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Dedication

For my mother. Pianist, teacher, poet, composer. You bring music, love, and laughter to so many.

Prologue

Brandan Delamar had committed a terrible sin.

He didn’t know what he’d done, only that it had been unforgivable in his father’s eyes. The duke looked at him accusingly, as though Brandan should know his trespass. As though the crime had been so heinous that any love a father might have held for his only son had been irretrievably lost.

But what had he done?

Young Brandan sifted through his memories, searching for the reason his father hated him. He’d had a privileged upbringing; coddled by nurses, educated by private tutors, his every wish instantly fulfilled by a regiment of well-trained household staff.

He saw the manor staff more than he saw his own parents, though that wasn’t unusual for the children of high-ranking peers. His parents were the beautiful people he caught a glimpse of when Nurse presented him for inspection in the evening, before the duke and duchess left the house for social engagements.

His father was as tall and majestic as the Alpine mountains Brandan read about in his geography primer, and equally as cold and distant. His mother had cheerful blue eyes and she smelled like the roses in the garden she loved more than anything else in life. Her hair was soft sunshine falling against his cheek as she bent to give him a kiss before bed.

Brandan hadn’t asked to be born into this starring role in life’s pageant. The importance of his station as heir to the Duke of Westbury had been impressed upon him since birth. One day he’d be the duke and when that happened, he’d be the tall and distant mountain. He’d wear a long velvet cloak and a gold sash with gold medals pinned to his breast, have important audiences with the king, and take his seat in the House of Lords to help decide the fate of the empire.

He tried so hard to please his father, excelling at his lessons and besting the other boys in sports. Nothing was good enough. Nothing ever met with any sign of approval.

The message he received from everyone else about his importance, his privilege, and his great responsibility was never the message he received from his father.

What he saw in the duke’s eyes was disgust. He saw that he was flawed, stained, and unlovable. The duke beat the message into him with a cane. With his fists.

With stony, reproachful silence.

“Why does Father hate me?” Brandan mustered the courage to ask his mother when he was twelve years old and considered himself to be a man.

His mother was in the garden at Westbury Abbey, their estate in Hertfordshire, pruning the beloved roses she refused to entrust to the gardener’s care. She lowered her sharp silver secateurs. “Why would you ask something like that?”

“Nothing I do is ever good enough.”

“He expects much from you. You must do better. Be better.”

“What did I do to displease him?”

“You’ve done nothing wrong.” She turned away, her bonnet hiding her face. “Hand me the watering pot, will you, darling?”

She poured water onto the base of a rosebush. When she turned back to him it looked as though the water she’d used to douse the roses had reappeared on her cheeks.

“Are you crying, Mama?” he asked in a whisper.

“Of course not. Don’t be silly.” She pushed back the brim of her bonnet and turned her face to the sky. “Do you think it looks like rain, darling? I do so hope it will rain. My roses will be stunted if it continues so hot.”

He studied the sky, which was bright blue, with not a wisp of cloud in sight. “It will rain soon. Don’t worry.” He knelt beside her on the wool blanket and helped her water the roses.

He ached with the awareness that he’d made her cry. He wanted to hold her hand but surely he was too old for that now.

Her smile was as unfalteringly bright as the sky, but Brandan saw that he’d made her sad by asking the question. He loved his mother with all his heart. He would never ask her the question again. He couldn’t bear it if she hated him, as well.

“You’ll have another sister soon,” she said, glancing down at her rounded belly. “Your father wants a son, but I know it will be another girl.” Her shoulders drooped like a wilting rose in desperate need of rain.

His cheeks heated. Childbearing wasn’t a fit topic for men, or so his Latin tutor told him when Brandan mused aloud about whether he didn’t have more than enough sisters and his mother might stop producing them.

It wasn’t that he didn’t like his younger sisters. He loved their dear sweet smiles and their delighted laughter when he visited them in the nursery to read to them from storybooks. Blanche was a jolly, pretty little thing with expressive blue eyes, just like their mother. Bernadette was quiet and solitary, preferring to play by herself. And the twins, Belinda and Betsy, were still crawling across the nursery floor, little more than babes.

