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Synopsis
Bridgerton meets 10 Things I Hate About You in this spicy enemies-to-lovers Regency romance from a "must-read author" (Jodi Picoult, #1 New York Times bestselling author).
Lady Evangeline Raine prefers animals to people and has no interest in marriage--much to the dismay of her flirty younger sister, Viola. Because their father has one rule: Viola may be courted, only if Effie has a suitor as well.
Saddled with debt, Gage Croft, Duke of Vale, is determined to rebuild his estates. When the owner of his vowels offers him a fortune to charm the impervious Lady Evangeline for the season so Lady Viola can be courted, the game is on, even if it means pretending to seduce an unconventional wallflower.
But Gage gets much more than he bargains for in an adversary who wants to make her own scandalous arrangement. Effie will go to London for the season, but only if Gage agrees to be her lover. Yet when their fake courtship leads to passionate feelings, will their indecent proposal end with the season or be the start of something real?
Release date: September 24, 2024
Publisher: Grand Central Publishing
Print pages: 368
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The Worst Duke in London
Amalie Howard
Lady Evangeline Raine adored the country. Unlike London, Chichester was clean, the air was not heavy with fog, and it was completely free of gentlemen on the prowl for an heiress with a large dowry. After her previous disastrous seasons, crammed to the brim with silver-tongued fortune hunters, the last she could definitely do without. At one-and-twenty, she’d had quite enough of sly suitors and their fickle promises.
But while going to town was the least of her priorities, it was unfortunately her younger sister’s greatest wish. And what Viola wanted, Viola usually got—in fact, it was the reason her sister had been living in France with their aunt Justine for the past two years. She’d been desperate to go to Paris—she was obsessed with fashion—and their father hadn’t been in any frame of mind to argue. That, and the fact that the earl simply had been at his wit’s end after his wife took off for parts unknown a handful of years ago.
The Countess of Oberton had simply disappeared.
She’d left a letter.
Evangeline had read it but taken great pains to hide it from her younger sister. Viola had been an irrepressible thirteen-year-old and Evangeline barely sixteen. The countess had wanted to be free of the tethers of marriage and motherhood—she’d been betrothed too young, hadn’t had a chance to live, wasn’t happy… along with a handful of more selfish excuses. Considering how much Viola adored their mother, Effie had wanted to protect her sister from a wounded heart. What kind of woman hied off without a qualm in the world, leaving two adolescent daughters behind?
Men weren’t the only ones with fickle hearts, it seemed, which was why it stood to reason that people should guard themselves against love’s crooked arrow. At least, that was what Evangeline believed.
“Honestly, Effie, I do not understand why you have to be so dull,” Viola grumbled over breakfast. “I haven’t even had anything that counts for a season. At least you’ve had yours, and now, I’m practically already on the shelf, facing a future alone and decrepit.”
“Don’t be dramatic.” Evangeline bit her lip to stop herself from saying more—saying worse—that her sister was an overindulged brat who should hardly complain about her rather privileged circumstances. It was no secret that Aunt Justine had spoiled her rotten. Horribly so. Case in point, Viola did not like being told no.
“Perhaps you should wait another year,” Evangeline said calmly. “You’re barely eighteen. The season and all its considerable fripperies won’t go away, never fear.”
“This is insufferable,” Viola wailed.
“Living in wealth and comfort on a four-thousand-hectare estate is insufferable to you?” Evangeline murmured, noticing their father lifting his newspaper even higher as though erecting a barricade against the incoming storm.
“Papa!” Viola screeched.
“Your sister is right, perhaps it’s best to wait another year.” The Earl of Oberton cherished both of his daughters dearly, but Evangeline suspected he saw how much like oil and water they had become, especially in the two years they’d been apart.
Evangeline lifted her brows in challenge. “I am right. A season is simply a grandiose affair to pander to the men of the aristocracy.”
“Spare me your patronizing scolding, Effie,” Viola shot back. “Not everyone wants to succumb to ennui as you seem so comfortable doing. Although you have your animal shack and your fur-loving diversions, and I have nothing.”
“The shelter is a home for lost and starving animals. It is not a diversion or a shack,” she replied. “Those poor creatures are in danger of dying without proper food and care.”
“Can’t you be a Good Samaritan in town? There are hungry dogs there, too.”
Evangeline could… but it was London. She’d rather douse herself in horse piss than ever set foot there. And besides, the local shelter home for animals was her passion, and it was wholly hers. She could not abandon it. Those poor, defenseless animals needed her, and she needed them.
Slipping a piece of crispy bacon from her plate, she fed it to the mutt of mixed breed that lay at her feet. Lucky had been found abandoned, sickly, and left for dead on a country road, but she’d quickly become her devoted companion.
“No. I loathe London.”
“You loathe anything fun,” Viola grumbled.
Evangeline shot her pouting sister a glance. Viola’s thick, golden-brown curls bounced as she shook her head, her bright blue eyes flashing with temper. She was lovely, even in the throes of her childish sulk, and genuinely kind when it suited her. And she had a sensible mind, though she rarely chose to use it. In Viola’s own words, why would she have need of cleverness when her looks got her what she wanted easily enough?
In their aristocratic set, that logic was true. A pretty face backed by a generous dowry always trumped acumen or wit. Viola got the lion’s share of beauty and charm from their mother, while Evangeline was blessed with a keen intellect and their father’s much-too-soft heart, which she buried under layers of aloofness. She was as unique of face as she was in character, and neither of those had served her well in her own three miserable failed seasons.
Only a few years younger, Viola was molded from an entirely different cloth. Unlike Evangeline, she lived for revelries, parties, and obsequious gentlemen. She’d insisted on attending every country assembly within reasonable distance, no matter how small, and had garnered three excellent offers of marriage over the past few months. So she didn’t actually need a season to form a match. She craved the pageantry of an official coming-out.
And one bachelor in particular.
