Sins of a Duke

by Stacy Reid

  She would be his perfect revenge...

  All of the young ladies whispered about the Duke of Mondvale in hushed tones, their eyes following his tall, dark figure with barely disguised lust. For the newly-ostracized Lady Constance Thornton, he is magnetic and altogether desirable. Irresistibly so. Since her reputation is already ruined in London society, why shouldn’t she be impudent and dance with the scandalous “Lord of Sin”?

  Little does she know of his plans.

  The beautiful and innocent Lady Constance is no mere plaything for Lucan Wynwood. She will be his revenge. By ruining her, he will have his vengeance against her brother. Except that the Lady Constance is full of surprises...and now she could well be the ruin of him.

  Sins of a Duke

  a Scandalous House of Calydon novel

  Stacy Reid

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

  Copyright © 2015 by Stacy Reid. All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce, distribute, or transmit in any form or by any means. For information regarding subsidiary rights, please contact the Publisher.

  Entangled Publishing, LLC

  2614 South Timberline Road

  Suite 109

  Fort Collins, CO 80525

  Visit our website at www.entangledpublishing.com.

  Scandalous is an imprint of Entangled Publishing, LLC.

  Edited by Nina Bruhns and Alycia Tornetta

  Cover design by Libby Murphy

  Cover art by Dollar Photo Club

  ISBN 978-1-63375-237-5

  Manufactured in the United States of America

  First Edition March 2015

  Table of Contents

  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

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Other books by Stacy Reid The Duke’s Shotgun Wedding

  The Irresistible Miss Peppiwell

  Don’t miss out on more Scandalous romance… Once Upon a Wallflower

  The Lady’s Disgrace

  Miss Winters Proposes

  A Spy Unmasked

  Tempting the Pirate

  Lord of Regrets

  For Dusean. You are too amazing.

  Chapter One

  London, April 1883

  Lady Constance Thornton stood apart from the swirl and buzz of the midnight ball she was attending, watching Lucan Devlin Wynwood, Duke of Mondvale, with the utmost discretion. The haute monde found him deliciously dangerous and unpredictable. Constance thought he might easily have been her prince charming…except, of course, he was a degenerate, a dangerous libertine a young lady of virtue should stay away from.

  But then, that was one of the things that drew her—Mondvale was even more notorious than she.

  She watched his dark head dip as he whispered in Lady Shrewsbury’s ear, and suspected he was arranging a clandestine meeting. As if he felt Constance’s eyes on him, he glanced up. Her breath seized. Cold silver eyes captured hers before insolently caressing the length of her body. He seemed terrifyingly exotic with his strong jaw, sensual mouth, savagely high cheekbones, and thick raven-black hair.

  Heat flushed her body, but she could not look away. Why was he looking at her? She prayed Lady Shrewsbury was not gossiping about her. Constance glanced at the widow and noted she clung to his dark jacket sleeve as if enraptured by whatever he murmured in her ear.

  Mondvale had the most unsavory reputation, yet he intrigued Constance. Unlike her, he was uncaring of what society thought about him. He appalled them all by owning the famous gambling club, Decadence. He titillated some, repulsed others, yet they were all too fascinated to banish him from their circles. Mondvale was fawned over, revered even, and Constance wanted to know how he did it. It could not be by virtue of him being a duke alone. Her brother, Sebastian, ruled one on the most powerful dukedoms in England; her family’s wealth was unmatched. Yet all that had faded in the disdain society currently showed her. The only testament to her family’s wealth and power were the few invitations to the Season’s social events.

  Constance lowered her lashes and turned away from the cold, magnetic, and penetrating gaze that stared at her.

  “She is indeed a bastard! Look at her, the very image of Viscount Radcliffe himself. How did we not notice the likeness? They have the same blond hair and vivid green eyes.” The loud whisper of Lady Daphne, the Earl of Wakefield’s daughter, clearly designed to reach Constance’s ears, had the desired impact.

  A sharp tremor of bitterness quivered through her. She refused to show any emotion, trying to draw upon the coldness she had seen her brother display on numerous occasions. She feared she failed abysmally when tears pricked behind her eyelids. She swallowed, but the lump that formed in her throat seemed to lodge itself, immovable despite her several gulps.

  God, why am I here? Why did I not tell Mother no?

  Constance had been in town for the past several weeks, and after a number of miserable social events, it had taken tremendous courage to attend the ball tonight, knowing the condemnation that awaited her. She felt so branded, cut off, and isolated from the very people who had fawned over and loved her last season.

  Only a year ago, she had been one of them, the belle of the ball, her presence sought after by both young men and ladies. She had been so thrilled when she made her debut into society, so excited to go about securing a well-made match. Sebastian had been overly indulgent, declining all offers for her last season. It was a decision she had no doubt he now regretted. Then the rumors of her illegitimacy had surfaced, and overnight she had become a pariah—the Beautiful Bastard. The haute monde had deemed her imperfect, and had moved with swift and brutal efficiency to cut off the one who offended their sensibilities. Friends had turned cold, and her laughter and joy had withered.

