Chapter 3

James Chisholm, the Duke of Basil, reclined on a well-padded sofa in one of London's premier brothels and pleasure palaces, Aphrodite, a venue decadent in its opulence. The low hum of anticipation filled the air of the private room in the pleasure palace as James and his friends awaited the evening's entertainment. They were ensconced in a comfortably and sensually decorated room, the walls lined with sumptuous tapestries that told tales of ancient conquests and decadent revelry. Above them, the chandelier cast a warm light that flickered like the fire in the hearth, and the gentle clink of fine whisky glasses punctuated the murmuring voices of the attendants outside.

"You wear the expression of a man suffering from my malady, Basil," Oliver, the Marquess of Ambrose, observed with a smirk as he leaned back in his winged-back chair, his eyes sharp beneath the soft glow of the chandelier.

"I agree," Thomas, the Earl of Radbourne, drawled, his gaze fixed on James with an amused twinkle. "I have never witnessed such an air of distraction for a man known for his iron will. It is … bemusing."

James took a healthy swallow of his whisky, the amber liquid a welcome burn down his throat. He flicked a glance at his friends, both of whom were indolently sprawled in their winged-back chairs, the flickering light casting shadows across their faces that danced with devilry.

"Enlighten me about this malady you observe," he murmured, his voice low and slightly edged.

"Boredom," Ambrose said, the word hanging in the air like a challenge.

That single word struck James's heart like a hammer, echoing a soft, accented voice hidden in shadows who'd felt a similar disenchantment with her evening.

Miss Elizabeth Armstrong.

He pushed away the unbidden image of her dark blue eyes, the finest he had ever seen and directed his attention to his friends.

"Hmm, this is the second conversation tonight that has revolved around boredom."

"Ah, you met a woman," Radbourne deduced, his green eyes gleaming wickedly. "Did you meet her here? Are we to share?"

James chuckled, shaking his head. "The only young lady I met tonight is from society," he clarified, his tone laced with irony. "Not a potential lover. I do not even think I like the chit."

Radbourne choked on his drink, sputtering a laugh. "A society lady?"

"Hmm."

"We can still share her," Radbourne drawled provocatively. "Enquiring minds wish to know, Basil, why the hell were you at a ball?"

From his circle of friends, Radbourne was known as much for his enigmatic reclusiveness as he was for his striking appearance and rakish ways. It would be more possible to see a unicorn than his friend at a ton event.

"Never say you are finally thinking about marriage," Ambrose said, an eyebrow arching in mock horror.

"I merely attended the ball to indulge my mother," James said, a slight tightness to his words as his mind wandered back to the sharp-tongued American beauty.

"My mother has also been asking me to marry," Radbourne sighed, his expression clouding slightly. "She conveniently forgets I was once engaged, and the supposed horror of my appearance induced my fiancée to fall out of love with my undeniable wicked charms."

The neat lines of his friend's cheekbone and jaw were disrupted by a scar that slashed upward through to his left eyebrow. Radbourne's finger traced that jagged edge, and a distant look entered his eyes. He took another long sip of his whisky. "It befuddles the mind how much marriage preoccupies the women in our families."

Ambrose chuckled. "Many say there is nothing greater than the companionship of a good woman. A thought-provoking notion."

James raised a brow at the throb of hunger in his friend's tone. "Do you want to marry?"

Oliver grimaced and raked his fingers through his hair. "There is something that I want, but it feels intangible," he finally admitted, his tone serious. "Marriage, in our circles, often feels more like a strategic alliance than a partnership of affection. And after seeing many such alliances falter, I have long questioned its value. I am also more certain than ever that genteel ladies of the ton are not able to meet our sexual demands. Hell, yesterday, my mistress took my cock down to the back of her throat … and she peered up at me with this look in her eyes … it was sweet yet wild and wanton. I cannot imagine any lady of society pleasuring me in such a manner, so it is best to simply not marry one. Yet I want more than a casual lover."

James frowned. He had never heard his friend speak in such a manner. Oliver's voice echoed with hunger, longing naked on his face.

James leaned forward, bracing his elbows on his knees. "Take your wife and then have a mistress to do the things you cannot do with your marchioness."

"Never," Ambrose swiftly said, pushing to his feet and walking over to the fireplace, staring into the flickering flames as if it would provide him with some answer.

James understood his rejection of having a mistress. Many men of their privilege had many lovers, a mistress or two, along with their wives. In his opinion, it was dishonorable to treat a woman so unless she consented to the arrangement. Many of his friends could be wicked in their illicit pursuits, but they had honor and respect for others.

