Chapter 1

Chapter One

DEVON, 1820

A ugust Wade, Duke of Courtland relaxed against the leather squabs of his one remaining decent carriage. The vehicle, no longer well-sprung, rocked as it hit a rut in the road, tossing about his cousin, Lady Eliza Wade, in the seat across from him.

"It can't be as bad as all that," he finally said.

"You are being referred to as the Duke of Last Resort ."

Well, that wasn't flattering in the least.

"There are far worse dukes available," August countered. "Sanderhall, for instance, has gout and false teeth. And Lindsey drools while he eats. Surely, either one of them could be considered far worse."

"Lindsey is nearly seventy," Eliza returned. "He is expected to drool."

"My reputation is only mildly tattered."

Eliza gave him a pained look.

"I may have done some questionable things?—"

This time she snorted. Loudly.

"Come, now. Being a rake isn't nearly as bad as smelling like a rotted potato, as Sanderhall does. Perhaps that can be pointed out to this"—he waved a hand—"Brazen Belle."

"The Rake Review ." Lady Eliza Wade held up the newssheet she'd brought with her from London. "Fresh off the presses. Which means securing your heiress at Lady Talbot's house party has now become imperative."

"You are being dramatic, Eliza."

"I am not. This"—she held up the paper again—"not only paints you in an incredibly poor light but also announces our desperation to all of London. I haven't even finished the paragraph."

"Well, I'm sure it gets better."

"It does not," Eliza assured him.

"No one will give this…"

" Rake Review ," Eliza supplied helpfully.

"…any credence. I am reformed now. I've lived a boring life in the country since inheriting. Nearly three years of nothing but sheep and the occasional cow." And August considered himself fortunate to have that much after the title Edward had left him to inherit.

"The ton has a long memory, August. You were a rake before you went off to the Continent, but when you returned…before Edward died…" Her words trailed off.

"I was terrible. Worse than before. I realize that." A frustrated sound came from him. "I did some unsavory things."

"You are still not received by some, as evidenced by our recent stay in London."

"I'm still a duke. One who is not ancient or riddled with pox. Nor do I smell of rot. That should count for something."

Admittedly, it would be difficult to court a young lady if you'd indulged in an indiscretion with her mother, aunt, or governess, something that was entirely too likely given his previous behavior. Also, August had been something of a prick for most of his adult life, especially in his dealings with the fairer sex.

He was remembered in society for his misdeeds in the bedroom, which were, unfortunately, numerous. His drunken debauchery. Sleeping on the faro table at one of the gambling hells he'd once frequented. Taking both Lady Rhys and her maid to bed at the same time. That was all the ton recalled about him.

No matter that August had been at Quatre Bras?—

He took a deep, slow breath, the scent of gunpowder mixed with the coppery tang of blood filling his nose. Not real, of course. August was a long way from Quatre Bras and that terrible day. But that scent still lingered. Impossible to dispel.

"I haven't even been in London to debauch anyone, until recently," he reminded his cousin, willing his memories away. "And I behaved, Eliza. I spent nearly all my time trying to reconcile the accounts with Branson, not strolling about brothels."

For all the good it did him. There was no chance of ever reconciling the ledgers for Windhaven, the ducal estate. One would think it easy, since Windhaven was all that was left. But you'd be surprised.

His cousin sighed in exasperation.

"Calm yourself, Eliza. Read the piece to me in its entirety."

Eliza had grabbed the newssheet from a young boy as they'd driven out of London, tossing him a coin from the window. She'd finally unfolded the damned thing an hour ago, squeaked, and started thumping her hand against the seat, sending up an array of dust.

She cleared her throat.

Dearest Reader. Oh, how the mighty have fallen. His Arrogance, the former A.W. had already cut a swath through London before recalling he possessed some honor to defend country and King. Splendid in his uniform, our dear A.W. marched bravely across battlefields and strutted through bedrooms on the Continent, returning a more self-indulged rake than ever before.