Lord Huntington, who had found out about Viola’s return and made his interest clear, was a pompous arse who held himself in glorious regard. He was a dandy through and through, but nevertheless a favored son of the aristocracy. Set to inherit an enormous fortune and a marquessate, he was a catch by all accounts, except Evangeline’s. It didn’t matter that he was shallower than a muddy pond at the height of summer or fancied his reflection more than he could ever hope to esteem another. The man was an utter knave… and one who needed to keep a far step away from her sister.
None of his obnoxious qualities signified to Viola, however, whose lips were set in a flat, white, stubborn line. “Papa, I am ready to wed and wish to secure a husband. May we please go to London for the season? Lord Huntington has—”
The earl wrinkled his brow, his gaze darting to Evangeline. “Perhaps it won’t be too much trouble if—”
“Trust me,” Evangeline interrupted sharply, dismay at what was certain to come next out of her father’s mouth. “That man is so in love with himself, he’ll hardly notice if you aren’t there.”
Viola shot her a withering look. “He intends to court me.”
Heart sinking, Evangeline gritted her teeth. Of course he did. Viola was vivacious and beautiful, exactly the prize a braggart like Huntington would covet. If she warned Viola to stay away, she would undoubtedly do the opposite. “Along with three-quarters of London’s debutants, I’m sure.”
Her sister’s glare could incinerate the table. “You’re just jealous that Lord Huntington never looked twice at you, Effie dear. Or shall I say, Lady Ghast—”
“That is enough, Viola,” the earl cautioned from where he’d once more ducked down behind his newspaper.
It hurt, that barb, but Evangeline kept her expression composed, even as Viola’s pretty face crumpled in instant shame. “That was truly awful of me, Effie. I apologize.”
Evangeline gave a placid nod and calmly buttered her toast as the hated memory rose to taunt her. During her very first season, she’d scoffed at something Huntington had said to the rest of his fawning toadies, and he had not taken it well. Granted, she probably should have stayed silent, but she hadn’t, and that had been the first of many proverbial nails in her coffin.
“These suffragists are a scourge and a disgrace,” a self-aggrandizing Huntington had declared. “Politics is no business for females. A woman’s place is at home, and her vote is the same as her father’s or her husband’s. I will decide what’s best for any wife of mine or what opinion she should have.”
“That would make you a rather gifted ventriloquist,” Evangeline had blurted out before she could stop herself… in front of everyone.
His reaction had been thespian. “I beg your pardon?”
Evangeline’s cheeks had boiled. Silly, silly, ungovernable mouth! In for a penny, in for a pound then. She’d lifted her chin and opted for tongue-in-cheek humor. “Shall you think for her, too, my lord? This mute marionette wife of yours?”
“Women, like children, should be seen and not heard.” His narrowed, scornful gaze had raked her person, letting her know exactly what he’d thought of her. “Though in your unlucky case, not seen and not heard would be preferable.”
The bald insult was made worse when their avid audience started twittering, and only then had Evangeline realized what her unruly opinion and the offense against this particular gentleman would cost her. “I only meant we…” She’d cleared her throat, ears aflame with mortification. “That is, women, have their own minds and their own voices.”
Lord Huntington had sneered at her down the length of his perfect, patrician nose, a condescending jeer twisting his full lips. “I suppose for someone like you, it could only be a choice between being a spinster or a suffragist.”
“Someone like me?” she’d echoed amid the murmur of cruel laughter.
“A frigid corpse of a wallflower. Shall we add specter in there for good measure?” That glittering, spiteful gaze had speared her, eyes settling on her distinctively pale hair and even paler skin. “One better suited to a crypt, Lady Ghastly.”
Lady Ghastly.
The awful moniker had cut deeply. Her best friend, Vesper, now the Duchess of Greydon, had told her that the gossip would die down when the ton found something new to talk about, but the dreadful and ugly nickname had stuck.
Not only for one season but also for the other two that followed.
Since then, Evangeline had inured herself to the pain of hearing the nasty nickname, though not from her own sister. It hurt. Terribly.
Breakfast resumed in silence, the tension so thick she could slather her cold toast with it. Evangeline could feel Viola’s pleading glances, but she refused to look up until the meal was nearly done.
Baxter, their longtime butler, entered the room. “I beg your pardon, my lord, but Lord Huntington has arrived and is asking whether you are at home to callers.”
As if the foul sobriquet had summoned its equally foul master.
So that was what the morning’s diatribe was about. Evangeline did look at Viola then, but the younger girl was focusing all of her beseeching attention on their father, who had lowered his paper. He frowned at her over his spectacles. “Was this your doing, Viola?”
Her sister’s lower lip trembled, and Evangeline held back an eye roll at Viola’s predictable theatrics. “I didn’t tell him to come right this minute, Papa.”
“Very well, since he has interrupted our breakfast, send him in here.”
Evangeline smoothed her wrinkled, fur-covered skirts, though it didn’t matter what Lord Huntington thought of her. Not anymore. He had made his opinion of her rather clear. When he entered the room, Evangeline could almost hear the celestial horns heralding his illustrious presence.
She and Viola stood to greet Huntington and then retook their seats.
“Huntington,” their father said, folding his newssheets. “To what do we owe your visit?”
“Lord Oberton,” he said, giving a courtly bow. “Lady Evangeline, Lady Viola.” For a second, Evangeline sighed in relief that he hadn’t called her by that cruel nickname, but she did not miss the tiny smirk that crossed his lips, as if he knew she’d been expecting it, the despicable cad. “My apologies for calling so early and interrupting your breakfast, but I’m off to London shortly.”
The earl arched a brow. “Well, get on with it then.”
Evangeline bit her lip to keep from snorting at Huntington’s miffed expression. “I was wondering if I may call on Lady Viola in London, my lord.”
“We’ve no plans to go to London.”
Viola made a noise in her throat, her eyes filling with tears. “Papa, please.”
He let out an aggrieved sigh, his eyes darting to Evangeline, whose spine froze in alarm at the resigned expression on his face. Surely, he wouldn’t give in to such a false display!
As the earl reached for his reading glasses and began cleaning them with a cloth, Effie felt her heart tumble to her feet. Cleaning his spectacles was his tell whenever he was about to concede… especially to Viola.
