His hopes and his heart plummeted. “It’s an excellent name.”

“It is. And now it’s time we had a little talk, you and I.”

The way he said those words, the glacial grimace on his face, started Brandan’s heart hammering. “Have I done anything wrong, Father?”

The answer to his innocent question was lengthy and it was delivered in the somber tones of a bishop presiding over a funeral service.

In a way it was a funeral, Brandan would think, years later.

That day in his father’s study was the death of young Brandan Delamar, a youth who sought his father’s approval, and pined for his love. And the birth of something new. Something twisted. Stunted. Something to be buried deep in the frozen ground.

When it was over, and Brandan had done all the things he’d resolved not to do—when his knees knocked together, his teeth chattered, his voice broke, and he cowered as his father beat him—the last of Brandan’s youthful optimism burnt to ash.

He walked into his father’s study with a tender and open heart.

He left with that heart shattered into shards that would stay lodged in his chest forever, causing pain with every breath.

Now he knew the reason his father hated him.

And he could never tell another soul for as long as he lived.

He was sent off to boarding school the next morning. During the carriage ride he had ample time to contemplate what his father had told him. He knew now that no matter how hard he tried, no matter how much he longed for his father’s admiration and respect, he’d never have it. It had been a waste of time to attempt to be the best son, the worthiest heir.

He could never please his father.

So he vowed to disappoint him instead.

And he’d do it properly, with the same force of will and determination he’d employed in his doomed bid for affection.

No more seeking to please. No more abiding by scriptures or strictures.

His grave, stony-hearted, and iron-fisted father had pronounced Brandan to be wicked. Tainted. A child of sin.

And that’s exactly what he’d become.

He vowed to become wild and wicked. He’d break every one of society’s rules. He’d be depraved and dangerous to know.

He’d become the very best . . . at being the absolute worst duke’s heir in the world.

Chapter One

Everyone said that Brandan Delamar, Duke of Westbury, lived life as though there would be no tomorrow. No consequences. No piper to pay. But there was always a tomorrow. A morning after. And this particular morning after was hell on earth.

“This is the worst morning of my entire life,” West announced, without opening his eyes. “And I’ve had some truly awful ones.”