James did not anticipate ever having to worry about such matters. He had always been a man of strong carnal appetites, and while Ambrose often said he could never allow his baser desires to touch a lady of society, James did not have this worry simply because he had no desire to marry. There were no benefits for him, and everything he did in life was performed with a measure of cold, analytical calculation. His lovers were all temporary, providing him with the sexual adventures he craved without any expectations from him.

Ambrose walked over to the mantle and refilled his glass with whisky.

James tipped his head back, staring at the sensually painted ceiling, which depicted a lady supposedly punished by the gods. In the painting, a voluptuous, naked goddess was surrounded by men who seemed to be kissing every inch of her body—one man licked her cunt, the other sucked a nipple, and one kissed along her neck. The lady's face was a grimace of agonized ecstasy. Trust that there existed priggish fools who thought forcing pleasure on a woman was some sort of punishment.

Like most of his friends, James enjoyed his life in fleeting thrills, at times reveling in gambling, racing his carriage or a horse, and wicked moments with his lovers. London's social scene was a nuisance, made sharper by his mother's constant worry that he remained unwed. His attendance at Lady Michael's ball was to soothe his mother's discontent simply because he loved her.

His mother would bemoan her dissatisfaction, and he would indulge by attending a couple of balls, a garden party or even a rout. They meant nothing to James. The duchess realized this was a dance they had performed for the last couple of seasons and grew more determined in her efforts. However, James could not be persuaded against his own will. He would have to put a stop to it, for his attending society events would only give his mother a false expectation that he would one day marry.

Something inside his chest jerked. If he stopped going to society outings, he might not encounter Miss Elizabeth Armstrong again.

Do any of your words carry the weight of sincerity, or are they just well-rehearsed lines meant to chase and disarm?

His words of flattery belonged to the ruthless part of him that went after something he wanted. Her soft laugh, her scent, and the way she spoke to him had tugged at something unknown inside of James. He'd felt as if the indifference that haunted him for the last few years had been sliced open with the sharpest blade.

Just who are you, Elizabeth Armstrong, and why the fuck are you taking up any space in my thoughts after a single meeting?

"You roused my sister's ire," Brandon Armstrong said, walking into a large room where they lounged, awaiting Madam Rebecca to entertain them with a sensual dance that was rumored she learned from the boudoir of a pasha.

"Think of the devil, and someone she knows appears," James drawled, glancing up to stare at one of his most recent friendships. "I gather provoking your sister is a dangerous thing." He smiled, feeling that prick of amusement. Why do I find her so interesting from that fleeting encounter?

"It is for me," Armstrong groused, sitting on the armchair opposite him. "Our mother and aunt are not pleased with her. Hell, I am sure my sister might never be invited to another ball, and that would defeat the purpose of everything. My mother has ordered me to fix it, and I am at a damn loss. My aunt is saying my sister is ruined."

"Why?"

"By God, man, surely as a duke, you know! My sister was rather rude and did not consider your stature and consequences when she made her remarks." Brandon raked his fingers through his hair. "Are you a man that others can afford to offend?"

"Your sister did not care that I was a duke."

"Exactly," he hissed. "She should have been mindful."

That hollow feeling rushed inside James. "Why? She merely defended her dignity that was slighted."

"You are entirely serious," Armstrong echoed, his eyes widening before they narrowed. "I do not like that you sound as if you admired Bette's willful nature."

James's lips quirked in a small smile. "Is that a cause for concern, Armstrong? You are sitting like a hen whose feathers are ruffled."

Armstrong scowled. "Given your profligacy, it damn well is."

Bemused, James stared at the man he had claimed as a trusted friend these last two years. "Are you warning me from your sister?"

"There is no reason to sound so appalled. I know she is not fit to be a duchess. That is not what I am talking about, but …"

"But what?"

"There is a look in your eyes just now … it was one of want, and you have said more than once you will never marry. So what is that look about? Should I not fear debauchery for my sister, who I damn well know own an impetuous and willful nature?"

In the dimly lit room, the atmosphere grew thick with tension as James fought to keep his features impassive, his voice steady. "Do not be silly. Your sister is remarkably pretty, and I am sure behind that … sharp tongue, she is a charmer, but she is like all ladies who flit around the season attending balls. I will never be interested in any lady who is clearly seeking a husband. That is a trap I am not interested in. What you saw was mere admiration for the fact that your sister did not flatter my vanity or seek to form a self-serving connection. That is all."

Brandon sighed heavily, his face etched with concern. Radbourne, sensing the tension, deftly filled a glass with whisky and handed it to him, a small gesture of solidarity in the face of his friend's frustration.

