Chapter One

The most pressing concern, as far as Alexander could tell, was whether or not he was going to vomit.

He kept his eyes tightly closed, in the hopes that the nausea would recede.

It wouldn’t, of course. Even with his eyes closed, he could see the vibrant patterns of the colourful and highly expensive carpet decorating his mother’s parlour as it lay partially revealed beyond the edge of the chaise longue. Alexander didn’t remember choosing that particular chaise longue to sleep on instead of his own bed, but then, he didn’t remember coming home at all.

He couldn’t vomit in his mother’s parlour. The carpet would be ruined, and she had so few joys left in life. With an effort, Alexander rolled onto his back, head knocking against the hard wooden backing of the seat.

“Ow,” he rasped. This way, he would only throw up on himself, and that was a fairly ordinary occurrence.

What day was today? Thursday? Was it Thursday? Or Friday, perhaps?

Either way, today marked the halfway point of their late father’s deadline. Six months in, six to go. Two siblings married out of four.

Henry, of all people, Alex thought, cracking a smile. His brother had just returned from his honeymoon, already plunging back into the pottery business which he now ran with his new wife. Henry liked to stay busy. Liked to do things. Admirable, really. Who had the energy?

Alex cracked open his eyes again, swallowing down bile. It burned in his throat, not unlike the whiskey he’d imbibed generously the previous evening. His head pounded, and his tongue felt as though it were made of sandpaper. He’d obviously drank more than usual last night, and now he was paying the price.

I ought to get up. Get up, and make my way to my room before Mother comes down. I don’t want her to see me like this.

Even as he formulated the thought, Alex realized that it was pointless. Lady Mary Willenshire, the Dowager Duchess of Dunleigh, was remarkably skilled at not seeing things she did not wish to see.

Seeing her third and favourite son drunk and ridiculous was certainly a sight she would not want to behold. She’d likely find excuses to avoid the parlour until Alex had stumbled away.

As if to contradict his point, footsteps echoed in the hallway outside, determinedly approaching the door. Alex just had time to wonder if he should haul himself into a sitting position, deciding against it just as the door opened.

There was a brief silence.

“Here you are, then,” came a familiar voice.

Alex cringed. “You sound more like Father every day, Will.”

He couldn’t see the expression on his older brother’s face, but it was probably a sour one.

“And you’re turning into quite a drunkard. You look awful, by the way.”

“I’m aware.”

William’s footsteps crossed the room, and his face loomed into Alex’s range of view.

The brothers resembled each other well – the Willenshire siblings were famous for it. Hazel-green eyes, olive skin, chestnut locks, and well-arranged features graced all of their faces. There was hardly any of the wan, colourless Mary to be seen in her children. Alex often wished he resembled his mother more than their wretched father. Nothing could be done about that, though. Recent glances in the mirror informed him that his olive skin was turning yellowish, probably from long nights staying awake and far too much wine. His eyes, more green than brown, were growing bloodshot and puffy.

I can’t stand much more of this.

The thought had occurred to him suddenly and from nowhere, and Alex had done his best to suppress it.

It hadn’t worked, naturally.

He dreaded to think what he looked like, but William was as crisp and well-groomed as always, his hair smoothed back, freshly shaved, his cravat white and fresh as new snow.

Ugh .

“Could you lower your voice, Will, my dear?” Alex managed, smiling faintly.

His brother did not smile back. “You can’t stay here. Mother will be down soon. Have you forgotten about the gathering? You promised Mother you would help.”

A cold feeling of trepidation swept through him. He had forgotten.

“Oh, yes, Mother’s summer gathering, the highlight of the Season,” Alex managed weakly. “That isn’t for a few days, though, is it?”

William’s expression was unreadable. “Yes, and there’s a great deal to be done. Rise and endeavour to rest it off. And should you indulge in drinking at Mother’s soiree, I daresay, she may not easily forgive you.”

That hurt more than Alex cared to admit.

The past six months – the past year, really – had been difficult to say the least. Their father’s death was a relief, and none of the Willenshire siblings pretended otherwise. There was really no point in acting heartbroken over a man who had loathed his children and had been hated in return. But the freedom they’d all looked forward to had never come.

Alex could remember every instant of that dreadful will reading and had done his best to avoid being sober ever since. The will was simple, but shocking: to receive their sizeable inheritances, each Willenshire sibling had to marry before one year had elapsed from the time of the will reading. If not, the money would be lost to them forever.

And that was that. The will was unbreakable – he suspected that William had looked into that – and they were faced with a straightforward dilemma. Marry, or die penniless.

Katherine had been the first to marry, the only girl in the family. She was happy enough, having married Timothy, a family friend who shared the same hunger for novels and writing. Henry, to everybody’s shock, married next, a charming and astute young woman by the name of Eleanor Fairfax.

That left Alex and William.

As the new Duke – the late duke could hardly prevent his son from inheriting the title and whatever money was attached to that – William would be expected to marry anyway, and soon. But since none of them could claim their fortunes without skipping up a wedding aisle, the poor man was left trying to run a vast estate with a mere fraction of the money needed to keep it going.

It's not fair, Alex thought, for the thousandth time since the will had been read.

William would no doubt manage to marry in the next few months. He was handsome, young, rich, and was a duke . Ladies were already throwing themselves at him.

Alex, on the other hand, was a drunken rake of a third son. Who’d want him?

“I would appreciate it if you would refrain from your incessant urging,” Alex muttered, hauling himself up into a sitting position. The room spun around him, and he squeezed his eyes closed, waiting for the world to settle down again.