He knew there’d been other male children born in the house. He’d heard the servants whispering about stillbirths. He’d attended the funerals, seen the tiny coffins lowered into the ground. Heard his father bellowing his rage. Covered his ears to block out his mother’s heartbreaking sobs, late at night, feeling small and helpless.

“I should like another sister,” he said gamely, smiling at his mother so she knew that she had his approval, at least.

“Thank you, darling.” She placed a gloved hand on his cheek and Brandan’s heart filled with warmth and tenderness.

He’d make her so very proud of him.

He was the only male child of the Duke of Westbury. He’d study harder, push himself to excel in all things, be the best duke’s heir in the world.

He must be stern and strong to win his father’s respect.

Two months later, the babe arrived. But it wasn’t another sister. It was a healthy baby boy, with all his fingers and toes, and a great lusty wail that no nursery wall could contain.

The duke’s elation reverberated throughout Westbury Abbey. He provided a sumptuous feast for the staff in celebration. Everyone was smiling and singing and congratulating each other on the birth of the second son; the spare heir.

When Brandan received the summons to attend his father in his study that evening, he dared to hope that perhaps some of the general mood of expansive goodwill might extend to him.

A visit to his father’s study was usually a terrifying occurrence. Brandan would stand in silence in front of the desk, which seemed as wide and uncrossable as an ocean, and listen to his father lecture him on all his faults and failings. He tried to bear it manfully, but when the inevitable beating came, the blow of a hand, lash of the switch, or cut from a cane made his knees knock together and his teeth chatter.

“Stop that shivering, boy,” his father always said with contempt. “The punishment is for your own good. You must learn that life is no bed of roses. Especially for one as wicked as you.”

But today, in celebration of the birth of another son, his father might smile upon Brandan, as he’d smiled upon even the scullery maid, or so she’d told the cook incredulously when Brandan had snuck an apple tart from the kitchens.

Down the long corridor, heart thumping with every step. Back straight, shoulders back. Stride with purpose, as father walked. Meet him man-to-man. Whatever happened, show no sign of weakness.

The door to the study was ajar. A fire crackled in the grate, doing little to dispel the gloom of dark wood paneling and oil portraits of dour-faced ancestors.

His dour-faced father sat behind his desk, staring out the window. For one moment it seemed to Brandan that his father was already a painting, hung by a hook on the wall, immobile and all-seeing.

“Good day, Father,” Brandan said.

The portrait creaked to life. The dark blue, hooded gaze found him. His upper lip curled. “It is a good day. A very propitious day, indeed. I finally have the child I’ve wanted for so long.”

Brandan’s spirits elevated and his knees stayed sturdy and strong. “What is my brother’s name, please?”

“His name is Bertram.”

“That’s your name, Father.”

“It is.” Another curl of his lips. Not to be mistaken for a smile. This was the cruel and disdainful expression Brandan knew so well.

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.”

His head felt like a billiard ball that had been slammed against wood and sent careening into a dark, musty cave. The inside of his mouth had the texture of fuzzy felted fabric and the taste of billiard cue chalk.

He was lying in a strange bed, fully clothed, which meant he hadn’t had a very good night at all. Most mornings after of this caliber he at least woke with a curvaceous female, or two, draped across him in lieu of clothing.

“Ah . . . sleeping beauty finally awakes,” a voice said from somewhere nearby. A gravelly, male voice.

West considered himself to be a hedonist, and a true hedonist would try any manner of pleasure at least once in a lifetime. Though West couldn’t remember anything about last night, pleasurable or otherwise.

He managed to pry one eyelid open. The man sitting in a chair near the fireplace was also fully clothed. West knew that handsome face. Lord Rafe Bentley. One of the only true friends West had left in this cesspool of a town. “Rafe. What are you doing here? Where are we?”

“My club. I’ve been waiting to make sure you’re alive. Now that I know you’ll survive your injuries, I’ll be leaving. You’re welcome to stay as long as you like. Ring for a bath. You could use one.”

“My injuries . . . ?” West tried to sit up and was stopped by a lancing pain in his ribs. Clutching his abdomen, he gritted his teeth and dragged himself to a seated position. “Who the devil kicked me? I don’t remember a thing.”

