Dreaming of a Duke Like You

by Sara Bennett

Genres: Sagas; Regency Romance; Family Life

Synopsis

A duke with a reputation to uphold and a woman with a scandalous past take a gamble on their forbidden love in this Regency romance—perfect for fans of USA Today bestsellers Sophie Jordan and Kerrigan Byrne!

Raised in a foundling home and now proprietor of a successful club, Gabriel Cadieux hasn’t ever been welcomed by polite society. But when he discovers he’s the legitimate heir to a dukedom, he must make a choice: accept the debt-ridden title and the trappings of the peerage who shunned him or decline and leave his six rebellious half sisters to fend for themselves. As much as he hates the idea, Gabriel can’t abandon his siblings, even if it means making a deal with the most frustrating—and aggravatingly beautiful—woman he’s ever met.

Vivienne Tremeer storms into Cadieux’s club with one thing on her mind: get the loathsome owner to discharge her brother’s gambling debts. So when Gabriel offers her a trade—if she’ll teach his wild sisters the ways of the ton, he’ll clear the notes—she has no choice but to accept. But with her reputation already on a knife’s edge, falling for the duke could cause the scandal of the season.

Release date: October 10, 2023

Publisher: Grand Central Publishing

Print pages: 352

Sample

November 1817, Cadieux’s Gambling Club, London

Gabriel Cadieux rubbed his tired eyes and looked again at his ledger. He hunched his broad shoulders and settled his big body in his chair. He could have hired a bookkeeper to deal with such matters, but he preferred to keep a close watch on his monetary incomings and outgoings. That way no one could cheat him. The members of his staff were handpicked for their honesty and loyalty, but temptation was everywhere, and there were already too many people eager to relieve him of his hard-won blunt.

Five years ago at the tender age of twenty-two, Gabriel had won what was now Cadieux’s Gambling Club from the original owner. The man’s arrogance and his disbelief that someone so far beneath him could best him at cribbage had ultimately been his downfall. He had lost his club and, in trying to win it back, had increased the stakes and therefore lost a great deal of money besides. That night was the beginning of Gabriel’s rise from nothing to something, and his chance to make a success of a life that until then had been lived on the edge of poverty and respectability.

Not that he was respectable now. To own a gambling hell was not exactly a respectable occupation. Some titled gentlemen did own them, and ladies too, but that was usually through necessity rather than choice. Gabriel did not fool himself into thinking he would ever be considered an upright citizen. He knew what he was and was perfectly content with it.

Now he ran his eye down the columns of figures, adding them up in his head, and was pleased to discover it had been a particularly lucrative night.

As usual his hard-earned profit gave him a feeling of immense satisfaction. That he, an unwanted bastard from a foundling home, should find himself in such a comfortable position. He had been lucky, certainly, and his head for figures had been enormously helpful when it came to gambling—especially in skill-based games such as cribbage. But he wasn’t like most of the gentlemen who frequented his club, bored and desperate for entertainment. If losing everything on the turn of a card or the roll of the dice made them feel alive, then Gabriel was not going to dissuade them, even though he didn’t understand that sort of mindset. He was pragmatic and hardheaded, and any risks he undertook were carefully thought out. He told himself he would never bet his home and fortune on the fall of a card. On the whole he was satisfied with his life as it was and had no intention of altering it.

That wasn’t to say he could not be generous when it suited him, and sometimes when it didn’t. He would do anything for his two best friends, and he had been known to toss a coin to the street beggars, especially if they were children.

He poured himself a glass of claret and leaned back, admiring the ruby red color against the lamplight. French, no doubt. Charles had a contact in the government who turned a blind eye to import and excise. Charles Wickley, his friend and partner in business, made himself very useful in various ways but particularly when it came to supplying the club with top quality spirits. Add to that the excellent chef he had employed to prepare two suppers nightly, and Gabriel was beginning to wonder how he had ever managed without him. Charles Wickley and Freddie Hart, both from the same foundling home as Gabriel, were his best friends then and today. Family was not always born of the same blood, or so he had discovered over the years.

