Two Notorious Dukes
Lyndsey Norton
Front Cover: “The Gallant Suitor” by Edmund Blair Leighton
Public Domain via Google Images
© 2012 by Lyndsey Norton All rights reserved The right of Lyndsey Norton to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
All the characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead is purely coincidental.
Createspace and Lesnor Enterprises
ISBN-13: 978-1481244855 ISBN-10: 148124485X
Prologue
John Spencer Argyll, the Duke of Goring, staggered from his coach into the grand entrance of his family townhouse on Grosvenor Square. He went straight into the study, sat at his desk, staring in the fire and consumed more brandy, before he staggered out and took a run at the first flight of stairs to the upper parlours. On the wide landing he crashed unceremoniously onto the carpet as he lost his balance. ‘Christ! I can’t seem to stay in the saddle tonight!’ he cursed as he crawled along to the stairs to the upper floor. He pushed aside the footman who tried to help him up the next flight of stairs and in the end he crawled up the last few steps on his hands and knees. As he turned to go down the landing he stopped as his eyes couldn’t believe that a pretty girl was sitting outside his bedroom door. He sat back on his heels. ‘Who is that?’ he tried to whisper in wonder. ‘Is she really sitting outside my door?’
‘That is Lady Elizabeth’s maid, Your Grace.’ The Footman said calmly and his valet, Carter, arrived just in time as the Duke started to crawl towards the unsuspecting maid. ‘This way, Your Grace, her Grace has had the green room prepared, just in case!’
‘The Green Room? What the fuck am I doing in the Green Room?’ Argyll blurted without any caution whatsoever. ‘My Rooms are down there!’ he said most haughtily as he pointed down to the maid, ‘and she can keep me warm tonight!’ he said as his eyes tried to focus on the maid. He started to crawl again. ‘Hello, little missy.’ He said lasciviously. ‘I’ll be right there!’
Everyone in the corridor heard the blood curdling scream. ‘What the hell is that?’ the Duke asked, even through two bottles of Claret and a bottle of Brandy he could hear the horror in that scream. It made all the hairs on his body stand on end. The maid stood up and went straight into his room. ‘What the hell is going on in my house?’ he demanded, but he was far too drunk to really understand.
His valet and the footman had to force the issue, so they yanked him to his feet and helped him into his room, stripped off his jacket and cravat and undid the front of his lawn shirt. They stripped off his boots and then let him fall face first onto the bed, where he snored until the morning.
He groaned loudly. God! How much did I drink last night?He asked himself bitterly as his head thumped and his mouth felt like the Sahara Desert.
‘Good morning, Your Grace!’ his valet said cheerfully.
‘God! Don’t shout so bloody loud!’ Argyll muttered as he turned on his back and looked at the ceiling. He frowned and looked about the room. ‘Why am I in the Green Room?’ he demanded.
‘The Lady Elizabeth, Countess of Craanford has your rooms, Your Grace.’ Carter replied as he manoeuvred the bath in front of the fire and beckoned in the first footman with a huge jug of hot water.
‘Why?’ Argyll asked as the servants came in one after the other to fill the tub.
‘Her Grace, the Duchess’s orders, Your Grace.’ Carter said blithely, as he spread towels out in front of the fire to warm.
‘So who was the girl on the landing last night?’ he asked his valet, vividly recalling the pretty dark haired girl sitting outside his chambers.
‘That was Lady Elizabeth’s maid, Your Grace.’ He smiled softly.
‘What are you smirking at?’ the Duke demanded haughtily.
The valet’s smile increased. ‘You were intent on making a personal introduction to the young maid, Your Grace. I believe you were going to ask her to warm your bed!’
‘The devil I did!’ erupted from Argyll’s mouth and he sat up abruptly as the maid brought in a tray of tea. ‘Ah! Tea!’ he said in bliss. ‘Thank you, Betty.’ He responded as the young maid handed him a brimming cup of hot tea. ‘So who exactly is this Countess of Craanford?’
‘She is a widow the Duchess has taken under her wing, Your Grace.’
‘Aren’t you out of bed yet, Johnny?!’ Robert Francis Bosworth, Duke of Roding, bellowed from the doorway and smiled beatifically as the Duke cringed.
‘Don’t shout, Robbie, it really is too early for that.’ And he sipped his tea. ‘What are you doing here so early?’
‘Early!? It’s nearly eleven o’clock and we’re supposed to be in the House this morning.’ Robert was disconcerted to see Argyll frowning. ‘Don’t tell me you don’t remember?’ he said indignantly. ‘I didn’t think you were that foxed last night!’
