Her Wicked White
Dark Duke’s Legacy
Tammy Andresen
Contents
Foreword
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Epilogue
Her Willful White
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www.tammyandresen.com
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Foreword
Note from Benedict White, Fifth Duke of Whitehaven:
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My story begins at a funeral. Which is, admittedly, not the best start to a love story. But stories begin where they begin, and as the participant, you don’t get a lot of say in the setting. Just like my father didn’t give us much say, in, well, anything at all. That is likely why the moment we were each old enough, we left without looking back.
Except for Millicent. Millie, as she likes to be called. Women don’t have the same choices as men. A fact I should have realized sooner. I left her with my father, and truly, it’s one of my many regrets.
To call him a hard man is an understatement, and when my mother died, the light left all our lives. Maybe his too. I’ll never get to ask. I waited too long, though he likely wouldn’t have answered anyhow.
And I suppose, the story doesn’t even really start with my father’s death. It began at my birth, or his, who could say, but that’s too far back and besides, the funeral was the change. Or the beginning of the change. For me, for my brothers and sisters, for England.
He named us after some of his greatest hopes and fears. As though naming me a blessing would make it so. I’m Benedict. I’m sure before his death, he considered me a curse. I have his iron will, I’m afraid, and I didn’t take kindly to his rules. My second brother is Destrian. Hard and angry, he rules his ship like a kingdom. Then the third is Justice. He’s as wild as a man can be. My last brother is Sayden. But we all call him Satan. He’s a devil to be certain but he’s got a silver tongue.
But enough about all that. What matters is how I found my heart, and that’s the story I’m going to tell you today.
Are you comfortable? Good. It’s a fun tale to be certain.
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Happy reading,
Ben
Chapter One
Benedict White, Duke of Whitehaven, sat at his desk, well, at his father’s desk, or at least the large piece of mahogany furniture still felt like that to him, and stared at the fresh glass of whisky he’d just poured. Its amber color winked in the firelight as he gently swirled the contents.
What a fucking shit day it had been, and it was only ten in the morning. But then again, who enjoyed the day their father was buried? Not that he’d borne any love for the man. But still.
“Are you going to drink that, love?” a woman said from the doorway, giving him a practiced smile. “Or are you just going to stare at it?”
He glared at the wench who’d interrupted his thoughts. He’d hired her the night before with the intent of fucking her in his father’s bed. He’d ended up leaving her in the room to sleep alone while he’d sat, most of the night, with his back against his own headboard an entire floor away.
Again, he supposed the master’s chamber was now his but either way, he’d left the wench in that bedroom alone. It turned out he didn’t hate his father enough to actually go through with the plan.
And he hadn’t the heart to send the woman home in the rain. That particular decision hadn’t worn well in the light of day.
Not that there was much light. A hard rain still fell and had soaked him near to the bone when he’d stood outside at his father’s funeral earlier that morning.
His gut clenched. He wasn’t mourning. That much was clear. Their relationship had been difficult at best. But he wasn’t happy either. A feeling he couldn’t quite square.
Perhaps it was the odd circumstances of his father’s passing. Though the Duke of Whitehaven had been older, he’d been healthy, vital, full of his normal amounts of vitriol and hatred right up until the end. He’d sent a letter not a month prior to Ben, berating him for being such an absent son and heir.
A man could be sick and write mean letters. Ben knew that. But there was something else too. The doctor who’d attended him had mentioned strange purple spots all over his body that had appeared out of nowhere. He’d had stomach pains a few days prior and then…he’d just ended up dead. The doctor had leaned in closer and whispered, “If I didn’t know any better, I’d swear it was poison.”
A snapping fan brought him back to the present and the trollop who stood in the doorway. “Here’s your coin.” He gestured to a satchel on the desk.
She sauntered into the room, hips swaying as she looked him up and down. “You’re paying me for sleeping in that thick feather mattress alone?” Her mouth tipped into a sultry grin.
His jaw clenched so hard he thought his teeth might shatter. He’d never not bedded a woman before. It was damned odd, and he didn’t want to think about it, let alone discuss it with her. “Take your money and go.”
“There’s still time to do the deed.” She leaned forward, displaying what little cleavage she possessed. “You’re a very handsome man. I could enjoy a roll with one like you. Or a tup on the desk.”
His hand tightened around the glass. “Let me be clear. It’s time for you to go.”
She shrugged then. “What will people think? You are inviting me here and then not…” She gave him a meaningful stare.
He stood. She wasn’t the largest woman, and he was a tall man, over six feet, his shoulders broader than most. He leaned over the desk and set down his glass. “Are you threatening me?” His voice dropped low and deep. Her eyes widened and he pulled his lips tight over his teeth as he leaned closer. It had been a shit day and he was in no mood for whatever tricks she had in mind.
