Page 44 of A Rakish Duke's Rules for Love

Papa would be most disheartened to know that the small warehouse and teashop he owned were bleeding money instead of gaining and her mother would start fretting again. They would have to go the moneylenders again—damned Shylocks.

She tossed her quill down and precious drops of ink spattered on the otherwise immaculate ledger. Shifting to the house’s ledger, she smiled a bit—at least this one was in order. They wouldn’t need a loan to buy tea or pay the five servants they had.

At three-and-twenty, Victoria could almost count the days leading to her spinsterhood; no one would want to marry a lady as old and opinionated as she was, well not anymore. And she only had herself to blame.

Her eyes wandered to the yesterday’s newspaper; one she had not read yet.

Unfolding it, she read,Rumors abound thatDuke and Duchess Clovervale have an heir coming…

A smile curved her lips at knowing her friend Anastasia was with child, but it was barely a month in.

“Pardon me, Miss Victoria,” their butler bowed, Mister Earns bowed while holding out a letter on a silver platter. “A missive has arrived from the Earl of Gladhame’s manor.”

“Him!” Her lips pressed tight; what did David Martin want?

The image of the tall, roguishly handsome man with his square jaw, dimpled chin and piercing hazel eyes ran flashed across her mind. She briefly considered lobbying the letter into the fire as she had no interest in hearing whatever that rakehell had to say.

Earns was placid, “Shall I return it, Miss?”

Again, while tempted to destroy it, Victoria wondered what on earth would make the man contact her. They hated each other; he was irked with her ‘impertinence’ and she abhorred that he dealt with women as if they were puppets.

“No, I’ll read it, thank you.”

With a nod, he rested the platter on the table and opened it gingerly.

Dear, Miss Victoria Thompson,

It is with pain that I write this message and while I am assured you’ve so many troubles of your own, I have painted myself into a corner and I do not know how to escape it unless you help me. This is the easiest way for me to contact you, otherwise I will have to come to you in person.

You will mock me, and you have every reason to do so, but I am in dire straits. My aunt is pressing me to marry, and against all odds, wisdom, common sense, or sound intuition, I told her you are the one I will court.

Do not fear, I’m not asking you to marry me, God no. I merely hope you might feign an attachment with me to put my meddlesome aunt’s persistence to rest. I shall even make a contract with you and at the end of our faux courtship, we may quietly cancel the engagement.

I assume you are burdened with the thought that I must have gone insane and am currently residing at Bedlam. The probability of that will be true if I do not source your help.

Never fear, your Beatrice is still the archenemy to my Benedict and will be so to the end of time—and I would prefer it that way, but perhaps we can lower the hatchets for once.

D. Martin.

Stunned, Victoria read over the letter twice and at the third reread, the words still made no sense. Surely this was an ill-mannered jest. The damned earl had to be drunk, doused to the gills or out of his mind to send this.

A fake courtship? Withhim—the second worst rakehell, libertine, seducer, and lothario of London?

Her hands trembled with rage while her eyes beaded with passionate tears. Of all the heated stabs to her heart, her sensibilities and dwindling hope, this joke was the most jagged.

“How—how dare he do this to me!”

She had to see him, slap the letter into his face and demand an explanation. Striding to her room, she dressed hurriedly.

She briefly considered taking her maid, but no, this visit would be short and to the point, she wouldn’t be there for long. She sent the lone footman for the carriage and tucked the letter into her reticule. “We leave at once.”