‘Carter? Who was screaming on the landing last night?’ the Duke asked seriously.
‘Screaming, Your Grace?’ the valet asked evasively.
‘Screaming?’ Bosworth asked intrigued. He sniggered. ‘Perhaps Lord Monmouth was giving The Duchess a good time.’
‘No. It wasn’t that kind of scream.’ Argyll sighed. ‘It was a scream to fill your heart with horror. It turned me to stone and I was blathered!’
‘I don’t recollect, Your Grace,’ Carter said softly, ‘your bath is ready.’
‘I’ll go straight to the house, it’s going to take you a while to get ready and Lord Liverpool was most insistent.’ Robert said softly, still frowning at the unsettled look on his friends face.
Argyll stood up, stripped off his remaining clothes quickly and plunged his body into the hot water, gasping at the sting of it. Carter draped a towel around the back edge of the bath tub, and Argyll settled against it, lowering his upper half into the water to soak the ache from his shoulders. He contemplated his knees, where they were sticking up out of the water and murmured. ‘Thank you, Carter. I’ll call when I need you.’
‘Very good, Your Grace.’ The valet said and quietly withdrew.
Johnny Argyll was thirty five, he’d just celebrated his thirty fifth birthday, with nagging from his stepmother about marriage and children. He considered the Duchess. Lady Verity Argyll had married the aging seventh Duke of Goring when she was still only sweet sixteen. Her parents had been ecstatic that she had made such a fortunate alliance.
She was genuinely horrified on the wedding night, when David spent the entire day drinking port and brandy to such an extent that he snored until the early hours in his study, leaving Verity lying in bed wondering what was wrong. When he did finally consummate the marriage, it was fleeting and frustrating for the hot blooded sixteen year old, who thought the old Duke would be able to service her properly. But with the succession already decided, there was no pressure for her to provide an heir and in the end, the Duke introduced her to Lord Monmouth, Earl of Withering, who was about ten years her senior. He took the young Duchess under his wing and showed her exactly what the Old Duke couldn’t be bothered to do. She had calmly stood by and watched the old Duke drink himself to death, secure in the knowledge that she would retain her title and that Johnny, the eighth Duke of Goring, wouldn’t eject her from the family estate, because she made sure that she never gave him a reason to, even though he was aware of Monmouth’s attentions.
He smiled softly as he thought about her and how she was practically a child still as she struggled to take over the training of a ducal heir. They had spent so much time together when he was young, before his father had sent him to Eton and then India, followed by Cambridge University. He didn’t remember his own mo
ther, just the unreliable portrait at Goring Hall, which showed a calm, blond woman, who was obviously as cold as a fish. When he compared the portrait to the young woman who he grew up with, he was always surprised that his father didn’t seem to bother with her, but he supposed his father was just doing a friend a good turn by marrying a daughter.
She’s going start pressing soon,he told himself. Maybe that’s why this Lady Elizabeth has suddenly appeared.
He shuddered, picked up the soap and loofah and proceeded to scrub away the brandy that had sweated out of his pores over night. He dunked his head under the water and vigorously lathered his hair, calling out for Carter, who would be waiting on the landing with an urn of hot water to rinse his head. Carter came in and up ended the large jug, keeping the water cascading, rather than letting it go all at once. Argyll stroked the soap out of his blond wavy hair and off his face. As Carter left to get another jug, he soaped his lower body thoroughly, making sure he got in all the nooks and crannies. He sat down and rinsed the soap off of his body and as Carter arrived back, he stood again and Carter swilled him off with fresh water. Then he stepped out of the tub, onto the towel in front of the fire and grabbed a towel, swishing it quickly around his waist as Carter draped a second towel over his shoulders. Argyll sat in the bath chair beside the fire and using another towel rubbed his hair dry as the servants came in to empty the bath.
The Eighth Duke of Goring was a fine figure of a man, as the ladies all said. He was tall, broad and athletic, keeping himself fit by fencing as often as possible and riding every day. His face was a little florid, as blond men tend to be, especially if they drink too much, like Johnny Argyll did. He divided his time between his ducal duties of running the estates and keeping tabs on financial matters, and the House of Lords, which took up most of his time as he was assiduous in his duties to the House. What little time he had left over was spent on wine, women and cards, and not necessarily in that order.