Voices drifted up from the gambling rooms down-stairs. Someone gave a drunken shout. It was late and although there would still be games being played—vingt-et-un, loo, or whist, among others—the final supper had been served. Soon his “guests” would be staggering off to their beds. The staff would then have the task of cleaning up and preparing the rooms for tomorrow night, when the whole thing would start again. In the early days, Gabriel had mingled a great deal more in those rooms. There were always men who had listened to the tales of Gabriel’s exceptional skill, a skill that had raised him to his current place in the world, and were keen to topple him from his perch.

Occasionally Gabriel would play them, but the truth was he didn’t enjoy the thought of losing. The club wasn’t a recreation for him or a way of showing off. It was work. A means to an end. And these days he preferred to keep his distance from chancers with nothing to lose, such as the boy he had once been.

Cadieux’s was his, and he wasn’t about to risk it. He might have traveled a long way from his bleak childhood, indeed he was a fortunate man, but he would never forget where he came from, and he never wanted to go back.

He ran a hand over his face, feeling the rasp of his whiskers, and yawned. It was late, probably close to four in the morning. He tugged at his necktie, loosening it, and yawned again. He really should go to bed. His servant had lit the fire in the small chamber off his office, making everything comfortable. Gabriel paid for rooms elsewhere but most nights it was more convenient for him to sleep at the club.

A step sounded outside his door. He looked up.

Whoever was at the door tapped loudly.

No one bothered him unless it was important. A drunken player who had lost everything and wanted to blame the club rather than himself, or maybe it was Charles come upstairs for a late-night chat. It couldn’t be Freddie. He was currently in the north of the country with his regiment, although he was due back any day.

Gabriel set down his glass. “Come in!”

The door opened and a woman stood there. She was wearing a hooded cloak over her gown, but the light on the landing was too dim to see more. She stepped inside his office and closed the door firmly, before turning to face him. She lifted her hood from her hair.

Gabriel hadn’t asked for female company. His regular visit to the establishment he favored wasn’t until tomorrow, and he was picky when it came to bed partners. Watching as she hesitated just inside the room, a mixture of shadow and light disguising her features, he could sense her unease. Her gaze flicked about her, lingering on the bookcase on the adjacent wall. He suspected he already knew why she was here. He drew breath and opened his mouth to speak, but she got in first.

“Mr. Cadieux?” She didn’t sound like a native of this part of London, her voice far too refined, and now that she was closer, neither did she look like one. A lady. Not in the first flush of youth, not a debutante, but neither was she long in the tooth. Perhaps twenty-four or twenty-five, with dark hair glossy in the glow of the lamp and light eyes in a heart-shaped face. There were shadows under those eyes, and her wide mouth was drawn into a thin line, as if she was laboring under some difficulty.

“Madam,” he began, attempting to bring their conversation to a close before it could begin. Once again she circumvented him.

“Sir,” she said firmly. “I wish to speak to you about my brother, Sir William Tremeer. For his sins, he is a regular visitor to your gambling establishment. But you are probably aware of that.” She waved a pale hand toward the ledgers on the desk before him. “I’m sure he features often in those pages.”

She was correct. Sir William had been slouched over the hazard table earlier this evening, losing. His friend, an older boy, had smirked and egged him on to “throw the dice one more time” because his luck was bound to change. So not really a “friend” then, in Gabriel’s opinion. Charles had noticed too and had warned Tremeer to go home. The boy was barely a man, innocent and foolish, the perfect victim to be fleeced by a more experienced gambler. Gabriel and Charles had discussed the matter, and both agreed this was not the sort of client they wanted in the club.

