Prologue

PROLOGUE

T he staff at Hayward Estate were unflinching, staring blankly ahead as the Duke of Peterborough's brandy glass hit the paneled wall of the library, exploding into an arc of shattered crystal and sprays of liquor. It was not the first time they had seen him beside himself with rage, and it would not be the last.

"Father, please?—"

Eighteen-year-old Phillip stood before the Duke, still dressed in his livery after attending the evening's ball. His black hair was tousled, glistening with sweat like a badge of the lively time he'd had. The summer was coming to a close, and Phillip had been permitted to attend a few of the closing events of the season, a rare feat of leniency from his cold, stoic father. Though they never spoke of her, Phillip often looked at the portrait of his mother which still hung in their drawing room in her bright, stylish dress, and he thought of her and how she'd loved to dance.

He could not help but think that if she had been alive, he would have spent each season among the ton, dancing with pretty girls and engaging in bright conversation as a young man ought to do.

Instead, Phillip was most often relegated to his room, accompanied only by his governess and then his tutors. No amount of excellency in studying, riding, swimming, or foxhunting could impress the Duke. No measure of social refinery or elegance. Not even the weight of his son's kind, gentle heart could sway his mind. It was as if nothing that Phillip could say or do would ever be enough to win his father's affection, and now, they stood facing each other. The elder held his hand up to silence his son, his face turned as if he could not even bear to look at him. Phillip's bright, green eyes had darkened and dulled in his disappointment with himself though he knew not what offense he had committed.

"I can do this no longer," the Duke growled, his voice thickly coated with malice. "I have kept your trollop of a mother's secret for her these eighteen years because I thought it was the right thing—the good thing—but you have only suffered and made me suffer for these wretched untruths."

There was a quiet moment as the Duke attempted to get ahold of himself, and Phillip could hear his heart thumping in his chest. The Duchess of Peterborough had been dead for thirteen years, and in all of that time, the young master had not once heard his father speak of her. Now, at last, he was, and he did so only to tarnish her name.

"That is quite enough, Father," Phillip spat in a rare moment of defiance. It would not pay off. The Duke turned to meet his gaze, his lips curled into a wicked dagger of a grin.

"You know not of what you speak," he hissed. "Who is this father to whom you call? Tell me his name if you know it, for I never have. Tell me, and I will go right now to his doorstep and drop you there."

Phillip could not speak. His voice was stuck in his throat, held there by his shock and hurt. He watched the Duke laugh at him, a wild and wicked sound born of what could only be described as madness.

"What could you mean?"

"I mean that your mother was as unfaithful to our marriage as you are worthless," the Duke sneered. "You may be my ward, but you did not come from my loin." He stepped closer to Phillip, who stood tall and unflinching.

"My mother never showed me anything but kindness," Phillip said, firmly. "It is you who?—"

The Duke raised his hand, and Phillip braced himself for an impact that never came. Emmanuel Hayward, the Marquess of Glastonbury, had caught his brother's arm with one hand and stood glowering. Phillip had thought he'd left his uncle in a drunken stupor in their carriage to be taken back to his own home, but here he was, come to rescue the young man.

"Now that is enough ."

"I said that I have heard enough," Phillip Hayward's escort chortled. The man's round belly was full of crumbs, his body resting leisurely on the carriage bench across from his dignified company. He took another bite of his biscuit and waved one fat-fingered hand at the man before him, who looked not unlike a stranger. The last time Emmanuel Hayward's butler had seen the old duke's son, he had been a child still. Now, Phillip's midnight locks had grown long and wavy, framing his gentlemanly face and dark forest-green eyes like expensive marble. His cheeks were no longer youthful and chubby but high and proud. His nose was thinner, though crooked now for a reason he had not yet disclosed during their travels. Even his shoulders, hands, and figure had changed.

Phillip Hayward was no longer a boy and now, very much a man.

"Not to worry, then. I would not dream of sharing my most twisted conquests with you," Phillip smirked. "I guarantee that I can hardly remember their names or faces in any case."

Daniel roared with laughter.

When Phillip received news of his father's sudden death, it had taken the good butler almost a month of searching to finally find Phillip. Then, it had taken him two weeks of begging to convince him to, at last, come home. The secret of his mother's transgressions had, apparently, died with the old duke, and so it was now Phillip's responsibility to resume his position.

On occasion, Phillip was inclined to feel pity for the old man. After Emmanuel took it upon himself to fund Phillip's schooling, the Duke sent him a single letter. In it, he'd detailed his late wife's every mistake and misfortune—how she'd defiled herself while he was away on a business trip, how he'd tortured her after, and even how he'd despaired after her sudden death when her son was five. He'd lamented for their lost relationship. Oh, how he'd tried to love his bastard son!

But then Phillip would recall how he had grown up scorned and alone and had thrown the letter into the fire. The Duke of Peterborough fell ill not long after, and Phillip had been satisfied to learn that he spent his final years confined to his bed, miserable and lonely. Phillip's only regret was that he'd never returned to Hayward and confronted his father for his toxic behavior. It was a fitting end though a sour one as it meant that the young duke would be returning to society life in London.

How dull.

For the past decade, there had not been a jolly that Phillip Hayward did not chase. Pretty women, gambling halls, and any fine establishments that sold liquor were his favorite and often only pastimes of choice. Of course, as a refined young gentleman with a wealthy man's education, Phillip was also fond of literature, poetry in particular, and writing. Society life would leave little room for that.

Still, there was a part of him that felt that he owed his uncle for the generous way in which the man had helped to remove Phillip from his father's cruelty. He had enjoyed his freedom because of Emmanuel, and so, if His Lordship wanted him to return home and take up the duties the deceased duke had left behind, he would do so in so much as showing his face, taking a wife, and delegating his more tedious duties. Then, he would return to his old life—the one which had welcomed and adored him—and forever leave London and its restrictive, horrid rules behind.