here. “N-no,” she insisted. “I’m sure there are other ladies who would be pleased at the offer, though. Good night.”

  She pivoted to walk away and he caught her arm, dragging her back toward him. His eyes were no longer filled with humor, but dark and angry. “You’re right, plenty of other ladies would give what I wanted. I chose you, you tart. Now give me what I want.”

  She pulled against his grip, but he was far too big and strong to escape. “Stop,” she said firmly and clearly. “I said no.”

  “You don’t get to say no,” he growled.

  “I believe she just did.”

  Isabel gaped in shock, for the very handsome man she had been focused on earlier was the one speaking as he pushed through the crowd. It was as if she’d conjured him. Up close she could see his eyes were a beautiful gray, and right now they were stormy seas, filled with anger at the man holding her.

  “You meant it, did you not?” he asked softly, those eyes darting over to her. “You weren’t playing a game?”

  “No—no,” she gasped, even more captivated by the dark, deep resonance of his voice. “I was not playing a game.”

  The stranger reached out and caught the cad’s arm, breaking his grip on her wrist and pulling him away from her. She lifted it, rubbing gently as the stranger put himself between them.