Prologue

PROLOGUE

HERTFORDSHIRE, 1872

T he scene in the Wingfield Hall dining room would have put a Roman Bacchanalia to shame. The Duke of Brandon smirked as he surveyed the tableau before him from his vantage point at the head of the table.

No fewer than three dozen bottles of the fine French Bordeaux he had procured on his most recent trip abroad— Chateau Margaux , vintage 1864, truly une grande année —decanted and in various states of consumption.

To say nothing of the women in a debauched array of scandalous dishabille. There was a thoroughly sotted brunette with her breasts fully exposed above her bodice like ripe offerings, her nipples rouged to enhance their obscenely glorious display. Then there was the incomparable actress, Mrs. Helena Darby—not to be outdone by a rival—who launched suddenly from her seat, spun about, and flipped up her skirts to expose her full ivory bottom for anyone who cared to look.

Most of the room, as it happened.

For Helena possessed one of the finest arses Brandon had ever been fortunate enough to see. Or spank. Or…

Well, never mind that . Brandon gave his trousers a furtive tug beneath the table at the unfinished thought. Ah, lewd reminiscences. He might fully indulge in another bout of memory-making later, should this evening progress as he intended.

Or perhaps, he would take his pleasure from another of the bevy of beauties in attendance, or two—or even three at once. Helena had never liked to share, which was deadly dull. Even if she had a mouth skilled enough to suck the silver plating off a vicar’s spoon. Why limit himself when the possibilities were endless?

Brandon sipped idly at his Bordeaux, a pleasant haze enveloping him that likely had something to do with the latest potion Kingham—King, as his familiars knew him—had insisted he drink. Had it contained opium? Who gave a bloody damn? This night was the culmination of his efforts—a celebration, of sorts. And he intended to savor each moment with every woman he could.

Hairpins had long since been dropped from all the demimondaines in attendance, along with the initial pretense of decorum. Tapes and hooks and laces had come undone. Neckties and coats and any hint of formality had been dispensed with at the door to the grand dining hall, where a pile of discarded garments had been discreetly carried away by circumspect servants, who were trained and paid well enough to avert their gazes and hold their tongues.

The vignette before him was as pleasing as it was rousing. Oh yes, indeed. Brandon’s coterie of friends, summoned for this inaugural fête of sin, were indulging in every vice he had presented for their delectation. They had come up together at Eton, and they were united by two common goals.

Common Goal the First: their mutual disdain for the wretches who had sired them and their desire to show it at every opportunity, in whatever manner possible, regardless of the ensuing scandal.

Common Goal the Second: their desire to pursue pleasure at any and all costs.

It was the latter, rather than the former, that currently preoccupied his friends most. Riverdale had a woman on each knee. Camden had his face buried between the bountiful bubbies of a black-haired beauty. Richford was whispering in a fetching redheaded lady’s ear. Whitby had his arm around a blonde’s bare shoulders, whilst his other hand appeared to be in a lovely brunette’s lap. King’s face was pressed to the ivory throat of an opera singer.

And then there was the pièce de résistance , a naked wench in repose amongst the feast served à la francaise , covered in an assortment of tarts—the dessert course. No one had taken the cherry tart resting disproportionately on the peak of her left nipple, even if someone had already scooped the gooseberry galette from her cunt; Brandon had his heart quite set upon that cherry tart. He so despised incongruity of any form, and her right nipple bore only the faintest hint of blueberry.

Rising from his chair and swaying on his feet as he reached for the dessert—the bloody Bordeaux had gone to his head, as well as King’s sweet brew—Brandon snagged the lonely tart and deposited it on his plate. Now that his guests had consumed their feast and the true revelry of the evening had begun, it was time for a small matter of business.

He raised a glass, tapping it with his fork to draw everyone’s attention to him.

When glassy-eyed stares settled upon him, the tittering and naughty murmurings dying down, he spoke loudly enough that his voice would carry through the cavernous Wingfield Hall chamber. The majestic maternal ancestral estate was an excellent place to host his revelries, for although it belonged to his grandmother, she had not entered its walls since his grandfather’s passing some years before. Instead, she kept to London or paid calls upon friends in the country, giving Brandon the reins since he would one day inherit the massive manor house and grounds as her heir. He had given Grandmother’s domestics a few days of paid leave, and he had brought his own discreet servants, all paid handsomely for their silence.