It was some kind of guilt, Evangeline knew, for sending her off to France after Mama’s disappearance. He’d done so gratefully without so much as an argument when he hadn’t been able to cope with parenting a rambunctious daughter who looked too much like her mother, and Viola had become adept at taking advantage of their father’s misplaced culpability. New gowns? No expense was spared. A new pianoforte? Why not a harp as well?
Paris? Of course, why not go for two years instead of two months?
Evangeline felt guilt, too. After all, it was also partially her fault that Viola had been sent away to live with their aunt in France three years after their mother had left. Perhaps if Evangeline had been a more capable older sister and not caught up in her own woes, Viola might have fared better in England. She could not change the past, however, and making up for it now when she could, just like their father did, was the only alternative.
The earl cleared his throat, and Evangeline’s heart sank. “The only way my younger daughter will be in London for the season is if her elder sister decides to accompany her. You may find a gentleman of your own there, Effie.”
“I won’t,” Evangeline said followed by the sound of Viola’s unladylike shriek of despair. “I don’t wish to marry, Papa. It’s been three seasons already, and I only agreed to go to town the last time for my friends.”
“That’s not fair!” Viola complained. “What about my season? She just wants to stay here like a dried-up old prune.”
The earl stood without meeting Evangeline’s furious gaze. How could he spring something like this on her—he knew very well how she felt about the whole marriage mart farce. “That’s my final say on the matter.” He glanced at their visitor. “Good day, Huntington.”
After Lord Huntington left with a strange, purposeful glint in his eyes, Evangeline gulped her now cold tea, the old feelings of distress coming back to plague her. While she tried not to care about gossip, being ostracized by the entire ton had left its mark—a mark she worked valiantly to erase by shoring herself up with a small circle of trusted friends and the shelter animals that needed her. If she attended balls at all in previous seasons, it was always on her own terms, and certainly not to attract a husband.
“Papa, please, I cannot,” she said, chest tight.
He looked disconsolate, running a hand through his thinning hair. “Effie, I wouldn’t ask this of you if I didn’t need your help.”
“Surely we can get a suitable chaperone for Viola. Hire a companion. Anyone!”
“There is more at stake here, Evangeline, for you as well,” he said. “Who will look after you when I’m gone?”
She clenched her teeth. “Give me my dowry and I shall look after myself. I don’t need a husband to command my every move.”
The earl rose and came over to place a hand on her shoulder, making no attempt to hide the guilt written all over him—she knew he did not want to be the bad father, but she didn’t want to be the scapegoat either. “I’ll leave it to you then, Effie.”
Dear God, the pressure of those words.
The fight drained out of her, but the despair remained as he shuffled from the room.
Her sister’s tears fell in earnest now. “Do this for me, Effie, please,” Viola begged.
Evangeline swallowed hard, dread climbing into her throat at the thought of enduring another interminable season as poor Lady Ghastly, even for Viola’s sake. Her heart felt like it was being stampeded, crushed beneath the weight of the ostracism and ridicule she thought she’d moved past and long overcome.
Like most aristocratic young women, she’d once dreamed of marriage and a family, of succeeding where her own mother had failed, but her dreams had died when her prospects had dwindled to the dregs of society. A fitting match for the so-decreed bottom of the barrel.
But Evangeline would rather be alone than with someone who held no real esteem for her or who only wanted her inheritance. She did not want to be her mother… marrying for the wrong reasons and hurting those she was supposed to care for because she was resentful.
Sometimes, a person’s dreams had to change, even if stupidly impossible hope lingered that someone might love her one day. Such hope was a recipe for heartache and disaster.
Evangeline shook her head. “Don’t ask this of me, Viola. I can’t.”
Lord Gage Croft, the rather impoverished Duke of Vale, drank a toast of Ceylon tea to the final of his personal fortune, currently earmarked to pay off his dead brother’s final remaining vowel. The Croft men were known for their love of drinking and gambling, from gaming halls to cockfighting to anything in between. No prize was too small, no wager too big. They were notorious for their brand of boldness. Their utter daring.
Their folly.
The vice was in their blood. And anyone who could bleed his late father and brother dry had tried… and had mostly succeeded. Fake ventures, loans, illegal races, prizefights, absurd wagers—the schemes added up to an obscene amount, one that had nearly ruined the ducal name.
Anything that wasn’t entailed had been sold to pay off the accrued mountain of debts, down to the last pair of candlesticks in the ancestral estate. Everything of value had been put up for auction—heirlooms, art, furniture, even clothing. The only things Gage hadn’t sold were the family portraits, a few necessary items, and his bed.
A man needed somewhere to sleep, after all.
Thanks to his Scottish mother, Gage had stayed away from the gaming halls, seeing what it had done to his father and grandfather, but he scratched that bone-deep itch—the thrill-seeking curse of the men in his family—in other ways. The same rush that plagued them was the same one that had driven him to bare-knuckle boxing.
A younger Gage had loved the primal buzz of it, of giving in to the feeling of pitting his body and his fists against the odds, and the high of being named champion, the scent of sweat and blood thick in the air. It was still a compulsion, he knew, an addiction. He craved the excitement like an opium eater and gorged himself on it whenever the need arose. But he never wagered or played any stakes. Strenuous physical activity like boxing—and later on, caber tossing—had kept his head clear.
But then, in a sudden and awful twist of fate, his brother Asher died in a curricle race gone wrong, and the dukedom had become Gage’s reality. A reality he resented, but was now his nonetheless. He was responsible for dozens of tenants, staff, and servants, all of whom were suffering from unpaid wages on his family’s account, not to mention living off lands that were fallow and quite barren.
He had to make things right. Then, perhaps, once that was done, his life could finally go back to what it had been in Scotland. Calm, steady, predictable. No temptations and no irredeemable vices. A trustworthy steward would be more than capable of managing the estate in his place.
Cracking his scarred, thickened knuckles, Gage blew out a breath as he glanced at his somber solicitor. Mr. Boone had worked for Gage’s family for years, and Lord knew how much money he probably owed the man. Perhaps he might be amenable to overseeing the ducal lands, if Gage offered him a persuasive enough raise. Not that he had the funds for that at the moment. One hurdle at a time.