  Even though the rumors also hinted at her brother Anthony’s illegitimacy, it seemed that being a female bastard was more unforgivable. Yet her mother was still determined she be displayed on the marriage mart. Constance did not delude herself by thinking she was being seriously considered by any suitors. What lord would want to marry a lady with such inferior circumstances? Not even the misters seemed interested in winning her favor.

  She had believed after rusticating in Dorset for almost five months, away from the prying eyes of society, the gossip would have moved onto greater scandals. But she had been in London now for almost three weeks, and not one of her many former friends had presented themselves at the townhouse in Grosvenor Square. Even her dearest friend from last season, Lady Annabelle, had been notably absent. Constance had written to Lady Annabelle while in the country, but after her reply demanding to know the truth of the rumors, no further correspondence had followed.

  Shame burned in Constance’s veins, because despite her elder brother’s efforts, even a duke’s influence could not coerce people to actually speak with her. The only people at tonight’s ball who had conversed with her, apart from her sister-in-law, Lady Phillipa, were the host and hostess. And their reluctance had been clearly evident.
<
br />   A deep ache burgeoned inside her. Her life had become so tedious. For enjoyment, she had been reduced to watching others enjoy themselves.

  “What was Lady Lawrence thinking, inviting her?”

  “Her brother is the Duke of Calydon. Lady Lawrence may have had little choice,” another voice muttered.

  Constance wanted to turn around to identify the speakers, but she focused instead on the dancing couples.

  “Don’t you mean half-brother?”

  Her breath hitched. The mocking laughter and twittering grated on her nerves. She wanted to lash out and hurt them as they had hurt her. But she knew a lady did not behave in such a manner. And while her mother had failed to inform her of her true parentage, the viscountess had raised a lady.

  With deliberate movements, Constance walked away, heading toward the refreshment table. She did not have much of an appetite, but she needed something to do. She selected a plate and put a few bite-sized morsels on it. She stiffened as she heard another cackle of whispers from a group lounging idly by. Her shoulders relaxed when she realized for once they were not discussing her.

  “He is so devilishly handsome,” an unknown voice gushed.

  “Shhh!” Lady Felicity giggled. “Not so loud.” Then she imparted her own juicy titbit. “They say he killed a man in the Orient.”

  The gossiping ladies gasped in unison, then went silent as if they could hardly breathe.

  “I do not believe it,” the unknown voice proclaimed, as if declaring it to be so would make it a fact. “My brother says he is very wealthy and a good catch.”

  They gasped again, scandalized.

  “Oh Maryann, only you would dare admit such a thing! They call him the Lord of Sin for good reason.”

  Someone giggled. “The moniker suits him. He is sinfully tempting.”

  Constance gritted her teeth, for while they whispered about them both, the haute monde hated her, yet reluctantly loved him. She who had done nothing to deserve their disdain, while Mondvale actively flouted the dictates of polite society. It was so unfair.

  Lady Felicity continued caustically, “Mother says he is a degenerate, and if any young lady were to dance with him she would certainly be ruined. He is nothing but a common gambler. He is not fit for the title. But look at him, one would think he had inherited the title at birth rather than by accident.”

  Constance’s disgust threatened to choke her. An accident? Mondvale had been the next in line to inherit, whether he had been several times removed or not. It was the rule of primogeniture, but apparently that did not matter. She knew what they saw—the self-assurance and the arrogance that was normally only inbred from birth—and they resented him for it. He cut quite a commanding figure, generations of aristocratic breeding evident in every inch of his bearing despite not being an entitled eldest son. She realized it was the mantle of power that sat so easily on his broad shoulders. Not breeding, as far as society was concerned.

  “He’s absolutely beautiful.” This voice had a dreamy undertone of need. “Mother says I must positively stay away from him, and I must refuse him if he asks me to dance. But to be his duchess!”

  Constance’s lips curled in distaste, for she knew all the mothers were secretly hoping he would single their charges out for attention.

  “Father says he’s been out of the country for years, mingling with savages and all sorts of inferiors.”

  “Almost ten years, I am told. He returned to our shores only for the title. They say—”

  Unable to listen to any more of their vileness, Constance left her plate on the table and slipped through the French doors that opened onto a wide terrace overlooking the ornate glass conservatory and the stunning garden below. There, she breathed soft sighs of freedom. A slight chill bit into her bones, but she found she did not mind it. It was a welcome relief to feel something other than dread and crushing disappointment.

  “Constance?”

  She shifted and smiled when she espied Lady Phillipa, Anthony’s wife. Clad in a lime green gown that accentuated her lovely coloring and fiery red hair, she looked stunning. Phillipa held out her hands, drawing Constance closer, hugging her briefly. Constance could see the glow of concern in her sister-in-law’s golden brown eyes.

  “Are you doing well? I did not mean to leave you for so long,” Phillipa said softly.

  “I…” Constance forced a smile. She knew she failed in hiding her feelings when Phillipa winced. “It is more difficult than I had imagined.” Constance glanced through the French doors at Lady Annabelle, who had made a dedicated effort to ignore her since her arrival. “I am regretful I came.”