“I call to order this first meeting of the Wicked Dukes Society,” he said now, his voice echoing through the centuries-old dining room.

It was the silly, bombastic name they had agreed upon after a three-day party at King’s country seat, during which they had raided and consumed nearly the entire impressive alcohol stores of Dukes of Kinghams past.

A chorus of enthusiastic agreement sprang up. “Hear, hear!”

Camden’s inamorata raised her wineglass with so much sudden force that her Bordeaux splashed all over her silk bodice and bare breasts, leaving Camden with no choice but to lick up the mess.

“We are gathered here this evening,” he continued, “united in a common cause—the pursuit of pleasure. What happens within the walls of Wingfield Hall stays within the walls of Wingfield Hall.”

King removed his lips from the opera singer’s neck long enough to raise his own glass in toast. “We should all speak a vow of secrecy.”

Brandon hadn’t thought of that, and he was rather put out with himself for the failure. “Excellent idea, old chap. Have you a vow in mind?”

“Camden has always had a head for poetry,” King offered. “Cam, what say you?”

Their friend was still drowning in bubbies, but he raised a bleary-eyed stare at his name. “What say I? What are we speaking about?”

“A vow for the Wicked Dukes Society,” Brandon intervened. “King thinks we ought to make one, and he nominated you for the sorry task on account of your poetical heart.”

Cam issued an indelicate snort. “The only part of my body that is poetical is inside my trousers.”

The room burst into guffaws and snickers.

“But I seem to distinctly recall the poem you wrote for Lady Flora Seaton,” King prodded. “A beautiful sonnet, if I’m not mistaken.”

Cam was usually imperturbable, but now his face flamed. Lady Flora was a delicate subject, one which he preferred to avoid. King always knew how to cut a man to his marrow, friend or foe alike, and he was more perceptive than anyone Brandon had ever met.

Cam’s eyes narrowed. “Indeed, I did. But I find I’m not nearly as eloquent as Riverdale. Perhaps he ought to write the vows.”

“If King thinks we should have one, then King can bloody well write it,” Riverdale said, before whispering something into the ear of one of the ladies on his lap and earning a sultry chuckle in response.

“Not terribly sporting of you,” King grumbled with a sigh before raising his Bordeaux. “Very well, then. I surrender. You shall have a simple vow from a simple man.”

Ha! Brandon couldn’t stifle his chortle at his friend’s claim. There was nothing simple about the Duke of Kingham. Indeed, King was the most complex person he had ever met.

King raised a brow at him. “Brandon, is there something which amuses you? Perhaps you’d care to share with the rest of the company.”

Brandon wiggled his fingers in a dismissive gesture. “Carry on with your simple vow, old chap, before we all grow old and gray.”

“Old and gray?” Whitby shuddered dramatically. “I hope I meet my ignominious end well before that day.”

“Oh, do stubble it, Whit,” Richford said congenially as he gave the redhead’s breast an indolent fondle. “We all know that you’ve the devil’s own luck. You’ll likely be hearty as a stallion at five-and-ninety, quite unlike some of us.”

Whitby grinned. “Am I to blame for my own good fortune?”

“Enough,” King interrupted in a lighthearted tone. “I’ve settled upon a vow.”

Brandon inclined his head in his friend’s direction. “Carry on then, old chap.”

King frowned. “We should have a bible to swear upon.”

“I haven’t got one.” Brandon thought for a moment, frowning. “We’ll have to swear upon the Chateau Margaux . Raise your glasses.”

All six incipient members of the Wicked Dukes Society did as he bid.

“Repeat after me,” King ordered. “From this moment on, I solemnly devote myself to the pursuit of pleasure and to the utter destruction of my father’s legacies.”

The friends repeated King’s vow, followed by the clinking of glasses and a resounding cry of, “Hear, hear!”

“May he rot in Hades where he belongs,” added Riverdale grimly.

In that moment, the Wicked Dukes Society was born, steeped in sin and fine French wine.