“I found you betting on billiards at The Devil’s Staircase. You were sloshed on cheap gin and picking fights with a fellow twice your size, so I knocked you senseless and hauled you here for safekeeping. The ribs weren’t me. That was the bruiser of a barkeep at the Staircase.”

West touched the large, painful bump on his temple gingerly. “With friends like you, eh?”

“It was for your own good. You were being a right knob and were liable to get yourself killed.”

“I can handle myself.”

“You know I’m not one to judge. I’ve had my days of dissipation and ruin, but you’re going arse over teakettle down the highway to hell. I count you as a friend and it’s my duty to tell you that you should slow down on the drink, the gambling, the outrageous bets, and whatever other illegal vices you indulge in that I don’t care to know about.”

“Or I could accelerate the pace and hasten my entry into that early grave I hear so much about.”

“The social Season begins in a few days.”

“Speaking of early graves.”

“You have obligations, both personal and political. You’re a duke.” Rafe stared down at him accusingly. “You’re eight-and-twenty. It’s time to stop wasting your life.”

West collapsed back on the bed with a groan. “If I close my eyes, I can see my great-aunt Hermione standing by the bed, pointing her bony finger at me. You sound exactly like her.”

He pitched his voice higher and infused it with aristocratic disdain. “Westbury, doing your best to dig your own grave while you had a younger brother was foolish and irresponsible. But since poor Bertram was taken from us too soon you must cease this depraved and immoral existence at once.”

“She’s right, you know. You had a brother and now you don’t. It’s all on your shoulders now.”

“I didn’t just have a brother. I had a shiny archetype of everything virtuous, honorable, and untainted. My father used to write me weekly letters detailing every one of Bertram’s triumphs. When Bertram died in that horse riding accident my father lost the will to live.” West tried to pull himself upright but the sharp pain in his ribs stopped him. “It should have been me, Rafe. I should have died young, not Bertram.”

Rafe thumped his walking stick on the floor. “Enough! Don’t you have a gaggle of sisters to escort to balls? You’ll have to go sober long enough to fulfill your brotherly duties.”

“Geese form a gaggle. Finches form a charm. I believe the collective noun for my sisters is a ‘haunting.’ Or perhaps, like hippopotamuses, a ‘bloat.’ I do love those girls.” He managed to haul himself upright and swing his legs out of bed. “But the sheer number of them and the staggering grandiosity of their millinery and seamstress bills is enough to drive a duke to drink. Maybe they should be a ‘banditry’ of sisters. Got any tipple in this room?”

“Not a drop. Have some coffee.” He waved a cup at him. “It’ll wake you up.”

“I don’t want to be alert. I prefer a cloudy state of inebriation that gathers to a thick, impenetrable fog by nightfall.”

Rafe shook his head sadly. “You’ve a sharp mind and a good heart buried somewhere under that tough shell of depravity.”

“Lecturing me on the evils of strong spirits. Next you’ll be raising your quizzing glass and telling me to do my duty and marry a girl of good birth and good upbringing. I don’t need another aunt.” West stumbled over to the cheval glass.

Dark stubble on his square jaw. Blood matted in his blond hair. A bluish bruise on his cheekbone that nearly matched his eyes. He tilted his head. The raised bump on his temple was a shade best described as rotting aubergine.

“My sisters aren’t going to be pleased about these scrapes and bruises.” He splashed cold water from the basin on his face. “Maybe you’d agree to escort them to the first ball in my—”

“Are you seriously suggesting such a harebrained idea? I’m not a fit escort for innocent debutantes. And if you’re scheming about marrying me off to one of them, you’re wasting your breath.”

“God no.” West flicked cold water at Rafe. “I know too much about you. All of it bad.”

“Not as bad as you.”

The two men were both tall and kept themselves in fine trim, though Rafe used a cane and walked with a pronounced limp after a perilous encounter with a gang of French smugglers. The two of them attracted plenty of female attention wherever they went, but both were damaged goods, in more ways than one.