“So the accounts are in the clear?” Gage asked.
“The remaining balances were the last of it, Your Grace.”
“And you?”
The solicitor nodded. “I have been compensated in arrears as well, Your Grace, including the rest of your staff and the remaining servants. Thank you.”
Gage bit back another sigh. Said household was down to a meager few—barely enough to toe the boundaries of respectability for a duke. His house may be empty, and his coffers scraped to the absolute bottoms, but he was out of debt, barring one outstanding gambling vowel owed to a society fop by his late brother. A debt that was now his to bear… on top of an estate that still required an enormous amount of upkeep and a leaking roof that needed replacing.
Boone cleared his throat. “Do you plan to be in London for the season, Your Grace?”
As if he could afford a fucking season. Gage glanced down at the frayed cuffs on his coat and the abraded wear of his boots. “No.”
“Pardon my impudence, Your Grace, but perhaps you should consider it,” Boone suggested. “A wealthy wife could be an excellent option for a peer in your position.”
Gage couldn’t quite curb his derisive response. “And which highborn lady in your estimation, Mr. Boone, would fancy the penniless Duke of Vale and move to the wilds of Scotland?” The man blanched, but Gage waved an arm. “Trust me, I’m aware of what the gossip rags say.”
The half-Scottish Destitute Duke with his pugilist hands and rough edges was much too uncouth to be welcomed in pretty London ballrooms. He was in fact quite unkindly ranked the worst duke in London by the Times. A lady would have to be desperate to want him. In fact, he might have to pay her a dowry.
Gage let out a dark chuckle at that last thought. “One day, I’ll wed a bonny Scottish lass, Boone. In the meantime, I’ll find a way to settle Asher’s debt and pay for the remaining repairs on the estate. There are some railway investments I’m looking into as well as some shipping ventures. Real ones, not the absurd, sham schemes that my brother and father fell prey to. If that fails, I can always field a fight or two for the prize money.” The solicitor balked, and Gage laughed. “Sorry, old man, that was in poor taste. No gambling, I swear. You don’t have to worry about me taking unnecessary risks like Asher or my father did.”
After Boone took his leave, Gage ran a hand through his thick tangle of hair. He needed a haircut and a shave. He was starting to resemble one of the shaggy red roan Shetland ponies in his paddock that he’d brought in to sell for extra coin. His brother’s old valet had retired due to his fading eyesight, and without money to replace him, Gage had just managed to make do over the past few months.
“Jenkins,” he called out, and waited for the young footman turned butler to come to the study door. “Do you know how to cut hair?”
“Not unless you wish to lose an eye, Your Grace.”
Gage blinked. Was looking presentable worth losing an eye? He was seriously deliberating the question when sharp, booted footsteps echoing noisily in the empty foyer snagged his attention. He frowned, wondering why whoever it was hadn’t been announced and then realizing that he’d summoned Jenkins from his post.
“See who that is, will you?” he told him. He wasn’t expecting any visitors, not that many came to Vale Ridge Park these days, unless it was to either purchase his family’s heirlooms for pennies on the pound or buy the occasional head of livestock.
Or to collect monies owed.
Gage frowned. He smoothed a hand through his sweaty matted hair, attempting some semblance of civility, and straightened his threadbare coat. The few days’ growth of thick copper stubble gracing his cheeks and jaw would have to stay. When Jenkins ushered his visitor into the study, Gage’s gut tightened.
Lord Evan Huntington, the owner of his brother’s last vowel, stood scowling in the doorway. He’d come to collect his two thousand pounds, no doubt. A bloody fortune. Why his brother owed such an exorbitant amount to Huntington, Gage did not know, but the loan had been the straw that had broken the camel’s back. That fatal curricle race had been Asher’s last-ditch effort to cancel out the debt. He’d bet on himself and lost.
“I told you, I’ll get you your money,” Gage bit out without preamble once the butler had shut the door. “You gave me six months to repay what my brother owed you.”
The man’s nose lifted in a haughty gesture. “You look like you were dragged and trampled by a wild horse, Vale.”
“Did you come all the way here to compliment me?”
“I have a wager for you,” Huntington said, ignoring the sarcasm.
Gage’s eyes narrowed. “I don’t gamble.”
“Call it a gentleman’s agreement then. Do this one thing for me, and your brother’s debt—your debt—will be forgiven.”
He stared at the man with suspicion. Huntington was filthy rich, but what one thing could possibly equate to two thousand pounds? It had to be illegal, whatever it was, and Gage might be desperate, but he wasn’t a fool.
“Not interested,” he said.
Huntington cleared his throat, spreading his pristinely gloved hands wide as he perched on the edge of the desk, the only seating option since the rest of the furniture that once filled Gage’s study had been sold.
“Goodness, it’s like a mausoleum in here, Vale. Did you sell every piece of furniture you own?”
“I kept the desk as a memento. I’ll thank you not to sit on it.” Devil take it, Gage wanted to punch Huntington in his supercilious mouth. “If there isn’t anything else, I do have a busy afternoon.”
“Hear me out, Vale,” Huntington cajoled, pushing off the desk. “It’s worth it, I promise you.”
Obviously, he wasn’t going to get rid of the man until he said his piece, so Gage nodded, folding his arms over his chest and sighing. “Go on.”
“Do you know the Raine sisters? The Earl of Oberton’s daughters.”
In Chichester, everyone knew of the Raines. Oberton was a decent man, one of the few good peers, in his estimation, but Gage had had little opportunity of late to cross paths with either the earl or his family. He’d spent the last month working on the deteriorating portions of the estate with toil, elbow grease, and no small amount of patience. He hadn’t had the time to be social and, in truth, hadn’t wanted to be.
A forgotten memory of two girls skipping in the creek that bordered their neighboring estates filled his head. Both had haloes of pale hair; one was plump and pretty, and the other was thin with sharp, foxlike features. He and Asher had seen them from time to time, but the gap in their ages meant they hadn’t been in the same circles.
“No, I wouldn’t say I know them,” he replied.
