Page 5 of The Duke’s Christmas Rejection

“Might I freshen up before meeting back with you?”

“Of course. Lord Hazelwick, Blackport, Redleigh, Foxford, and Portswell are already here. Several are in their cups, and I am game to see just how loose their wallets are. I need you by my side to aid in this endeavor, seeing as the dice seem to always favor you as opposed to me.”

A distraction. Just what I need. “Very well, brother. Let me get into a far more agreeable attire and I shall be down there post haste.”

Turning, I take the very same stairs as the gaggle of girls, doing my utmost to not breathe in Miss Cynthia’s intoxicating scent. However, I am not nearly as immune as I wish to be. Every inhale is laced with the potent smell of her body, and every exhale merely swirls it about, giving it new life.

When I finally make it to Norhaven, I will set out a decree that no peony shall be allowed to bloom on its premises. Turning at the opposite end of the staircase, I storm over to my room, tugging at my cravat in the process. It’s too hot, too stifling. I need to breathe untainted air, to get my head on straight. Slamming open my door, I shuck my jacket, sending up a billow of white powder.

“Your Grace,” my valet murmurs, sliding into the room. “We’ve been expecting you. Shall I draw your bath?”

Though the idea of sinking below the hot surface as I stroke my member is far more appealing than chancing another run-in with the vixen that vexes me, it will take far more time than I wish to waste. “No need. I simply need a new set of clothes.”

“Very good, Your Grace.”

The moment I open the door, loud cheers and shouts greet my ears. It’s all still so new. Though I now carry the title Duke of Norhaven, it somehow doesn’t feel real. I should be strategizing, planning the next battle, not worrying about getting my new house in order.

Flitting my glance around the former smoking room, my lips turn up into a wry smile. Seems my brother changed this room while I was away at war. Now, it’s almost indistinguishable from a gaming hell. For all the responsibility that rests on his shoulders, however, I don’t begrudge him this indulgence.

“Norhaven,” Foxford, cries out, dropping his cue on the billiard table. “Hell and damnation. We’ve waited for hours for you to arrive. Was your horse lame?” His green eyes flicker in the light, mirth dancing in their depths.

As much as I wish to engage with his merriment, I simply don’t feel it. Now that I’m here in a safe space, exhaustion seeps into my bones. I fear I am not in a congenial enough mood for his mischievous antics.

Lord Hazelwick straightens, his red hair ablaze like the imp he portrays. Mischief lights up his face as a smile tugs at his lips. “No doubt he whiled away the time betwixt a woman’s thighs. Tell me, Norhaven, was she any good? Is this a new club I am to frequent?”

Laughter fills the air as I look around the room at the men I went to the Alpha training school with. Though we are all different, we still manage to be a congenial group. And now, save Lord Hazelwick, we are all dukes, either by birth or by decree, ladened with responsibilities. No more, can we be carefree school lads, running about without a care in the world.

Shaking my head, I nod over to Lord Hazelwick, a ghost of a smile turning my mouth. “I’d stick with Vine and Thornes if I were you. The ladies already know your penchant for violence and have made peace with God for the atrocities you emblazon on their bodies.”

He scoffs and leans forward again to take his shot. “You speak as if you’re so different from me. Wasn’t your last call marked by a visit from Madame Douler herself?” His potent words slither out, belied by a quick wink, his green eyes shining like a cat that ate the canary.

Grinding my teeth, I tug at my cravat. “It was a misunderstanding. The chit was given to me with no preparation concerning my tastes. Turns out she was new and untried. That mistake will not happen again. As it was, I did not harm the girl, only frightened her.”

Chapter 4

Charles

From over in the corner of the room, Redleigh glances up from his cup, his scarred face partly shadowed by the flickering fire. “At least you frighten women with your actions and not your appearance. You should be grateful, Norhaven.”

An exasperated sigh flits through my lips. “I am neither grateful nor ungrateful. And when will you realize it is not that one scar that lines your face but your reclusivity that makes the ladies and mamas flee from your presence? By God, man, you live as though you are some beast locked away in a tower.”

He scowls at me and remains silent, opting to stare at the fire instead of facing me with a rebuttal. Turning my attention back to my brother, I watch as he, Blackport, and Portswell continue their game of hazard.

Lewis was not wrong. Both men already look soused, their cheeks a light pink as they toss the dice, losing every time. In fact, I can barely make out Portswell’s brown eyes in the dim light. They’re glazed over from imbibing far too much drink. In direct opposition, Blackport, the only man I know that can out-drink a sailor, still holds intelligence in his sharp, blue eyes.

My brother, the cool, shrewd, level-headed man that he is, simply rakes them over the coals. They should know better than to drink while playing with him, alert or not. Though, honestly, if it were not my brother and some other man, I might accuse him of false dice with how easily he’s taking their coin.

Bored with their choice of game, I turn my attention to other matters. “Is there not to be an eighth?” I scour the room, seeking out the newly appointed Lord Middlehey. “You all boasted of his ability to make merry, and yet he seems to be absent.”

Foxford shrugs, a hint of malice glimmering in his eyes. “Seems he’s been called back away to Harhurst Hall. The cousin he’s inherited is giving him quite the fit. I suspect we will not see him until the season. That is if she can stop playing the shrew and actually become agreeable enough to have a coming out. I plan to visit him during the little season to see if I can somehow assist.”

Hazlewick chortles, striking his ball with the cue. “You? Assist? No doubt you mean to help her out of her clothes. Perhaps you desire to take a tawse to her perfectly rounded backside?”

“Nothing of the sort. Middlehey has had a hard time of it, and I merely wish to get him settled. It’s his first title and, from what I understand, he was left with a mess of an estate. No funds, everything squandered. He needs all the assistance he can receive.”

“Speaking of squandering,” Lewis interrupts. “Charles, join me in a game of piquet. I grow tired of robbing these buffoons of their blunt.”

Despite their protests, both look visibly relieved, opting to saunter over to the billiard table to watch Foxford and Lord Hazelwick finish their game. Shaking my head, I sit down at the small table and watch as Lewis prepares the deck.