“Only thought you might dance with them.” West dabbed at the dried blood in his hair with a wet cloth. “Make them seem in demand. Blanche has been out for some time now. She keeps a stiff upper lip, but I can tell she’s near frantic with worry.”

Rafe lifted his ebony walking stick. “I’m not the most graceful of dancers these days.”

“Doesn’t matter. You’re brother to a duke and a reformed rake. There was a time when you would have joined the drunken melee instead of shutting it down. I miss the old Rafe.”

“Staring death in the face will make a man reevaluate his priorities.”

“What happened on that ship?” His friend had never divulged how he received his injury.

“I don’t want to talk about it.”

“And I don’t want to talk about the social Season. I’d rather face a ship full of unwashed and armed-to-the-teeth smugglers than a ballroom full of rose-scented, marriage-minded debutantes.”

“It’s not as bad as all that.”

“I don’t see you attending balls.”

“And you never will.”

“I only subject myself to such indignities for the sake of my sisters. I promised our mother before she died that I’d see all five of them safely wed, and so I will. The twins, Belinda and Betsy, make their debuts this year. I don’t have to worry about the youngest, Birdie, for several years yet.”

“Thankfully, I have but one sister and she’s happily married. I’m the charity project my mother is scheming about. She won’t rest until she finds me a respectable wife.”

“No respectable young lady will have anything to do with either of us, even though you’ve reformed more than I ever will.”

“I’m taking an extended journey to France and Switzerland with a departure date that coincides most fortuitously with the first ball of the Season.”

“Lucky you.”

“I have to finalize my travel arrangements. I’ll tell the club to put everything on my account before I leave.”

“In that case, send up some champagne and cigars. And a bottle of aged Scotch whisky.”

“Seriously, West, I’m worried about you.”

West waved his concern aside. “It’s too late for me to change. I’ve been living too long in the underworld, drowning in vice and sin. I don’t know how to exist up here, on terra firma, with the sunshine seekers.”

Walking through the doors of a gaming hell wasn’t just about the cards, and the clink of the money on the table, the surge of excitement, and the heart-pounding risk of it all.

The cards led to the drinking. The drinking led to losing at cards. Losing at cards led to more drinking. Which led to waking up in strange beds, not remembering how he got there, with pain spiking his mind and an empty feeling in his chest.

And the emptiness led him back through the doors to hell.

He knew what he did was wrong; but he couldn’t stop the cycle.

He’d more than lived up to his father’s curse. He was sin incarnate. Dangerously depraved. Wicked Westbury.

He’d managed his fall from grace so thoroughly that there was nothing left of light or idealism in him. Especially since the death of his brother five years past. “My shirt smells like a gin manufactory. I’ll have to borrow one from you.”

“The barkeep broke a bottle of gin over your head.”

“And where’s my coat?”

“Ruined. Torn and bloody. Left it at the Staircase.”

“I had a wallet containing several banknotes in that coat!”

“Then you shouldn’t have taken it off, rolled up your shirtsleeves, and started a fight with a giant.”

“At least I still have my trousers on.” West grinned. Then winced. His jaw hurt like hell. “I seem to recall an infamous incident involving you sprinting bare-arsed through the streets of London being chased by a pistol-waving viscount.”

Rafe shook his head. “Seems like it happened to someone else entirely.”

“Makes a good story, though.”

“A cautionary tale. I could have ended up with a bullet in the back, bleeding and bare-arsed on the public streets.”

“I anticipate just such an ignoble end to my blighted life.”

“You’d leave your sisters to fend for themselves?”

West finished his ablutions and donned a fresh shirt. “My uncle isn’t the most attentive of fellows, but he’d have their best interests at heart. I can’t understand why no one’s offered for Blanche, at least. I was hoping her lack of dowry would be overlooked because of her beauty, propriety, and accomplishments.”

“Hasn’t she set her cap for Laxton? Maybe that’s frightened the suitors away.”

“Laxton’s a conceited prig of a dandy. I keep telling her to set her sights on someone else. No matter, I’ll replenish our coffers soon enough. All I require is one good night at the tables. One fateful night where Lady Luck nestles on my lap and whispers seductive things in my ear.”

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