Huntington sent him a patronizing nod. “Of course not. Well, I intend to set my cap for Lady Viola, the younger of the two. However, her father has stated that she will not be in London for me to court, unless her older sister goes to town as well.”
Gage frowned. “And why is that my concern?”
“I need you to convince the older sister to go to London.”
“Convince her how?” he growled.
Huntington spread his palms wide. “Woo her, seduce her, tell her she’s pretty. Whatever you do to get women to capitulate. Lie, if you have to.”
Gage opened his mouth and closed it. Surely, he could not have heard right—Huntington wanted him to play some kind of Lothario? He squinted at the man, searching his eyes for signs of cloudiness or confusion. “Are you in your cups, Hunt. . .
But while going to town was the least of her priorities, it was unfortunately her younger sister’s greatest wish. And what Viola wanted, Viola usually got—in fact, it was the reason her sister had been living in France with their aunt Justine for the past two years. She’d been desperate to go to Paris—she was obsessed with fashion—and their father hadn’t been in any frame of mind to argue. That, and the fact that the earl simply had been at his wit’s end after his wife took off for parts unknown a handful of years ago.
The Countess of Oberton had simply disappeared.
She’d left a letter.
Evangeline had read it but taken great pains to hide it from her younger sister. Viola had been an irrepressible thirteen-year-old and Evangeline barely sixteen. The countess had wanted to be free of the tethers of marriage and motherhood—she’d been betrothed too young, hadn’t had a chance to live, wasn’t happy… along with a handful of more selfish excuses. Considering how much Viola adored their mother, Effie had wanted to protect her sister from a wounded heart. What kind of woman hied off without a qualm in the world, leaving two adolescent daughters behind?
Men weren’t the only ones with fickle hearts, it seemed, which was why it stood to reason that people should guard themselves against love’s crooked arrow. At least, that was what Evangeline believed.
“Honestly, Effie, I do not understand why you have to be so dull,” Viola grumbled over breakfast. “I haven’t even had anything that counts for a season. At least you’ve had yours, and now, I’m practically already on the shelf, facing a future alone and decrepit.”
“Don’t be dramatic.” Evangeline bit her lip to stop herself from saying more—saying worse—that her sister was an overindulged brat who should hardly complain about her rather privileged circumstances. It was no secret that Aunt Justine had spoiled her rotten. Horribly so. Case in point, Viola did not like being told no.
“Perhaps you should wait another year,” Evangeline said calmly. “You’re barely eighteen. The season and all its considerable fripperies won’t go away, never fear.”
“This is insufferable,” Viola wailed.
“Living in wealth and comfort on a four-thousand-hectare estate is insufferable to you?” Evangeline murmured, noticing their father lifting his newspaper even higher as though erecting a barricade against the incoming storm.
“Papa!” Viola screeched.
“Your sister is right, perhaps it’s best to wait another year.” The Earl of Oberton cherished both of his daughters dearly, but Evangeline suspected he saw how much like oil and water they had become, especially in the two years they’d been apart.
Evangeline lifted her brows in challenge. “I am right. A season is simply a grandiose affair to pander to the men of the aristocracy.”
“Spare me your patronizing scolding, Effie,” Viola shot back. “Not everyone wants to succumb to ennui as you seem so comfortable doing. Although you have your animal shack and your fur-loving diversions, and I have nothing.”
“The shelter is a home for lost and starving animals. It is not a diversion or a shack,” she replied. “Those poor creatures are in danger of dying without proper food and care.”
“Can’t you be a Good Samaritan in town? There are hungry dogs there, too.”
Evangeline could… but it was London. She’d rather douse herself in horse piss than ever set foot there. And besides, the local shelter home for animals was her passion, and it was wholly hers. She could not abandon it. Those poor, defenseless animals needed her, and she needed them.
Slipping a piece of crispy bacon from her plate, she fed it to the mutt of mixed breed that lay at her feet. Lucky had been found abandoned, sickly, and left for dead on a country road, but she’d quickly become her devoted companion.
“No. I loathe London.”
“You loathe anything fun,” Viola grumbled.
Evangeline shot her pouting sister a glance. Viola’s thick, golden-brown curls bounced as she shook her head, her bright blue eyes flashing with temper. She was lovely, even in the throes of her childish sulk, and genuinely kind when it suited her. And she had a sensible mind, though she rarely chose to use it. In Viola’s own words, why would she have need of cleverness when her looks got her what she wanted easily enough?
In their aristocratic set, that logic was true. A pretty face backed by a generous dowry always trumped acumen or wit. Viola got the lion’s share of beauty and charm from their mother, while Evangeline was blessed with a keen intellect and their father’s much-too-soft heart, which she buried under layers of aloofness. She was as unique of face as she was in character, and neither of those had served her well in her own three miserable failed seasons.
Only a few years younger, Viola was molded from an entirely different cloth. Unlike Evangeline, she lived for revelries, parties, and obsequious gentlemen. She’d insisted on attending every country assembly within reasonable distance, no matter how small, and had garnered three excellent offers of marriage over the past few months. So she didn’t actually need a season to form a match. She craved the pageantry of an official coming-out.
And one bachelor in particular.
Lord Huntington, who had found out about Viola’s return and made his interest clear, was a pompous arse who held himself in glorious regard. He was a dandy through and through, but nevertheless a favored son of the aristocracy. Set to inherit an enormous fortune and a marquessate, he was a catch by all accounts, except Evangeline’s. It didn’t matter that he was shallower than a muddy pond at the height of summer or fancied his reflection more than he could ever hope to esteem another. The man was an utter knave… and one who needed to keep a far step away from her sister.
None of his obnoxious qualities signified to Viola, however, whose lips were set in a flat, white, stubborn line. “Papa, I am ready to wed and wish to secure a husband. May we please go to London for the season? Lord Huntington has—”
The earl wrinkled his brow, his gaze darting to Evangeline. “Perhaps it won’t be too much trouble if—”
“Trust me,” Evangeline interrupted sharply, dismay at what was certain to come next out of her father’s mouth. “That man is so in love with himself, he’ll hardly notice if you aren’t there.”