“Your Grace,” a second female said from the doorway. “Why don’t you send your friend off with a bit of extra coin for her trouble?”
He looked around the wench and saw his father’s second wife staring at him with her brows raised in a question.
The doctor’s words about poison floated back into his thoughts as he looked at the duchess again. Living with his father might drive a woman to murder. If there had been one. A fact that still wasn’t clear.
His father’s widow had to be younger than Ben. If he recalled correctly, the elder duke had decided to remarry after a decade of being alone. He’d picked the prettiest debutante of the season and wed her that spring. But the last Duke of Whitehaven had to have been thirty years older than his second wife.
Ben hadn’t attended the wedding. In fact, he’d only been home once in the six years she’d been wed to his father. If he were honest, he didn’t even know the duchess’s name. Was telling his stepmother to fuck off appropriate?
But he kept his mouth shut and, recognizing that her suggestion made far more sense than intimidation, dug into his pocket and pulled out several more coins. Opening the satchel, he dropped them in and then extended his hand.
The wench took the coin, and, with a smile, started for the door. “Your wife is very forgiving and smart too.”
“I’m not his wife, dear,” the duchess said crossing her arms. “And you’d better leave before your mouth gets you into any more trouble.”
The smile disappeared from t
he wench’s face but she took the advice and with a final nod disappeared.
Ben returned to the seat and stared into the glass of whisky once again. What the hell was wrong with him? He’d wished his father dead on multiple occasions. He’d only come here twice in the past ten years. Why should he be sullen now? He was finally free from his father’s tyrannical rule.
Though Ben had actually been free for years. His mother had left him a small amount of coin and he had used it wisely. He had a great affection and an even better eye for horseflesh. He’d used it to make a living among the elite.
The duchess walked into the room, the bottom of her soggy skirts dragging on the thick carpet.
She’d been the only other member of the family in attendance at the funeral, other than her five-year-old son. He ran his hand through his hair. His half-brother. What was the brat’s name again?
“We need to talk,” she said, taking the seat across from him.
“We do. What happened to my father?”
She shook her head. “I don’t know. He seemed fine when I left.”
“Left? Where?”
“To visit your sister,” the duchess waved her hand. “I go every year at this time.”
Ben scrubbed his face. It was a good alibi. Then again, she might have planned it that way.
“Don’t you want to know how your sister fairs?” the duchess asked, cocking a brow.
He frowned, his eyes still on the glass. If she’d offed his father, he didn’t wish to know. “Is it not apparent that I am not in a talking mood?”
She crossed her arms over her chest. A halo of blonde hair was expertly coifed around her angelic features. Distantly, he recognized that she was an attractive woman. Odd, because he barely knew her, but she felt more like his sister than anything else. “If I caved to male blustering, I would have crumbled under your father’s iron rule years ago.”
His brows lifted and, in that moment, he realized he’d underestimated this woman. She was excessively beautiful and rather well-endowed, and he’d assumed that meant she was soft. “Fair enough.”
She straightened in her seat. “First I need to know if you plan to remove us from the house now that you’ve returned.”
He choked on his answer as he stared at her. Remove her from the house? He wasn’t the most caring man. In fact, he kept a great deal of distance between himself and, well, everyone … but still. “What kind of selfish bastard do you think I am?”
She cocked her chin to the side as she assessed him. “I have no idea what kind of selfish bastard you are. Nor do I know what sort of selfish bastards your other brothers are. They’ve never graced me with their company and neither have you.”
“You’re a great deal saltier than I expected,” he said finally taking another swallow of his whisky. Because this conversation required fortification.
“What did living with your father do to you?” she asked, one eyebrow quirking.
He sat back in his chair because the woman had a point. One he respected a great deal. “I’ve no intention of sending you away.”
Her shoulders slumped, relief clear in every line of her face. “Thank you.”
Ben cocked his head to the side. His father’s passing made his widow’s situation very tenuous which also made it extremely unlikely she’d done anything to his father. If anything had been done at all. His death might have been a normal occurrence. If one subscribed to the philosophy that a man reaped what he sewed, his father’s death had been his due.
He was tempted to ask why she might think that. But why wouldn’t she? His father was as ruthless as he was pious. Of course, she’d expect the same behavior from his eldest son.
He shifted his glass to his other hand. “I must confess. I don’t know your name.”
Her lips pressed together, a small sign of disapproval, before she answered. “Esme.”
“Benedict,” he returned.
“I know,” she said sinking back in her chair. “Everyone knows the name of the heir to a dukedom, Your Grace. Just like I know most of the family calls you Ben.”
Called. They had called him Ben in his youth. He hadn’t seen a single one of his siblings in years. A niggle of regret worked its way into his stomach. Mayhap that was the whisky. But he wondered where his three brothers were now. What they’d done with themselves.