Cadieux’s was known for honest dealing among its clientele, and young, naïve, and with barely a penny to his name, the boy was running with a particularly reckless crowd. Some of the club’s older players were shaking their heads and talking about going elsewhere. Gabriel could have banned him from Cadieux’s, but that reckless crowd was made up of some of his most lucrative customers. The difference between them and William was they had the money to cover their debts, and he didn’t. His losses to the house had been considerable and were still outstanding.

“Madam,” he began again.

“Miss Vivienne Tremeer.”

Gabriel sat back with a sigh. It wasn’t often he had a lady in his office, and from the sound and look of her, she was the genuine article. “I don’t mean to be rude,” he began, when he meant just that.

“My brother has lost a great deal of money in your club, sir. Money he does not have. He tells me that you have not demanded payment so far. I’m not sure why you have been so lenient. Perhaps you think it a kindness. I hope so, because I have come to ask you whether you would consider forgiving his debt entirely.”

Gabriel found himself staring into her eyes. They were light gray and surrounded by thick dark lashes. She was rather lovely, despite the strained look on her face. Gabriel knew little of ladies’ fashion, but he thought her gray cloak covered a gown that was plainer than those usually worn by the gentry. Although perhaps she had dressed down to come to his club. That she was here at all was not unheard of, but it was unusual. The last lady who had come to beg him to “forgive” a debt had sobbed and wailed and flung herself all over him.

Vivienne Tremeer didn’t look as if she was going to do any of those things, and he found he liked her the better for it. Not that he was about to agree to her request.

“I’m afraid I cannot do that,” he said at last. “It is not my habit to forgive debts. Paying a debt may be a matter of honor, but it is also a matter of business, and your brother knew this when he came to play at my tables. If he thinks he can send his sister to beg me to—”

She didn’t let him finish. Her silk skirts whispered as she moved closer, coming to a stop directly opposite him. Gabriel knew a gentleman would rise to his feet, but he was no gentleman.

“He hasn’t sent me to beg,” she retorted, and he could see the tension in her slim body, as if she were strung so tightly that at any moment she might snap. “I came of my own accord. He cannot pay you.”

Gabriel let his gaze slide over her. “I’m sure someone in his family will find the money,” he said unsympathetically.

She laughed but there was no humor in it. “The bailiffs have taken most of our belongings, our house in Cornwall is falling down, and the only reason my aunt offered us shelter is because she has a horror of scandal. This may tip the balance in favor of the debtors’ prison.”

He said nothing, watching as she took a breath and appeared to gather the tatters of her self-control. There was something admirable in that, but he knew what was coming. He felt his stomach twist. Perhaps he could head her off before she spoke the words he dreaded.

“It’s no use offering to share my bed, Miss Tremeer,” he said gruffly, frowning darkly at her. “I do not accept physical favors in lieu of cold hard cash. I’ve never found it nearly as satisfactory.”

Her gray eyes sparked and lit up like a bonfire. She was furious, but she held it back, the rage bringing color to her cheeks and causing her hands to clench into fists as they rested on his desk.

“Not if you were the last man alive,” she hissed.

He watched her turn, back straight, and walk away with long strides. The door slammed behind her.

Gabriel took a sip of his claret. He found he was smiling and wasn’t sure why. Then, deliberately setting his glass aside, he put Vivienne Tremeer from his thoughts and went back to his ledgers.

Vivienne had taken only two steps down the stairs and she was already regretting her wretched temper. Yes, the man was arrogant and rude, but she should not have let his words fire her up. She had come here for the sake of Will, and now her outburst had probably made matters worse. Cadieux might even demand the debt be repaid immediately, and then what would they do?

She settled her hood over her hair—at least it offered her some protection if she was to meet anyone she knew. Unlikely, but not impossible. A great many gentlemen seemed to frequent Cadieux’s, and one of them might see her and tattle to her uncle. She was not so concerned the Viscount Monteith would care what she did, but he would be sure to speak of it to his wife, Vivienne’s aunt, and she would care.