"I did not bed every woman who thought the cut of my uniform appealing. Only a few. And there isn't even any mention that I was sent home wounded."

A polite way to say that August had nearly been decapitated by a French sword.

Once returned to London, A. W. was content to swing his sword about to the delight of London's fairer sex and dismay of husbands everywhere.

"That part is unfair." August interrupted her again. "Though the pun is rather clever."

"You have never seduced a married woman?" Eliza asked with a raised brow.

"Only those who were unhappy. Or who didn't care for their spouses."

"You've just described nearly every married lady in the ton . May I continue?"

August waved his hand.

Now our white-haired hero ? —

"My hair is not white."

"Agreed," Eliza sighed. "However, it is such a light blonde it appears white from a distance. Very distinctive. There isn't a shred of doubt of whom the Belle is speaking. Stop interrupting."

The enemy had certainly taken note of his hair. The unusual color, combined with his substantial height, had made August a target for any Frenchman with a weapon. Wearing the uniform of an officer hadn't helped. The first shot, as he had ridden along a line of trees, had nearly taken his ear off. The second had killed his horse. August had fallen to the ground as three French soldiers had rushed out with their swords raised. He'd killed them all before another jumped out of a tree and sliced into his neck.

Absently, his finger drew over the scar starting just below his ear, the rest thankfully hidden by his clothing.

Now our white-haired hero, made a duke due to trout full of bone and a bottle of brandy ? —

August pinched the bridge of his nose. "Edward has been dead for some time." He stopped her once more. "I'm not sure why the manner of your brother's demise needs to be revisited…nor his love of brandy."

"Dramatic effect." Eliza's features grew pinched. "Edward was a sot. Not a great secret. One of the servants was bound to talk. Probably his valet, whom I never cared for."

Duke. Drunkard. Given to lavish spending and poor investments. Once August's uncle had died, passing the title to Edward, his cousin had proceeded to bleed the estate dry with his amusements. August hadn't known—he'd been too busy living the life of an unrepentant libertine until he'd gone off to the Continent.

And once August had returned, after Quatre Bras, he'd cared for very little, until being informed of his ducal status.

The tip of his finger trailed over the scar once more. Odd—he hadn't felt the slice of the blade nor the wound it had made around his neck and back until much later. There were times when he wished that bloody French blade had just ended him then and there. Because then there would be no guilt. No weight of responsibility. No constant worry.

"August, may I continue?"

He nodded. "I suppose you must."

…finds himself in yet another battle, this one fraught with far more peril. Our debauched rake must find an heiress to wed, and soon, else the house of cards in which he resides will collapse. Holding his nose, the D. of C. has chosen a bride of low birth and rich purse as his quarry, one who knows her way around a bolt of cloth.

August sat back against the leather, making a sound of surprise. "How the bloody hell would this rumormongering tart know the state of my affairs?"

"I don't know, August."

"I had no idea that bloody textile heiress even existed until a few weeks ago."

"May I please finish?" Eliza held up the paper.

Those of you who are acquainted with the D of C. might smile at the comeuppance of His High and Mighty, and he'll find no sympathy here, dear reader. A warning should he not succeed in this most important mission: Keep your daughters close and their dowries closer. The Duke of Last Resort is on the hunt.

August said nothing for a few minutes, only drummed his fingers against his thighs, wondering how he could secure an heiress if she knew he was coming. "Do you think Branson mentioned our circumstances?"

Dignified, but with perpetually slumped shoulders, Mr. Samuel Branson, the Duke of Courtland's solicitor, possessed the features of a tortured hound. It had been Branson's responsibility to inform August, once he'd assumed the title, that the duchy was in dire straits. Edward had died leaving the estate teetering on the edge of bankruptcy. The shock that he was no longer wealthy and now must take on the responsibilities of the title had nearly sent August fleeing England. He'd never wanted the dukedom, nor anything that came with it.