His sister was tucked away at some finishing school. More the better for her. And apparently, she entertained their stepmother regularly.
The problem was that he now had two women under his protection. And Ben was a man who preferred to be a lone wolf. He looked at Esme. She was young, attractive. She’d remarry easily enough. “Esme.”
She gave him a wary side glance. “Yes?”
“I am going to need your help.”
“How so?”
He fingered the glass. Subtlety was not his strength, but he gave it his best attempt. “As soon as it’s proper, I’d like you to take Millicent to London. My sister should wed, posthaste.”
Esme gave a tentative nod. “Of course.”
“And if you should meet an engaging lord while you’re there…”
Her breath hissed. “You’d also like me to remarry as soon as possible.”
A knock sounded on the open door spared him from answering. Finally. A person who actually knocked. But as his eyes rose, he grimaced again.
Because standing in the doorway was his childhood friend, the Honorable Jacob Veritas. Being the third son of an earl, he’d entered the legal profession, becoming a barrister. Ben’s father’s barrister to be precise.
“Your Grace.” Jacob gave a short bow. “May I come in?”
He’d been expecting Jacob. There were legal matters to be put right. Though much of his father’s estate was entailed, some money, land, and assets were not. Ben suspected his father’s dealing with the church had actually proven profitable.
His father had sunk deeper into his religious beliefs as he’d gotten older, not that they softened him in any way. In fact, they’d made him harder, more rigid. He’d lecture endlessly on sin. And the boys had gotten the stick often in the name of making them more pious. This entire house, Whitehaven, had been built with gothic revival architecture, in his father’s zeal for traditional religious beliefs.
Ben hated the house, and he had no intention of residing here. The only property he’d ever loved was the small estate, Cliffside, in Dover, where he’d travelled to with his mother as a child. It was the only place he ever remembered being happy.
But since that house was not part of the entail, having come to his father as part of his mother’s dowry, he had no idea who would inherit the home. “Please, Mr. Veritas. Join us. I assume you are familiar with the dowager duchess?”
Jacob gave a jerk of his chin in greeting. “I am. And I’m glad you’re both here.”
His stomach dropped again but he dismissed the feeling this time. Of course the barrister would have business with his father’s wife. “It’s good to see you,” he grunted in some acknowledgement of their past friendship. A friendship that had ended when Ben had decided relationships only made him weaker.
“And you as well. I’m sorry for the circumstances,” Jacob said, his tone professionally detached despite the situation and their past.
Now that Ben thought on it, it was damned odd that his former friend had been in his father’s employ. Jacob had seen his father’s tyranny firsthand on more than one occasion. “Let’s have this business done, shall we?”
Jacob took a seat, clearing his throat. “I’m afraid done isn’t really an option.”
What in the bloody hell did that mean? Ben grabbed his glass from the desk and took another long swallow. His head pounded from the lack of sleep and his nerves were frayed at the edges. “Explain.”
Jacob cleared his throat. “Your father left specific instructions about when and how his Final Will and Testament would be shared.”
Ben scrubbed his face. “My father is dead. I’m the duke now and�
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Jacob held up his hand. “You could be king and it wouldn’t change the fact that, legally, I am bound to deliver his last wishes as he saw fit.”
Ben grunted. He’d always liked Jacob’s strength of character. Right now, of course, it was a bloody pain in the ass.
Esme cleared her throat. “And my dowry?”
Jacob winced. It was subtle but unmistakable and Ben sat a bit straighter. “You’re not aware of the details?”
“I’m afraid not.” Esme folded her hands in her lap.
Jacob scrubbed his face of emotion but not before Ben caught a muscle ticking in man’s jaw. “Your father retained much of it.”
Esme was silent for several moments, looking down at her hands before she lifted her head. “And my husband. Did he add to what he received?”
Jacob gave a small shake of his head.
Ben let out a growl deep in his throat. Had he been mourning his father? This was exactly the reminder he’d needed that while his father preached about how they should uphold moral standards the man himself had been a selfish bastard. How was Esme supposed to remarry without any funds? “And did my father leave anything for the boy?”
“Caleb,” Esme said, her eyes filled with pain. “Your brother’s name is Caleb, Your Grace.”
A different regret lanced through him. Another little boy had been subject to his father and Ben hadn’t done a thing. He’d known about it, was man enough to fight it but he’d stayed away, left Esme and Caleb to face his father on their own.
He shook his head. He didn’t need these feelings. He was a man who stayed apart.
“He did leave instructions for the boy,” Jacob added, shifting in his seat. “And there is an inheritance for each of you, but your father was clear. The details will only be read when all seven of you are assembled together.”
Her Wicked White Page 1