He smirked behind his towel as he recalled Robbie Bosworth tupping Lady Wentworth on the upper landing of her house. He had been looking for a little vixen that was giving him the come on, when he stumbled across Robbie pinning Lady Wentworth to the wall, while he gave her one. She was in an almost total state of undress, her gown was on the floor and the front of her chemise gaped open. Robbie had her by the thighs and was pumping away for all he was worth. ‘Lucky bastard.’ He muttered. And while he stood at the corner, he watched her hair cascade about her shoulders as she convulsed in ecstasy. Two seconds later Robbie had her on the carpet and was sucking her tits at the same time as his hand was busy between her thighs, making her writhe and moan. Argyll had shook his head sadly and turned away from the spectacle. He knew Robbie only fucked them, he never loved them.
‘Who is, Your Grace?’ Carter asked softly, they actually had very few secrets.
‘Robbie Bosworth. Last month when I caught him tupping Lady Wentworth on her landing!’
‘Yes, Your Grace, I remember you telling me.’ Carter said from the wardrobe. He had already laid out a clean shirt, britches, stockings and a cravat. ‘Which jacket would you prefer today, Your Grace?’ he asked calmly.
‘First one to hand.’ Carter yanked out a moss green jacket in fine wool and a matching waistcoat. He moved around to the washstand by the Duke and picked up the shaving soap and brush, lathered it up, slopped it all over Argyll’s chin and with a cut throat razor, he gave Argyll a nice close shave. The Duke rinsed his face in the porcelain bowl, patted his face dry and then slapped some cologne on. Using the brush on his dresser, he smoothed his shoulder length hair back and tied it in a black velvet ribbon. He vigorously rubbed down his body and donned the clothes carter had put out for him and finished with his boots, as he would be riding today.
He left with alacrity for the house, even foregoing breakfast.
Chapter 1 Little Women
Robert Bosworth, Duke of Roding, was as elegantly dressed as every other man, with his black boots glistening in the candlelight, his backside snug in his best chamois britches and a black velvet evening coat covering his broad shoulders. His chest was hidden behind his lawn shirt and his throat was trussed in a stiff white collar and silk cravat that was delicately accentuated by the ivory brocade waistcoat buttoned over his flat stomach. His rich dark hair was fashionably styled, with shorter hair at the front and over his ears, but the longer back was tied loosely in a black velvet ribbon, the queue brushing the collar of his jacket every time he turned his head.
He stood in the foyer of the opera house and watched the ladies walk by. Husbands were solicitous of their wives enjoyment and suitors were effusive in their attentions to the unmarried population that always put in an appearance at public functions like this one. Robert looked at the parade of bosoms in various stages of undress, as they revealed themselves by removing their cloaks. There were pert breasts and sagging bosoms, bulging cleavages and bumps barely deserving the description! The new fashions from France were certainly revealing, in more ways than one.
He gasped, along with everyone else as the richest woman in London strode purposefully through the ornate doors in a gown that was almost transparent, and without a cloak! Robert felt his manhood throb as he looked at her aureoles through her bodice, like two dusky buttons and he had a vivid recollection of them on his tongue as he tormented them on the upper landing of her townhouse.
‘Bloody hell!’ erupted from his neighbour’s throat. ‘Is she wearing her nightclothes?’ John Argyll, Duke of Goring, asked of anybody who was listening. He was dressed in exactly the same clothes as Robert, except his coat was dark blue.
‘I don’t believe so, Johnny.’ Robert said calmly. ‘Hello, Robbie. What are you doing at the opera?’ Argyll asked impertinently.
‘Well, I was inspecting the cleavages on display, but Lady Wentworth has just destroyed the competition.’ Robert explained ruefully.
‘Spectacular, aren’t they?’ Lord Cranwell murmured from Robert’s other side. ‘It’s such a pity my father spent the family fortune at the gaming tables.’ He sighed deeply. ‘I’ll never have enough money to attract a beauty like that.’ William Cranwell, the Earl of Warminster, was almost penniless and was looking for a rich wife to maintain the family estate. His coat was a dark red and like Robert, he was lithe and athletic looking. But, in Robert’s opinion, he had a weak chin and therefore would lose as much at the tables as his father, if he ever managed to get a rich wife.
‘I don’t think any of us will ever have that much money, William.’ Argyll said and Robert nodded sagely.
‘So the three of us will listen to a screeching soprano, hope we have the right seat to watch Lady Wentworth’s cleavage and play with ourselves all night!’ Robert said coarsely.
