Page 6 of A Tale of Two Dukes

The men around me carouse, their faces deep in their cups—save the Duke of Foxford, who is still on his honeymoon—yet I can still tell the firstborns apart from the rest. Both my brother Robert Dowding, Duke of Blackport, and Lewis Barrington, Duke of Whiteport, hold themselves aloof, stiff, even though they clearly enjoy the ale and company of scandalous women.

They were the ones meant for this. I was only supposed to be the adopted brother, taken in by the Dowdings once I was discovered to be an Alpha. He was the one to be a duke. I was merely the brother who played the fool in contrast to his rigid, unyielding manner.

Bollocks, it was what made us such a great team when playing with the women here at The Rose and Thorne. He would be steadfast in his resolve for obedience, and I gave them the softer, kinder freedom to melt into my embrace. This way, we kept them on their toes, never knowing which blow they were to receive.

Granted, there were many times I wanted to take up the mantle of a strict disciplinarian, but it seemed to work better with him. Perhaps it was the conviction that came with being a born duke? I, on the other hand, merely played at being a contributing member of the Ton. Shaking my head, I look about, watching the others celebrate my rise in stature. All of them seem far happier than me.

Yes, the new title came with lands and prestige, but I never wanted them. Until this moment, no one had to depend on me. And now, I find myself managing a dukedom with absolutely no knowledge of how it’s supposed to run. I suppose I should be grateful to Robert for lending me his staff until things get situated, but what I really want to do is go back to the Crown Prince and tell him he can keep his reward.

Besides, I happened upon the plot against his life by sheer accident. I certainly had no hand in apprehending the scoundrel who meant my friend harm. And yet, when it was discovered that it was a fellow duke who made this attempt…I guess it just seemed fitting that I take over the seat.

Shaking my head, I disperse those thoughts from my mind. I’m supposed to be celebrating today. Not sitting here morose, recounting memories that should be better off left in the past.

It was a disservice to the women milling about, their bodies nearly writhing as they drape themselves about the men. My fingers itch as I stare at them, my cock jutting to attention. It’s been far too long since I’ve played.

This time, things will be different. I’m no longer just a tagalong to my brother, an earl without responsibility. As a duke in my own right, I will play with the girls by myself, proving that I, too, can be a force to be reckoned with.

As I reach out to grab the nearest adventurous woman, a scent captures my attention. It’s the acrid stench of terror, one not normally found here. I cast my gaze about to the others, but they either do not notice or do not care.

Knowing them, it’s the former. I’ve never known any of my friends to turn a blind eye to someone in need. But still… How is it that no one is reacting? Am I the only one who can smell it?

I rise, pushing past them, ignoring their ribald forms of jest as I move further into the crowd. This isn’t about hunting down a suitable cunt for my cock to enjoy. As I prowl about, nose stalking down the elusive scent, it’s as if the cloud of depression that pinned me down begins to lift, showing me the warm rays of the sun.

This is what I’m missing: an adventure. Though I detest that this woman seems to be in distress, it gives me purpose outside of merely being a titled man. And so, spirit renewed, I push past the crowds of people fucking in any available space, following the alluring scent of fear until I find its source.

The woman is a stranger to me, one I’ve never seen before. However, there’s something about her that arrests me for a moment. Though I’m not sure if it’s her raven-black hair, long enough for me to twine my fist or my ropes in, or her sharp, blue eyes that give me pause.

Either way, distressed or not, she does something to me. My gut clenches as I watch the man in front of her, his back turned to me so I cannot see his face. A feeling akin to intense animosity coupled with jealousy burns through me, flooding my core until my vision begins to waver.

She’s mine, my brain shouts out to me, spurring me to action. Even if it’s just for tonight, she’s mine. However, as I reach out to grab his shoulder, a different scent accosts me, one that will forever live in my brain.

The traitor.

But it’s impossible. I watched Thomas Beaumont, the former Duke of Birchleigh, hang. I saw his feet kick out, piss staining his breeches as he flailed about, seeking purchase and finding none. When he finally died, I watched as he was buried. I was there, every step of the way.

How is it I’m now haunted by this man, this monster? My mind swims as images threaten to superimpose themselves on the scene before me. Instead of a man conversing with a woman, I see a far different scene.

Thomas’s body twitches, his bloated face, red and veiny from strangulation, stares down with sightless eyes. Everything dims, becoming muted and soft. No longer do I hear the raucous sounds of merriment.

Instead, I hear the jeering, the loud shouts and praises as a man quivers and juts about, desperate for air. But it can’t be him. I force the image aside, willing myself to think with clarity.

Unless that putrid blight on society found a way to come back from the dead, it’s not him. He would have had to gain immortality, fucking the devil himself, before clawing his way from the earth. That alone is enough for my brain to click back into motion.

Leaning forward, I boldly scent this other man, taking his unique smell deep inside my lungs. There’s a difference there, one I didn’t catch earlier. To be sure, it has some of the same profiles—a pungent wetness, akin to moldering, festering wood. But instead of the faint scent of gunpowder and smoke, this man smells like the ocean as a breeze cuts across the water. It’s still subtle, but it’s there.

It must be my mind chasing ghosts, displeased with my current lot in life. Glancing over, I lock eyes with the woman, her round orbs becoming that much larger, that much more fathomless. I can lose myself in her gaze. I just know it. I feel it on my skin as if she’s physically touching me.

My balls draw up as I take in the trembling of her blood-red lips. How I would love to have her mouth straining around my cock, taking me down her throat. But then, I can’t keep the arousal in the forefront when her face clearly expresses danger as opposed to passion.

Again, I push past the familiar scent of this man to grab onto her terror and desperation. Though The Rose and Thorne caters to all manner of lascivious acts, the women, to my knowledge, have never experienced true fear.

They are trained to take the rage and aggression that comes with being a girl at a whipping house. They know what to expect. That she stands there now, quivering with terror as his hand tightens about her neck, speaks to something far more dark and dastardly than a man merely attempting to empty his stones.

“You will unhand this woman at once. She is my property for the evening.”

For a moment, the stranger doesn’t move. He’s a statue in front of me. I take in the rigid lock of his muscles, following his arm down to the mask cradled in his grip. Though it isn’t odd for someone to wear a mask to hide their identity here, what’s unusual is the type of mask.

Typically, those of the Ton that do not wish to be noticed wear something honoring Dionysus or, at the very least, something gay and appealing. This one, however, looks to be forged from the very bowels of hell itself.