Viola shot her a withering look. “He intends to court me.”
Heart sinking, Evangeline gritted her teeth. Of course he did. Viola was vivacious and beautiful, exactly the prize a braggart like Huntington would covet. If she warned Viola to stay away, she would undoubtedly do the opposite. “Along with three-quarters of London’s debutants, I’m sure.”
Her sister’s glare could incinerate the table. “You’re just jealous that Lord Huntington never looked twice at you, Effie dear. Or shall I say, Lady Ghast—”
“That is enough, Viola,” the earl cautioned from where he’d once more ducked down behind his newspaper.
It hurt, that barb, but Evangeline kept her expression composed, even as Viola’s pretty face crumpled in instant shame. “That was truly awful of me, Effie. I apologize.”
Evangeline gave a placid nod and calmly buttered her toast as the hated memory rose to taunt her. During her very first season, she’d scoffed at something Huntington had said to the rest of his fawning toadies, and he had not taken it well. Granted, she probably should have stayed silent, but she hadn’t, and that had been the first of many proverbial nails in her coffin.
“These suffragists are a scourge and a disgrace,” a self-aggrandizing Huntington had declared. “Politics is no business for females. A woman’s place is at home, and her vote is the same as her father’s or her husband’s. I will decide what’s best for any wife of mine or what opinion she should have.”
“That would make you a rather gifted ventriloquist,” Evangeline had blurted out before she could stop herself… in front of everyone.
His reaction had been thespian. “I beg your pardon?”
Evangeline’s cheeks had boiled. Silly, silly, ungovernable mouth! In for a penny, in for a pound then. She’d lifted her chin and opted for tongue-in-cheek humor. “Shall you think for her, too, my lord? This mute marionette wife of yours?”
“Women, like children, should be seen and not heard.” His narrowed, scornful gaze had raked her person, letting her know exactly what he’d thought of her. “Though in your unlucky case, not seen and not heard would be preferable.”
The bald insult was made worse when their avid audience started twittering, and only then had Evangeline realized what her unruly opinion and the offense against this particular gentleman would cost her. “I only meant we…” She’d cleared her throat, ears aflame with mortification. “That is, women, have their own minds and their own voices.”
Lord Huntington had sneered at her down the length of his perfect, patrician nose, a condescending jeer twisting his full lips. “I suppose for someone like you, it could only be a choice between being a spinster or a suffragist.”
“Someone like me?” she’d echoed amid the murmur of cruel laughter.
“A frigid corpse of a wallflower. Shall we add specter in there for good measure?” That glittering, spiteful gaze had speared her, eyes settling on her distinctively pale hair and even paler skin. “One better suited to a crypt, Lady Ghastly.”
Lady Ghastly.
The awful moniker had cut deeply. Her best friend, Vesper, now the Duchess of Greydon, had told her that the gossip would die down when the ton found something new to talk about, but the dreadful and ugly nickname had stuck.
Not only for one season but also for the other two that followed.
Since then, Evangeline had inured herself to the pain of hearing the nasty nickname, though not from her own sister. It hurt. Terribly.
Breakfast resumed in silence, the tension so thick she could slather her cold toast with it. Evangeline could feel Viola’s pleading glances, but she refused to look up until the meal was nearly done.
Baxter, their longtime butler, entered the room. “I beg your pardon, my lord, but Lord Huntington has arrived and is asking whether you are at home to callers.”
As if the foul sobriquet had summoned its equally foul master.
So that was what the morning’s diatribe was about. Evangeline did look at Viola then, but the younger girl was focusing all of her beseeching attention on their father, who had lowered his paper. He frowned at her over his spectacles. “Was this your doing, Viola?”
Her sister’s lower lip trembled, and Evangeline held back an eye roll at Viola’s predictable theatrics. “I didn’t tell him to come right this minute, Papa.”
“Very well, since he has interrupted our breakfast, send him in here.”
Evangeline smoothed her wrinkled, fur-covered skirts, though it didn’t matter what Lord Huntington thought of her. Not anymore. He had made his opinion of her rather clear. When he entered the room, Evangeline could almost hear the celestial horns heralding his illustrious presence.
She and Viola stood to greet Huntington and then retook their seats.
“Huntington,” their father said, folding his newssheets. “To what do we owe your visit?”
“Lord Oberton,” he said, giving a courtly bow. “Lady Evangeline, Lady Viola.” For a second, Evangeline sighed in relief that he hadn’t called her by that cruel nickname, but she did not miss the tiny smirk that crossed his lips, as if he knew she’d been expecting it, the despicable cad. “My apologies for calling so early and interrupting your breakfast, but I’m off to London shortly.”
The earl arched a brow. “Well, get on with it then.”
Evangeline bit her lip to keep from snorting at Huntington’s miffed expression. “I was wondering if I may call on Lady Viola in London, my lord.”
“We’ve no plans to go to London.”
Viola made a noise in her throat, her eyes filling with tears. “Papa, please.”
He let out an aggrieved sigh, his eyes darting to Evangeline, whose spine froze in alarm at the resigned expression on his face. Surely, he wouldn’t give in to such a false display!
As the earl reached for his reading glasses and began cleaning them with a cloth, Effie felt her heart tumble to her feet. Cleaning his spectacles was his tell whenever he was about to concede… especially to Viola.
It was some kind of guilt, Evangeline knew, for sending her off to France after Mama’s disappearance. He’d done so gratefully without so much as an argument when he hadn’t been able to cope with parenting a rambunctious daughter who looked too much like her mother, and Viola had become adept at taking advantage of their father’s misplaced culpability. New gowns? No expense was spared. A new pianoforte? Why not a harp as well?
Paris? Of course, why not go for two years instead of two months?
Evangeline felt guilt, too. After all, it was also partially her fault that Viola had been sent away to live with their aunt in France three years after their mother had left. Perhaps if Evangeline had been a more capable older sister and not caught up in her own woes, Viola might have fared better in England. She could not change the past, however, and making up for it now when she could, just like their father did, was the only alternative.