‘Steady on, Robbie!’ Argyll muttered. ‘Mater is sharing the box, so keep your cocks in your britches!’
‘Have you seen these new fangled long trousers that have come from France?’ William asked innocently. ‘The damned things have a single line of buttons!’
‘Preposterous!’ Argyll snorted.
‘But!’ William said and smiled lasciviously. ‘They also have something called a pocket, to keep your hanky and things in.’ Robert lifted an eyebrow, waiting for the punch line. ‘Really handy if you want to play with yourself!’
Robert looked down at William’s groin. ‘I can see the appeal. It would certainly camouflage your embarrassment!’
‘It might cover yours, too!’ William snapped and turned away. Robert smiled generously, he liked to tweak Cranwell’s nose from time to time. In this day of tight fashionable britches, he couldn’t hide his tumescence anymore than Cranwell could. The only difference was that Robert accepted the reality and didn’t really care who saw it! He turned to Argyll. ‘How is your mother? I haven’t seen her for a while.’
Argyll scowled. ‘She has a new project.’ Robert shuddered theatrically. He vividly recalled her last project. It was some poor rascal that had piqued her curiosity and she had to help him
make his way in the world. He made his way alright, with half the silver from the dining room! Half the nobility of London turned up to his hanging after the Bow Street Runners caught him trying to sell it to a dealer, who unfortunately recognised the coat of arms and informed the local garrison. He twitched for nearly twenty minutes as his body swung on the gibbet at Tyburn.
‘What is it this time?’ he asked as delicately as he could.
‘Some bloody widow!’ Argyll said forcefully.
‘Have you seen her?’ Robert asked as his interest was suddenly piqued.
‘No. But I’ll bet you a guinea she’s an old bag, just like Mater!’
Right at that moment, Lady Verity Argyll stepped through the doors, escorted by her beau, Lord Monmouth, who was sixty five, if he was a day. She swished her cloak off, looked over her shoulder and said loudly. ‘Come along, girl! Don’t dawdle!’ as she threw her velvet cloak to a steward.
Lady Verity Argyll, Dowager Duchess of Goring, could never be mistaken for an old bag! She was fifty three, yes, but she had the skin of a thirty year old and the figure of a twenty year old. She was tall, elegant and graceful. Nearly every head in the room turned at her entrance. She was clad in the latest Paris fashion, but her gown was opaque, instead of revealing. She exuded good health, with a clear complexion, bright eyes and her glossy chestnut hair was piled on her head in such a way that she looked as if Monmouth had just ravished her in the coach. She stood imperiously, waiting for whoever was coming through the door. The footman was patiently holding the door open.
Robert Bosworth felt as if he’d been kicked in the groin as he looked at the perfect beauty that appeared through the open door. Both Argyll and Cranwell groaned loudly. ‘I think you owe me a guinea!’ Robert murmured.
Lady Elizabeth Audley, Countess of Craanford, stepped daintily into the foyer and the eyes that were on Lady Argyll all turned to the new arrival. A hush fell over the room as the candlelight from the over head chandeliers flashed off her glossy hair and illuminated her flawless countenance. Robert looked carefully at her from her head to her feet, starting with her hair, which was a colour he’d never seen before. It was dark brown, but not just brown, there were flashes of fiery red and he was sure that it would look like the trees of autumn in the sunshine. It was harshly restrained on the crown of her head, except for the delicate ringlets that tumbled about her face and neck like gossamer, the rest of her coiffure was a riot of ringlets cascading over the back of her head. Her face, was like a Madonna’s, alabaster and expressionless, but he still wanted to kiss her heart shaped lips. He couldn’t see the colour of her eyes as they were looking at the floor demurely. But her neck was long and elegant as it vanished into the collar of her cloak. Robert could even see her pulse throbbing in her throat. Monmouth peeled her cloak from her shoulders and the exposed flesh above her bodice could only be described as perfect. From the well at her throat, it undulated smoothly to the depths of her round and soft looking cleavage without bulging obscenely. This woman had no need to dress in a transparent gown; hers was made of silk, looked like spun gold and after covering her shapely bosom, it fell gracefully to the floor without revealing another facet of her body. Robert could only admire her gilt slippers as they peeped out from the hem of the gown. Her arms were covered in long silk gloves that almost reached her armpit and only revealed half an inch of pale ivory skin below the puffy shoulder of her gown, and in her tiny hands she held a small drawstring bag in the same material as her gown and an ivory fan. She was perfect, he decided. Petit and graceful, as a Lady should be.
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