Page 1 of The Duchess He Couldn’t Resist

PROLOGUE

The docks at night were a completely different world from the one Brandon and Owen were used to. After all, it was not that common for the heirs of powerful ducal seats to be roaming the wrong part of town.

“The info we got,” Brandon said, hiding himself in the simple clothes he had gotten his hands on, “said that this had to be the place.”

Owen was standing at his side, and he looked upon the rundown establishment Brandon was pointing at.

“It looks, smells, and feels like a very bad idea,” Owen murmured.

“We need information.”

“We could ask nicely.”

“We are not at one of the balls of the season,” Brandon said, “and these are not dainty ladies of the ton that you can sway with one of your smiles. These are thugs. They only respond to power.”

Brandon took a step forward into the establishment, and Owen followed. Inside, they found a group of men around the fire. They were passing a single bottle of dubious origins and contents.

“Well, this looks… unhygienic,” Owen commented.

The men looked up. Rough men. Dangerous men. And most importantly, more men than even those two big, well-trained dukes could handle.

“What on earth do you want?” one of the men slurred.

“Information,” Brandon growled. “I came for information.”

“Boy.” A massive, scarred man got up from his chair. “You came looking for trouble.”

“And we can provide that in abundance,” another man said as he cracked his neck.

The men all got up, sneering dangerously, slowly approaching them.

“Do you reckon,” Owen asked, taking a fighting stance, “that it is too late to ask nicely?”

“I need information, and I am going to get it one way or the other,” Brandon said with determination and raised his fists.

The fight was brutal, and yet it was short as are most things truly violent. Brandon took down three men before two more flung him and attacked him at the same time. One landed a blow to his ribs that made him stagger, but Brandon didn’t fall before he made sure his fist connected with someone’s jaw.

Owen was holding his ground. He danced around the thugs, enraging them with his more elegant style but landing devastating blows anytime his feet were planted on the floor.

But still there were too many of them, and soon the duo found themselves cornered, hurt, and exhausted. A blow caught Brandon from behind, sending him to his knees. Before he had the chance to recuperate, another punch to his face. He tasted blood. His blood.

“Get up!” Owen pulled him and basically dragged him out of there. They had no other choice. They had to run. They made it to a narrow alley and collapsed against the wall, gasping for air.

“That was awfully close to being fun,” Owen said, spitting blood.

Brandon said nothing. He was too angry and humiliated and, above all, furious that he didn’t get the information he needed.

“That was way too ambitious, bold, and stupid,” a voice was heard from the shadows.

Brandon tensed, and he heard Owen hissing beside him. They gathered their strength as they straightened to their height to stand up against the new threat.

A figure emerged from the shadows, all draped in black. He was not much older than they were, but he carried an authority that made him look older than his real age. It took only one glance to know that this was not some thug they were up against. This was a gentleman of some stature.

“Who are you?” Brandon demanded, his stance not changing.

“Someone who admired your courage but has doubts about your strategy,” the man said, stepping closer.

“We had a strategy?” Owen asked teasingly.