With a sigh she continued downward toward the shadows at the bottom of the staircase. She didn’t see the man approaching her until he was nearly in front of her, and then they both gave a startled jump and came to a stop.

He was a skinny fellow, neatly and plainly dressed, but with a fussy look to him. From an early age Vivienne had learned to sum up people upon first meeting; it was imperative when at any moment one might be confronted by a bailiff or one of her stepfather’s unpleasant cronies. She thought this man had the look of a gentleman’s steward or secretary.

“Ma’am,” he murmured politely, cool eyes sliding over her with scorn. He was judging her morals and she realized he thought her on a visit to Cadieux’s for the sorts of reasons Cadieux himself had spoken of. Vivienne lifted her chin and gave him her best baronet’s daughter stare. To her satisfaction he dropped his gaze and bowed, before they proceeded to pass each other with difficulty on the narrow staircase.

He continued upward and she reached the lower corridor, pausing there a moment to take a deep breath and gather her thoughts. Will was waiting for her out in the coach. She dreaded telling him that her appeal to Cadieux’s better feelings—he had none—had failed.

Cadieux’s deep voice echoed in her head: I’ve never found it nearly as satisfactory. If she’d had a pistol, she might have shot him. She couldn’t remember when a stranger had ruffled her feathers quite so thoroughly.

Above her she heard the visitor knock on the office door and open it. “Mr. Cadieux? I have some rather urgent news for you,” he said, and then the door closed again, cutting off their conversation.

Vivienne hoped it was bad news. She was not normally a vindictive person, but life had worn her down, and recently she had begun to feel it more than usual. Her father the baronet had died when Will was still in his crib, and then her mother had remarried a scoundrel and a waster. Richard Sutherland had spent everything he could get his hands on, and would have sold Tremeer, their small estate in Cornwall, if it hadn’t been left to Will. Vivienne had good reason to know just how devious Sutherland was, but she had still been dumbfounded when yesterday a letter arrived from old Mr. Davey, the lawyer who had handled her family’s legal matters for decades. He had informed her that Richard Sutherland had been to see him, and Sutherland had drawn his attention to a clause in her father’s will that he believed could be used to overturn it. The clause in question was copied in the old man’s shaky hand.

Tremeer, house and lands, I leave to my only son William, to be held in trust until he turns twenty-one years if he be judged to be of sober character. If he be judged to be profligate, then he shall not inherit and I leave the dispensing of my estate to the discretion of my trustees.

As Mr. Davey pointed out, the wording was open to interpretation. Did the baronet mean that Will must be of sober character on the day of his twenty-first birthday, still three years away, or must he be judged to be of sober character in the time before that birthday? It would be up to the trustees to show fiduciary responsibility, and act in the best interests of the estate. One of those trustees was Mr. Davey, and the other Sir Desmond Chamond, a neighbor of the Tremeers and also the district magistrate.

Does Mr. Sutherland have any proof that young Will is behaving in a manner that might be described as “profligate”? the old man inquired in his letter.

The letter had thrown Will into a terrible panic, and he had admitted, when Vivienne had insisted, that he was in trouble. Deep trouble. The figure he mentioned took her breath away. A figure it would be impossible for them to repay in the next few days, weeks, or maybe ever. And yet they must try.

She had decided to see Cadieux at once—Vivienne judged herself to be the more likely to inspire Cadieux’s sympathy—and perhaps the damage to Will’s reputation could be repaired before Sutherland took advantage of it or the trustees became aware of it.

Really it was the worst news. Vivienne already blamed herself for their flight to London, although Will had insisted on coming with her. Their plan had been to stay with their father’s sister, the Viscountess Monteith, until Will turned twenty-one, when he and Vivienne could safely return to Tremeer and take charge of the estate. With the power of his inheritance and the trustees behind him, Will would send Sutherland packing and hopefully begin to repair the damage their stepfather had caused.