"I cannot fathom that he would do so," Eliza replied. "He has spent a great deal of time repairing the damage done by my brother."

Branson had worked tirelessly with August over the last several years, helping to discreetly sell everything that wasn't entailed. Paintings. Jewelry. Estates. Even Eliza's dowry was gone. Edward's creditors had been numerous, not to mention the worthless investments he'd made.

August looked out the window once more. "I should have gone to Windhaven as soon as I returned." Instead, he'd tried to blot out the smoke and blood with every amusement London had to offer. Return to the life he'd once lived.

"It wouldn't have saved us, August. Edward had drained the estate well before you came home. You couldn't have saved him ."

"I might have tried." He hadn't tried hard enough at Quatre Bras. Edward's death had only added to his guilt.

"Edward often took a tray in his study, along with a bottle of brandy. He had a flask of the stuff in his pocket at all times. If it hadn't been a fish bone, Edward might have fallen off his horse. Or tripped and hit his head. I loved my brother. Truly. But after Father died, he became a man I didn't know or like. He left you and me in this great mess." She reached out to take August's hand. "One for which you hold no blame. You are all I have left."

"A pity."

"I don't think so." Eliza squeezed his hand. "But I wish it hadn't come to this—to you having to chase down an unsuitable heiress to wed."

"Such a snob, Eliza. Her fortune isn't the least unsuitable. Besides, I would need to wed at some point regardless."

"Yes, but other things matter just as much. Breeding. Familial connections. Manners. Miss Dartmont lacks them all."

"Even so. She is worth fifty thousand pounds. An enormous sum. Enough to remedy everything that has gone wrong. Restore Windhaven. Give you a dowry." He sent her a sideways glance. "I can't allow you to molder in the country forever."

She made a piffing noise. "I have not been moldering."

Three long years of struggle since August had inherited, and they'd finally managed to dig themselves out of the hole Edward had created. In celebration, August had taken Eliza to London, a place neither had visited in years. The duke's town house had been leased every year because August had needed the income it would bring, but with the Season nearly at an end and his tenant already departed, August had decided to spoil Eliza with a few weeks in London.

"You were most certainly moldering. I do not regret the small bit of income I would have earned had I allowed Dalton to lease the house for longer. Besides, you needed a new wardrobe."

"And I acquired one, but the sum was dear."

Eliza had burst into tears when August had retrieved her from the modiste. She hadn't had anything new since before Edward's death.

"Worth every pound." She deserved some happiness after what the last five years had taken from her.

August had actually been feeling hopeful about the future. But then Branson had called after Eliza's visit to the modiste, his sagging features mournful. A sure sign bad news was certain to follow.

We were presumptuous to assume all would be well, Your Grace.

More of Edward's poor decisions had been revealed. His cousin owed a handful of investors a large sum after the failure of a now defunct shipping company. An astronomical amount. Even if August sold every bit of gray brick Windhaven was made of, it still wouldn't be enough.

Branson took his leave only to arrive the following day. He ignored the fact that August was bleary-eyed from drinking himself senseless the night before, wallowing in self-pity.

You must wed an heiress. One of great fortune. Before your affairs are discussed in every drawing room in London. Forgive me, Your Grace, but there will be those who will take great pleasure in your misery, which will narrow your choices.

In other words, there were plenty in the ton who would keep their daughters and their dowries from August merely out of spite, duke or not. His misdeeds had not been forgotten.

I've prepared a list of prospects, Your Grace. Ruination is recommended to hurry things along. You can be wed before the Season begins once more.

Ah, Branson. Worth every pound August could no longer afford to pay him.

Miss Hazel Dartmont, spinster and lowborn textile heiress, had been at the top of Branson's list. Miss Dartmont was notable for her ridiculously large fortune, her devotion to charitable causes, and her existence on the fringes of society. Branson assured August that this last point would make Miss Dartmont unaware of August's colorful reputation. Her only friend was Lady Talbot. Both were involved in Widows for Fallen Heroes, Miss Dartmont's favorite cause.