William folded his arms tight across his chest. “This can’t go on, Alexander.”

“You chiding me? I can hardly disagree.”

“Don’t be silly. I mean this ,” he gestured to Alex in general. “You drink too much, you keep poor company, you stay out late, and you act like a fool. And don’t think I don’t know about the gambling. I can’t afford to keep settling your debts.”

“I might as well enjoy myself,” Alex snapped. “Our dear Papa has condemned me to a life of obscurity and poverty, getting the last laugh from beyond the grave. Why shouldn’t I make merry a little?”

“This is not making merry . This is folly. You’re on a bad course, Alex. We’re worried about you, all of us.”

Alex pressed his lips into a thin line. “You ought to save your worry for yourself. A penniless duke is a poor prospect, especially when he’s as sour as you.”

He immediately regretted the words. William blinked, flinching back, and a feeling of guilt washed over Alex. He swallowed hard, clearing his throat.

“Will, I didn’t mean…”

He was interrupted.

“Get out of Mother’s parlour, and take yourself to your room,” William said tartly. “I have a great deal to do, and I’d rather not have you making things more difficult than they need to be.”

Without waiting for a reply, William turned on his heel and strode away, letting the door slam behind him.

Alex rested his aching head back on the chaise longue and closed his eyes.

Oh, very well done, Alexander. What a fine brother you are. A fine brother, and a fine son. They’re ashamed of you, all of them.

I need to get married.

The thought arrived in Alex’s head with a jolt. It wasn’t a new idea by any stretch of the imagination. He’d dreamed of marriage and wedded bliss even before their father’s death, but now there was a layer of urgency to it all.

A woman who married Lord Alexander Willenshire, to all knowledge, would now marry a rich man. A socialite, and well-known man about town, if a little rakish. A rich man, despite the fact he was only a third son.

If she married the same man in just over six months’ time, she’d marry a pauper.

Marriage was the key to independence, then, and possibly to gaining back his family’s respect. After all, marrying a rich young woman would be impressive, would it not?

Groaning, Alex rolled himself off the chaise longue, hauled himself into a roughly standing position, and hobbled towards the door.

You’re a fool, Alex. A prize fool. That’s what Father said, and he was right about most things, curse him.

He wouldn’t go to bed, certainly not.

He was going to his club.

***

It was imperative that a gentleman be clubbable . That is, accepted to at least one of the notable clubs in London. Even grumpy, unfriendly Henry had a club.

Alex had several, but Brooks’s was his favourite. It wasn’t as genteel and popular as White’s, but there was a veneer of respectability to the place that kept William paying the membership fees with only a mild eye-roll.

The moment he stepped inside, Alex heard somebody hailing him. He pasted a grin onto his face just in time to turn around and greet a pudgy, genial-faced young man with tufty fair hair and a moustache which made him look a bit like a prawn.

“Alex, old man!” Lord Hamish Grey roared, slapping Alex hard on the back. Hamish was a large man in more ways than one. He was well over six feet tall, probably closer to six and a half, and while he gave the appearance of a tubby man, Alex knew there were iron cords of muscle under all that fat. They’d been friends for years.

“Drinking already, Hamish? Tut-tut,” Alex joked, nudging his friend’s elbow so that he spilled some of his brandy down himself.

Hamish spluttered and laughed. “Fine words from you , my good sir! You put on quite the show last night. I half expected to hear that you were dead this morning. I’m surprised Brooks’s has any liquor left at all.”

In the cold light of day, Alex’s half-remembered antics didn’t seem very lordly at all, let alone gentleman-like. He half cringed at himself.

But rolling in one’s shame never did anyone any good, and Alex had no intention of coming here to mope. He draped an arm around Hamish’s shoulder and manoeuvred him towards a table.

“Why is there not a glass of brandy in my hand, my dear friend?”

Hamish chuckled. “Pray tell, what has caused you to wear such a long visage? I was nearly compelled to inquire if there has been some grievous loss in your life, for your countenance seems most suited to a mourning garb.”

Alex sighed. “Oh, it’s nothing, only that my mother’s long-awaited summer gathering is coming up, and I promised to help.”

“Ah, yes, I recall. I have an invite, by the way. But why does her Grace want you to help? No offence, Alex. What about your sister?”

Alex bit his lip. “Katherine is good at organising things, but not soirees. She has no taste, you see. She’d drop a handful of wildflowers in a glass jar and call it a centrepiece.”

“Why you, though? Isn’t the Duke managing it?”

Alex said nothing for a moment. How to explain?

Even as a child, he’d known that his family life was not normal. Tyrannical fathers existed in every corner of the globe, some of them taking residence in London for half the year. But the Duke of Dunleigh was something else. There was a streak of something terrible in his cruelty, something edging towards torture in the ‘lessons’ he taught his children. Alex recalled standing on a stool half of the night, shivering with cold and exhaustion, hunger pains shooting through him, all in punishment for an infraction he could not remember.

His mother was always at the end of it, tearful and remorseful, arms outstretched to hold Alexander close and soothe him.

Not the others, though. Just Alex. He’d never quite understood why, and suspected they didn’t, either. Alexander was her favourite, and that had never changed. Even now, her face softened when he approached. She always had a smile for him, a word of praise for whatever cravat or jacket he was wearing.

It was hard to decide whether that made him feel more loving towards his mother or more guilty towards his siblings.

“I have no idea, really,” Alex answered, and it was the truth.