But what if the estate was taken from Will and they were cast adrift? There would be no going home, ever, and they could not expect Aunt Jane to pay for their upkeep indefinitely. As it was, she begrudged every penny she spent on them. Vivienne had been grateful when she took them in, but she suspected her generosity was tempered by the knowledge that she would look bad in the eyes of her friends and peers if she did not. This way she could accept their congratulations on her Christian benevolence… and their sympathy for being lumbered with such disappointing relatives.

Vivienne had overheard Aunt Jane’s tête-à-têtes with her friends enough times to know how she felt, but one conversation in particular stuck in her mind: You are so good, Jane! I don’t know how you can do it. I’m sure I couldn’t take on that girl… Of course the speaker had been quickly hushed when they saw her lingering in the doorway.

Because she was that girl. The scandalous one. The one whose reputation was ruined beyond repair and was therefore nothing but a burden on her kindhearted aunt. Never mind that the scandal had not been of Vivienne’s making and certainly not her fault, unless showing kindness to one’s neighbors could be said to be a fault. Another crime that she could lay at Richard Sutherland’s door.

No, they could not stay with Aunt Jane any longer than necessary, and at the same time their aunt must not hear of Will’s gambling debts. Their only hope was to return to Tremeer in three years’ time, and now that hope was at risk.

The more Vivienne looked at their situation, the more the trap they were in seemed to narrow. Or perhaps it wasn’t a trap, but a mine, like the ones her father had owned. As a girl at home in Cornwall, she had listened wide-eyed to stories of cave-ins and rising water levels, and men struggling to breathe as the earth pressed down around them. She felt a bit like that sometimes. Trapped and gasping for air and waiting for rescue, while horribly aware that no one would reach her in time.

She slipped through the door from the kitchen, ignoring the smirk from the server she’d bribed to let her up to Cadieux’s office. In hindsight a waste of money, but she’d hoped that all the rumors were wrong and that the man had a heart instead of a lump of stone beneath his white linen shirt.

His necktie had been undone to show the strong column of his throat, and his shoulders broad and strong. Oh yes, he was a handsome brute. Dark hair curling around his ears and tumbling over his brow, dark stubble on his jaw and cheeks drawing attention to his pink lips, and eyes black as the winter storms that came in from the sea at Tremeer. But as Vivienne well knew, sometimes the worst men were the most attractive.

The bookcase troubled her though. She had already decided Gabriel Cadieux was an uneducated, cruel fellow to whom nothing mattered but raking in as much profit as he possibly could. But would such a man own that quantity of books? So many that they were all but bursting from their shelves, and obviously well read. It didn’t fit with her image of him. A vicious gambling house owner did not read romantic novels. More worrying than the anomaly of such a man enjoying fiction was one particular book on those shelves. A book Vivienne knew only too well. Seeing The Wicked Prince and His Stolen Bride had thrown her for a moment, until she reminded herself that by now there must be a great many persons in the country who had purchased, borrowed, or stolen a copy.

Outside she breathed in the chilly air. The coach was waiting around the corner and she quickened her steps. This was not a safe area for a lone woman to linger, and their coachman, Jem, had not wanted to remain here for longer than five minutes. He had raised his bushy brows at her while she had assured him that her visit was of the utmost importance.

She and Will had known Jem since they were small, and he had stayed on at Tremeer after their father died. He was always good for a visit to the stables and a ride on the back of one of the quieter horses. Of course most of the horses were gone now, sold off to pay Sutherland’s debts, and eventually Jem had been let go. His final task had been to see Vivienne and Will safely to London eight months ago, to throw themselves upon the mercy of Aunt Jane. Worried about Jem and breaking the link with her past, Vivienne had given her aunt a heartfelt speech, listing Jem’s long service and sterling qualities, and pleading with her to employ him. Perhaps the viscountess was feeling particularly charitable that day, or perhaps she saw Jem for the jewel he was, and she had agreed to take him on.