The amount she'd donated to the charity in the last year alone was staggering.

Upon receipt of Branson's list, Eliza had immediately renewed several old acquaintances and soon found herself invited to a tea for the charity under the pretense of wanting an introduction to Miss Dartmont, whom, she said, she greatly admired. Unfortunately, Miss Dartmont hadn't been present, but Lady Talbot had been. After careful conversation, Lady Talbot had mentioned she was hosting a house party celebrating the end of the summer at her estate in Devon. Lady Talbot fancied herself something of a matchmaker. Nearly everyone at her little gathering would be seeking to make a match before the Season begun once more, she'd said. Was the Duke of Courtland in the market for a wife? And Lady Eliza too remained unwed.

"You're sure Miss Dartmont will be in attendance at Lady Talbot's?"

"As sure as I can be." Eliza waved a hand. "Before I accepted her invitation, I asked Lady Talbot who else had been invited so as not to…cause you embarrassment should one of your former paramours be in attendance."

"And will I?"

"I've no idea, August. The list of your conquests is rather extensive."

He'd once taken pride in such a statement. "You shouldn't know of such things, much less speak of them."

"Good lord," Eliza laughed. "I found you in a brothel , cousin, after Edward's death. Now is not the time to show concern over my sensibilities. The entire incident was educational. For example, until that day, I had no idea two women could be enjoyed at once."

Eliza, garbed all in black, throwing open the door to the room at Madame Rouchard's to interrupt August with two scantily clad ladies—and a third coming up the stairs—had not been one of his proudest moments. It wasn't until Eliza had addressed him as Your Grace that August had realized Edward was dead. Nor had he any idea Windhaven had been reduced to a shell, stripped of all the luxuries it had once contained. Or that most of the servants, except the very old, were gone. Like many of Windhaven's tenants. Instead, he'd been about to engage in an evening of hedonism at Madame Rouchard's.

"Yes, well, you still shouldn't know about that, Eliza."

She rolled her eyes. "As if Edward never held parties at Windhaven and invited a dozen courtesans from London."

August stared at her for a moment. If it was the last thing he did, he would ensure Eliza found a gentleman worthy of her. She deserved so much better after what she'd endured with Edward.

And me.

"Let us return to the matter at hand. The draper's daughter." Eliza's tone dripped with superior disdain that not even years of living in genteel poverty had diminished. August's uncle had been the same. Edward, far worse. August had admitted to being cut from the same cloth…until he'd gone to the Continent. No matter your station in life, you still bled.

"Draper's daughter. Branson said she was a textile heiress."

"Did you not make any inquiries yourself, August?"

"Frankly, no. I depended upon you for that."

"Miss Dartmont is the only child of a draper who, along with his brother, managed to form a partnership with the East India Company. I'm not sure about the details. She donates a great deal of her time and money to various charities, though Widows of Fallen Heroes is her favorite because it serves only the families of enlisted men, who, Miss Dartmont feels, are left to flounder."

A blur of faces passed before August. He could still recall the name of every man under his command. The horror at watching them fall. A coppery smell hinted at his nostrils.

Eliza touched his knee. "Do not go there," she said softly before clearing her throat.

August jerked his chin. "Continue."

"Miss Dartmont's efforts are not entirely welcome. As you can imagine, the reigning matrons of society are not appreciative of having such an upstart in their midst."

August was well aware of the workings of the ton . Miss Dartmont's birth alone would make many consider her unfit to even invite for tea. Or sample a bloody biscuit.

"Why does she remain unwed?" He found that curious, given her fortune. "Is she pock-marked? Terrible smells emit from her person? Elderly?"

"Not terribly ancient. Thirty-four, I believe."

"Good grief. Older than me. Probably shriveled like a wizened apple."