"What exactly happened at this ball?" Ambrose inquired.

With clipped, precise diction, Brandon recounted the incident involving his sister. Radbourne couldn't help but laugh while Ambrose's smile hinted at his admiration for Elizabeth's audacity.

"A fearless lady," Oliver remarked. "And admirable that she did not care you were a duke or even cared for society's reaction."

"She left the damn ball in an uproar and our mother in tears. She's now afraid no one will entertain Elizabeth," Brandon snapped, the worry evident in his voice. "I am certain my sister will regret her actions once her temper cools because she is indeed seeking a husband this season."

"That is easily fixed," Radbourne said, ever the strategist.

"How?" Brandon asked, his eyes lighting up with a flicker of hope. "Your society can be damn unforgiving."

"Basil was the one at fault. Let him fix it by dancing with your sister at a few balls or even taking her out in his new phaeton to Hyde Park. The attention he flatters her with will make everyone want to be associated with her," Radbourne suggested, outlining a plan that sounded both plausible and beneficial.

"No," James said, setting his empty whisky glass down with a slight clink.

Mocking humor danced in Oliver"s eyes. "How fast you protested, Basil."

Ignoring him, James said to Brandon. "I thought your sister was an heiress? Let the ton know of it, and Miss Armstrong will have her husband in no time."

"She is," Brandon confirmed, his voice tight with frustration. "However, she does not want anyone to know of her wealth for fear of attracting fortune hunters. Bette wants to be liked and admired for her willful and opinionated character!"

Despite Brandon's evident frustration, James detected the underlying affection and respect he held for his sister. The way she felt resonated with James's own desires a few years ago when he had foolishly thought he could marry—to be appreciated for his character rather than his wealth. This unexpected revelation fostered a peculiar sense of kinship toward Elizabeth Armstrong. Still, he pinned Brandon a hard stare and said, "Then she will navigate the ton how she sees fit. It has nothing to do with me."

"By your own admission, the lady was defending her dignity," Radbourne drawled, his eyes bright with humor. "The duchess was too harsh, even if she did not know someone was there to overhear her remarks."

An irritated grunt left James, and he stood, walking over to the mantle to refill his glass. Something told him he would need it, especially as he felt a prick of something elusive at the very thought of seeing her once again.

Bloody hell, what nonsense is this?

"You know it is the best solution," Ambrose persisted gently, trying to mediate the situation. "All the eligible men will start to think that Miss Armstrong is a very good catch if you dance with her once. A second dance will soar her popularity. An outing to the royal museum with Brandon and Miss Armstrong will cement the fact that she has noteworthy connections. Being seen with you will help restore what is lost."

"I doubt Miss Armstrong will appreciate anything from me. You did not see the fire in her eyes," he murmured, looking down into the glass as if it would answer his silent demand as to why his damn heart was quickening.

"Will you help?" Brandon asked.

"Any one of us can do this," James said, lifting the glass to his mouth.

He felt the weight of their expectations, and his resistance waned as he pondered the potential impact of such a gesture—not just for Elizabeth but for his own sense of integrity. She was wounded because of his mother's thoughtless words. He would crush anyone who hurt his sister or mother, so he understood the battle lines she had drawn.

Recalling the defiant anger in Miss Armstrong's eyes, a rush of admiration for her mettle and sheer outrageousness filled him.

"I will help," he said softly, wondering at the sharp thump of anticipation.

He lowered his glass to the mantle and turned around as the door opened, and an attendant told him that a courtesan was awaiting him in his preferred room. James bid his friends farewell, his mouth quirking when Radbourne wished that his cock would be wrung dry by most decadent lips and may his body be sated and his sleep dreamless.

His friends were truly damn rakes and libertines, and they were men he was not afraid to admit he loved like brothers. James approached the door that had been tastefully decorated according to his preferences by the madam of Aphrodite, a nod to his status and the regard in which he was held. He entered the private chamber and quietly closed the door behind him, enveloped by a sense of curiosity and anticipation. Tonight, he found himself unusually eager for the evening's entertainment, hoping it would deviate from the usual and perhaps ignite something new.

Dark blue eyes with that fire in them sparked his thoughts, and he hissed in annoyance that she would once again intrude upon them.

What the hell was this nonsense?

James had long decided that young, innocent ladies, no matter how intriguing, were not to occupy his thoughts. And as was his way with anything that didn't align with his lifestyle, he decisively cut her from his awareness, setting aside any lingering curiosity as ruthlessly as he managed all unsuitable entanglements.