  She wondered when it would all end. This was just the last of many attempts to attend a social function since her circumstances were revealed, and it was proving as painful and lonely as her first outing. A musicale yesterday and a picnic last week had been disastrous. She would have much preferred to remain in the country, away from prying eyes, wagging tongues, and the scorn of society. But she kept trying, for her family, especially her mother.

  “Anthony should make an appearance soon,” Phillipa assured. “And Jocelyn has sent a note. She refuses to be confined at Sherring Cross while you face this damnable ostracism. She and Sebastian will be traveling to town in a few weeks.”

  Constance contained her grimace. Her other sister-in-law, the Duchess of Calydon, had decided to stay at Sherring Cross, the family’s ducal home, for the Season, due to her pregnancy. Jocelyn had claimed to have no interest in residing in the foul London air. Constance knew the bigger reason was to lend her support when Constance had refused to reenter society after her illegitimacy had been revealed, and she loved Jocelyn more for it. Constance had no doubt Phillipa must have written to Jocelyn about her abysmal reception when her mother finally dragged her back to London.

  “It will not make a difference,” she said wearily. “Over five months have gone by, but the rumor mill is still churning. Jocelyn traveling in her state is not necessary.”

  Constance’s throat tightened in pain. The rumors really had not abated. It was almost as if they were being stoked, deliberately kept alive.

  “I understand how you feel, Constance.”

  “Do you?” She instantly regretted her waspish tone. “Oh, Phillipa, please forgive me. I know you also battle with the stigma, being married to Anthony.”

  Phillipa had defied convention a few months ago and married Anthony—much to her parents’ and society’s objection. She had not escaped unscathed, but it did not seem to matter to her. Constance wished she had such a temperament, so she could also disregard society’s opinion.

  Phillipa brushed a lock of Constance’s hair behind her ear. “You have every right to feel angry and frustrated. Please do not apologize to me. I am very aware that Anthony and I are invited to many more social events than you are.” Phillipa seemed to gather her composure before she pressed on. “I am beginning to realize ignoring the rumors will not quash them. They seem to grow stronger every day instead of fading. I am of a mind to think your mother might be right, that marriage may be the only way for you to be accepted.”

  Constance flinched and stepped away. She and Phillipa had become very close over the past few months, and she was the only one in the family who had not seemed intent on pressing the idea of marriage. In fact, Phillipa herself had been firmly against marriage until Anthony charmed her into changing her tune. Whenever Constance listened to her sister-in-law talk about his courtship, a deep pain traveled through her. She wanted that same kind of passion and intensity in her own life. A few months ago, her prince charming had been Lord Andrew Bellamy, the Viscount of Litchfield. He had been amiable, witty, a beautiful dancer, and seemed to hang on every word she uttered. His family had adored her, and she’d been delighted when he made an offer for her hand…at least at first. Then, a few days after the gossip surfaced, he had cried off. Sebastian had been coldly furious, but she had refused to let him insist Lord Litchfield honor his obviously empty words. She was
only grateful there had not been a public announcement of their engagement.

  She was illegitimate, the by-blow of an illicit liaison. And the heir to the Earldom of Berwick could do far better.

  As soon as that bitter thought occurred to her, she buried it, for she had vowed never again to label herself as society had done.

  “Lord Litchfield—” Phillipa began, but Constance waved her off.

  “Litchfield does not possess any tender affections for me, Phillipa. I asked him, and he just stammered.” Since crying off, Lord Litchfield had remade his offer twice. Constance knew Sebastian had something to do with it, but she was no longer interested. “I have told mother I will not marry him if he does not love me. Even if he did…I would not agree, because I know I do not love him.”

  Constance watched Phillipa keenly and saw the discomfort in her gaze. “But—”

  “I know Anthony and Mother asked you to speak with me. I have told them both I will not marry someone I do not love. Don’t you see? I want what you and Anthony, and Jocelyn and Sebastian have. The coldness in Sebastian flees whenever Jocelyn smiles at him. Anthony adores you, and it’s almost painful to see how you look at each other. Even Mother—” She took a deep breath. “The reason I am a bastard was because of how much she loved Lord Radcliffe. Why, then, do you all not understand that I do not want to marry unless it is for love?”

  “Oh, sweeting, we do. It’s just—”

  Constance’s throat burned and she fought back the tears. “I should feel something for my husband shouldn’t I? Or should I just feel grateful he was willing to marry me, despite my illegitimacy?”

  Phillipa walked toward the tables and chairs on the terrace and sank into one. Constance followed suit, and gave Phillipa a small smile when she gripped one of Constance’s hands. She wanted only to hide how shattered she was.

  “I do understand, Connie, more than you know. And I do not beseech you to marry Lord Litchfield to save your reputation.” Phillipa smiled gently as if to remove the sting of what she was about to say. “But when he asked for you last year, you did say yes. I ask you to remember that you must have had some feelings for him and to give him a chance to court you again. And if those feelings resurrect, you could marry him.” She squeezed Constance’s hand.