"I don't believe she is shriveled." Eliza pursed her lips. "Only well beneath you and overly tall."

"Overly tall," he repeated. "She's a giantess? Oh, and stop being a snob."

"Those I met at Lady Talbot's were not complimentary of Miss Dartmont. She was described to me as rather plain and coltish . One lady declared her… Amazonian in stature."

"Amazonian? What the hell does that mean?" August had visions of an ogre-like creature with shoulders broader than his own and hands as big as cabbages.

"I'm not sure, exactly. I gathered from my conversations that Miss Dartmont has an unpleasant, argumentative personality, which most of the other ladies present objected to, excepting for Lady Talbot. I also made the acquaintance of Lady Leek at the tea."

"Lady Leek? Her daughter was also on Branson's list."

"Yes." Eliza smiled. "Lady Coraline is very pretty. Accomplished. I spent some time with her at Lady Talbot's, and she would make an excellent duchess. Her fortune is less than Miss Dartmont's but not insignificant. Lady Leek has high ambitions for her daughter and will not care about your reputation or our money woes when Coraline could become a duchess. This"—she tapped the newssheet—"will hopefully have no bearing on Lady Leek's opinion. I doubt she'll even believe you are hunting Miss Dartmont."

"Unless I ruin her." Wouldn't a spinster welcome advances from a duke? "Miss Dartmont, I mean."

"Can one compromise a blushing spinster of thirty-four?" Eliza said. "Honestly, I'm not sure what Branson was thinking by suggesting Miss Dartmont to you."

The solicitor had been thinking of Miss Dartmont's vast fortune and little else. August hadn't been completely honest with Eliza in regards to their situation, not wishing to cause her to panic. The sheer enormity of the remainder of Edward's debts was staggering, and merely wedding a decent dowry wouldn't help.

It must be Miss Dartmont.

"You really don't mind that she's the daughter of a draper? Or that her grandfather was a butcher?" There was a slight curl to Eliza's lips. "Rather distasteful."

"Perhaps Miss Dartmont knows her way around a leg of mutton as well as cloth," August replied. "Which I find useful." He'd once cared greatly about a person's birth, one of any number of things the rake he'd been had found important. But he didn't any longer. Not after Quatre Bras or working alongside his tenants in the fields and mucking out the stables at Windhaven. "Not every duchess can pluck a chicken, for instance."

"That isn't at all amusing." Eliza clasped her hands. "You're very sure of yourself, August."

"I expect Miss Dartmont will fall right into my arms the moment she sees me. Giddy at the thought of becoming my duchess. I can be her entrée into society. No one will refuse her. She can sit at the head of every charity in London, for all I care. My height alone will have her swooning."

Eliza dissolved into a fit of laughter. "You think yourself far more charming than you are, August. The remainder of Lady Talbot's guest list is inconsequential. Young ladies and titled gentlemen seeking a match to avoid the marriage mart when the Season begins again. Desperate creatures." She cleared her throat and fussed with her skirts, a sure sign Eliza was distressed about something.

"What is it, Eliza? Lady Jeremy isn't going to be there, is she?" he asked.

He'd had a small indiscretion with Lady Jeremy. Unfortunately, it had been during a race at Newmarket while her husband had sat drinking scotch in their box. A minor scandal. Very minor.

"No, August. Of course not."

He regarded her with curiosity. They'd been sequestered in the country for ages, so it was either someone she'd recently become acquainted with or more likely, someone from before. "Then who?"

Her lips pressed tightly together. "No one you know. A friend from my debut." She turned to look out the window. "One I haven't seen in ages."

"Well," he said, seeing that Eliza wasn't going to reveal this old friend's identity. "This should be an interesting house party, which is the kindest word I can use for any house party I've ever attended. I've never attempted to seduce a gigantic, wrinkled spinster into marriage before."

Eliza shrugged. "I suppose there's a first time for everything."