The earl cleared his throat, and Evangeline’s heart sank. “The only way my younger daughter will be in London for the season is if her elder sister decides to accompany her. You may find a gentleman of your own there, Effie.”
“I won’t,” Evangeline said followed by the sound of Viola’s unladylike shriek of despair. “I don’t wish to marry, Papa. It’s been three seasons already, and I only agreed to go to town the last time for my friends.”
“That’s not fair!” Viola complained. “What about my season? She just wants to stay here like a dried-up old prune.”
The earl stood without meeting Evangeline’s furious gaze. How could he spring something like this on her—he knew very well how she felt about the whole marriage mart farce. “That’s my final say on the matter.” He glanced at their visitor. “Good day, Huntington.”
After Lord Huntington left with a strange, purposeful glint in his eyes, Evangeline gulped her now cold tea, the old feelings of distress coming back to plague her. While she tried not to care about gossip, being ostracized by the entire ton had left its mark—a mark she worked valiantly to erase by shoring herself up with a small circle of trusted friends and the shelter animals that needed her. If she attended balls at all in previous seasons, it was always on her own terms, and certainly not to attract a husband.
“Papa, please, I cannot,” she said, chest tight.
He looked disconsolate, running a hand through his thinning hair. “Effie, I wouldn’t ask this of you if I didn’t need your help.”
“Surely we can get a suitable chaperone for Viola. Hire a companion. Anyone!”
“There is more at stake here, Evangeline, for you as well,” he said. “Who will look after you when I’m gone?”
She clenched her teeth. “Give me my dowry and I shall look after myself. I don’t need a husband to command my every move.”
The earl rose and came over to place a hand on her shoulder, making no attempt to hide the guilt written all over him—she knew he did not want to be the bad father, but she didn’t want to be the scapegoat either. “I’ll leave it to you then, Effie.”
Dear God, the pressure of those words.
The fight drained out of her, but the despair remained as he shuffled from the room.
Her sister’s tears fell in earnest now. “Do this for me, Effie, please,” Viola begged.
Evangeline swallowed hard, dread climbing into her throat at the thought of enduring another interminable season as poor Lady Ghastly, even for Viola’s sake. Her heart felt like it was being stampeded, crushed beneath the weight of the ostracism and ridicule she thought she’d moved past and long overcome.
Like most aristocratic young women, she’d once dreamed of marriage and a family, of succeeding where her own mother had failed, but her dreams had died when her prospects had dwindled to the dregs of society. A fitting match for the so-decreed bottom of the barrel.
But Evangeline would rather be alone than with someone who held no real esteem for her or who only wanted her inheritance. She did not want to be her mother… marrying for the wrong reasons and hurting those she was supposed to care for because she was resentful.
Sometimes, a person’s dreams had to change, even if stupidly impossible hope lingered that someone might love her one day. Such hope was a recipe for heartache and disaster.
Evangeline shook her head. “Don’t ask this of me, Viola. I can’t.”
Lord Gage Croft, the rather impoverished Duke of Vale, drank a toast of Ceylon tea to the final of his personal fortune, currently earmarked to pay off his dead brother’s final remaining vowel. The Croft men were known for their love of drinking and gambling, from gaming halls to cockfighting to anything in between. No prize was too small, no wager too big. They were notorious for their brand of boldness. Their utter daring.
Their folly.
The vice was in their blood. And anyone who could bleed his late father and brother dry had tried… and had mostly succeeded. Fake ventures, loans, illegal races, prizefights, absurd wagers—the schemes added up to an obscene amount, one that had nearly ruined the ducal name.
Anything that wasn’t entailed had been sold to pay off the accrued mountain of debts, down to the last pair of candlesticks in the ancestral estate. Everything of value had been put up for auction—heirlooms, art, furniture, even clothing. The only things Gage hadn’t sold were the family portraits, a few necessary items, and his bed.
A man needed somewhere to sleep, after all.
Thanks to his Scottish mother, Gage had stayed away from the gaming halls, seeing what it had done to his father and grandfather, but he scratched that bone-deep itch—the thrill-seeking curse of the men in his family—in other ways. The same rush that plagued them was the same one that had driven him to bare-knuckle boxing.
A younger Gage had loved the primal buzz of it, of giving in to the feeling of pitting his body and his fists against the odds, and the high of being named champion, the scent of sweat and blood thick in the air. It was still a compulsion, he knew, an addiction. He craved the excitement like an opium eater and gorged himself on it whenever the need arose. But he never wagered or played any stakes. Strenuous physical activity like boxing—and later on, caber tossing—had kept his head clear.
But then, in a sudden and awful twist of fate, his brother Asher died in a curricle race gone wrong, and the dukedom had become Gage’s reality. A reality he resented, but was now his nonetheless. He was responsible for dozens of tenants, staff, and servants, all of whom were suffering from unpaid wages on his family’s account, not to mention living off lands that were fallow and quite barren.
He had to make things right. Then, perhaps, once that was done, his life could finally go back to what it had been in Scotland. Calm, steady, predictable. No temptations and no irredeemable vices. A trustworthy steward would be more than capable of managing the estate in his place.
Cracking his scarred, thickened knuckles, Gage blew out a breath as he glanced at his somber solicitor. Mr. Boone had worked for Gage’s family for years, and Lord knew how much money he probably owed the man. Perhaps he might be amenable to overseeing the ducal lands, if Gage offered him a persuasive enough raise. Not that he had the funds for that at the moment. One hurdle at a time.
“So the accounts are in the clear?” Gage asked.
“The remaining balances were the last of it, Your Grace.”
“And you?”
The solicitor nodded. “I have been compensated in arrears as well, Your Grace, including the rest of your staff and the remaining servants. Thank you.”
Gage bit back another sigh. Said household was down to a meager few—barely enough to toe the boundaries of respectability for a duke. His house may be empty, and his coffers scraped to the absolute bottoms, but he was out of debt, barring one outstanding gambling vowel owed to a society fop by his late brother. A debt that was now his to bear… on top of an estate that still required an enormous amount of upkeep and a leaking roof that needed replacing.
Boone cleared his throat. “Do you plan to be in London for the season, Your Grace?”