“There you be, maid.” Jem called her by that affec-tionate Cornish word for girl, and it always warmed her heart. He was standing by the horses, his old tricorn hat pulled down around his ears. These days he might be more grizzled, but he was still fiercely loyal to the Tremeer siblings, and Vivienne was forever grateful for it.

“I reckon we have a gang over there working up the courage to rob us of our worldly wares.” He nodded toward the corner where the shadows were deepest.

She doubted anyone would be brave enough to tackle Jem. He might be getting on, but he was big and bulky, and in his younger days he had excelled at bare-knuckle boxing.

“Thank you, Jem, we can go home now.”

“All good?” He shot her a shrewd look.

“More or less as I expected,” she said as he handed her up into the coach.

Will had been slumped wearily in the corner but as Jem closed the door, he struggled into a sitting position. There was a stain on his new waistcoat, but she tried not to let it make her cross. Her brother was five years her junior, and she had always seen it as her duty to look after him, until the scandal of eight months ago when he had come to her aid.

“Did he agree?” Will said anxiously, hope shining in his gray eyes so like hers. He was a slender boy of eighteen, handsome and good-natured, and it was only after they had come to London that he had changed. For the worse, unfortunately. It wasn’t his fault, or not entirely. The charming but naïve young gentleman had been easy prey for sophisticated Londoners like Mr. Germaine.

“Vivienne?” Her brother spoke again, impatiently. “What did he say?”

“As we expected he said no. He’s an unmannerly bully and—”

She’d hardly finished speaking when Will flung himself against her, breaking into noisy sobs, and she held him, stroking his dark hair as she murmured soothing words that meant nothing.

“I’m so sorry,” he said, choking on his emotion. “I won’t ever do it again, Viv. I won’t, ever. If we can only extricate ourselves from this, then I will join a… a… monastery.”

Vivienne bit her lip. “That is a good thought, but I doubt it will do. Although I suppose it might show you are of sober character.”

Their grandfather Tremeer had been far from sober. A spendthrift and a gambler, he had left his son an estate weighed down with debt, and a lesson he had never forgotten. At least that was what Vivienne believed was behind the clause in her father’s will. The baronet had been determined Tremeer would never again fall into unreliable hands, and because he had died before Will was old enough for his character to be judged, he had taken sensible precautions. Vivienne and Will had known nothing of that clause, and until he came to London Will had never gambled, so it would not have been an issue. The city had changed matters, but if they could wipe the slate clean…

Vivienne took a breath. “I have my nest egg,” she began, a suggestion she had made before. “Two hundred pounds might—”

And as before Will protested, shaking his head wildly. His eyes looked rather wild too. “No! Two hundred pounds won’t be nearly enough. Besides, that money is yours and I refuse to take it. You might need it when I am in the Marshalsea,” he added glumly.

“Then we will have to tell Aunt Jane.”

“She will wipe her hands of us, send us back to Cornwall, and it is not safe for you with Sutherland in residence.” His protests grew louder, and although Vivienne shushed him, she feared he was right. Aunt Jane would be furious with Will for risking his inheritance.

“She won’t let Sutherland take the estate,” she said, when he had calmed down. “She hates him, you know that.”

“How do you know she won’t keep it for herself? Aunt Jane might overturn the will and cut me out entirely.”

Vivienne supposed there was always that possibility. Aunt Jane had grown up at Tremeer and still had an attachment to it, even if she abhorred her brother’s family.

“Don’t tell her yet,” Will begged. “Perhaps Cadieux will change his mind?” His gloomy expression brightened. Her brother was about to have one of his flights of fancy—his moods recently had been careering wildly up and down—staggering home while dawn was breaking was taking its toll. “Perhaps after one glance he is now smitten with you, and will agree to anything you ask of him!”

Vivienne shook her head but couldn’t help smiling at the thought of Gabriel Cadieux so agreeable. “I very much doubt he is smitten with me,. . .