As if he could afford a fucking season. Gage glanced down at the frayed cuffs on his coat and the abraded wear of his boots. “No.”
“Pardon my impudence, Your Grace, but perhaps you should consider it,” Boone suggested. “A wealthy wife could be an excellent option for a peer in your position.”
Gage couldn’t quite curb his derisive response. “And which highborn lady in your estimation, Mr. Boone, would fancy the penniless Duke of Vale and move to the wilds of Scotland?” The man blanched, but Gage waved an arm. “Trust me, I’m aware of what the gossip rags say.”
The half-Scottish Destitute Duke with his pugilist hands and rough edges was much too uncouth to be welcomed in pretty London ballrooms. He was in fact quite unkindly ranked the worst duke in London by the Times. A lady would have to be desperate to want him. In fact, he might have to pay her a dowry.
Gage let out a dark chuckle at that last thought. “One day, I’ll wed a bonny Scottish lass, Boone. In the meantime, I’ll find a way to settle Asher’s debt and pay for the remaining repairs on the estate. There are some railway investments I’m looking into as well as some shipping ventures. Real ones, not the absurd, sham schemes that my brother and father fell prey to. If that fails, I can always field a fight or two for the prize money.” The solicitor balked, and Gage laughed. “Sorry, old man, that was in poor taste. No gambling, I swear. You don’t have to worry about me taking unnecessary risks like Asher or my father did.”
After Boone took his leave, Gage ran a hand through his thick tangle of hair. He needed a haircut and a shave. He was starting to resemble one of the shaggy red roan Shetland ponies in his paddock that he’d brought in to sell for extra coin. His brother’s old valet had retired due to his fading eyesight, and without money to replace him, Gage had just managed to make do over the past few months.
“Jenkins,” he called out, and waited for the young footman turned butler to come to the study door. “Do you know how to cut hair?”
“Not unless you wish to lose an eye, Your Grace.”
Gage blinked. Was looking presentable worth losing an eye? He was seriously deliberating the question when sharp, booted footsteps echoing noisily in the empty foyer snagged his attention. He frowned, wondering why whoever it was hadn’t been announced and then realizing that he’d summoned Jenkins from his post.
“See who that is, will you?” he told him. He wasn’t expecting any visitors, not that many came to Vale Ridge Park these days, unless it was to either purchase his family’s heirlooms for pennies on the pound or buy the occasional head of livestock.
Or to collect monies owed.
Gage frowned. He smoothed a hand through his sweaty matted hair, attempting some semblance of civility, and straightened his threadbare coat. The few days’ growth of thick copper stubble gracing his cheeks and jaw would have to stay. When Jenkins ushered his visitor into the study, Gage’s gut tightened.
Lord Evan Huntington, the owner of his brother’s last vowel, stood scowling in the doorway. He’d come to collect his two thousand pounds, no doubt. A bloody fortune. Why his brother owed such an exorbitant amount to Huntington, Gage did not know, but the loan had been the straw that had broken the camel’s back. That fatal curricle race had been Asher’s last-ditch effort to cancel out the debt. He’d bet on himself and lost.
“I told you, I’ll get you your money,” Gage bit out without preamble once the butler had shut the door. “You gave me six months to repay what my brother owed you.”
The man’s nose lifted in a haughty gesture. “You look like you were dragged and trampled by a wild horse, Vale.”
“Did you come all the way here to compliment me?”
“I have a wager for you,” Huntington said, ignoring the sarcasm.
Gage’s eyes narrowed. “I don’t gamble.”
“Call it a gentleman’s agreement then. Do this one thing for me, and your brother’s debt—your debt—will be forgiven.”
He stared at the man with suspicion. Huntington was filthy rich, but what one thing could possibly equate to two thousand pounds? It had to be illegal, whatever it was, and Gage might be desperate, but he wasn’t a fool.
“Not interested,” he said.
Huntington cleared his throat, spreading his pristinely gloved hands wide as he perched on the edge of the desk, the only seating option since the rest of the furniture that once filled Gage’s study had been sold.
“Goodness, it’s like a mausoleum in here, Vale. Did you sell every piece of furniture you own?”
“I kept the desk as a memento. I’ll thank you not to sit on it.” Devil take it, Gage wanted to punch Huntington in his supercilious mouth. “If there isn’t anything else, I do have a busy afternoon.”
“Hear me out, Vale,” Huntington cajoled, pushing off the desk. “It’s worth it, I promise you.”
Obviously, he wasn’t going to get rid of the man until he said his piece, so Gage nodded, folding his arms over his chest and sighing. “Go on.”
“Do you know the Raine sisters? The Earl of Oberton’s daughters.”
In Chichester, everyone knew of the Raines. Oberton was a decent man, one of the few good peers, in his estimation, but Gage had had little opportunity of late to cross paths with either the earl or his family. He’d spent the last month working on the deteriorating portions of the estate with toil, elbow grease, and no small amount of patience. He hadn’t had the time to be social and, in truth, hadn’t wanted to be.
A forgotten memory of two girls skipping in the creek that bordered their neighboring estates filled his head. Both had haloes of pale hair; one was plump and pretty, and the other was thin with sharp, foxlike features. He and Asher had seen them from time to time, but the gap in their ages meant they hadn’t been in the same circles.
“No, I wouldn’t say I know them,” he replied.
Huntington sent him a patronizing nod. “Of course not. Well, I intend to set my cap for Lady Viola, the younger of the two. However, her father has stated that she will not be in London for me to court, unless her older sister goes to town as well.”
Gage frowned. “And why is that my concern?”
“I need you to convince the older sister to go to London.”
“Convince her how?” he growled.
Huntington spread his palms wide. “Woo her, seduce her, tell her she’s pretty. Whatever you do to get women to capitulate. Lie, if you have to.”
Gage opened his mouth and closed it. Surely, he could not have heard right—Huntington wanted him to play some kind of Lothario? He squinted at the man, searching his eyes for signs of cloudiness or confusion. “Are you in your cups, Hunt. . .
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The Worst Duke in London
Amalie Howard
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