The Hazards Of Hunting A Duke

T he Marquis of Middleton, who was the sole heir to the powerful Redford duchy, had an air about him,

a palpable energy that exuded power and wealth. There was also the potent sexuality of a very masculine man that was felt by most women —and perhaps a few men. It was indeed a potent sexuality.

The marquis, Jared Broderick, said or did nothing to provoke such feelings in others, for in all honesty,

he was quite unaware of his remarkable power. Had someone suggested that he caused women to feel weak at the knees with just a look, he might have laughed and unabashedly confessed to adoring all

women, for he did. Poor women, rich women, daughters of Qual ity or commoners, he cared not—just as long as they were completely and unapologetically female. That meant they must have a scent of sweet

waters about them, be soft, occasionally silly, vexing, enticing, and inspiring —both in the boudoir and beyond.

With his darkly golden brown hair, square jaw, broad shoulders, and hazel eyes flecked with gold, he

was considered dangerously handsome among the haute ton, the elite society of London.

He was tall and broad and lean, possessed of an athletic build. His raki sh habits had a slightly sinister side, too, for a man who enjoyed both gaming and women was bound to run into a spot of trouble from time to time.

Whispered rumors of a duel persisted, a duel in which he had purportedly proceeded fearlessly and had emerged victorious.

The most recent tale of his recklessness had to do with his performance during the course of a stag hunt

last autumn. The stag had sensed the hunters and had broken through the forest to escape.

It was said that Middleton risked his neck and that of his big bay horse to catch the stag, leaping over rock walls,

storming through dangerous gullies and thickets, racing far ahead of the other riders. But when Middleton had cornered the stag, he reined up, turned his mount around, and returned to the estate. They said it

seemed as if it wasn’t the hunt that mattered but the ride.

In the posh interiors of London’s gentlemen’s clubs, more than one man remarked that the marquis rode

so hard that day not because he was in pursuit of a prize stag, but b ecause his own demons were in pursuit of him.

Whatever his habits, they were routinely reported, thinly disguised, in the London morning newspapers,

and surely none endured around the elite Mayfair district of London as well as the tales of his exploits in

the beds of some of the most important women in town. What made these rakish tales even more scintillating was that he was heir to one of the most powerful duchies in England and Wales, and the thought of him siring bastards about town was cause for great distress to his father, the current Duke of Redford.

It was well known that many lords desired that their daughters be groomed for a match with Redford’s son, and the odds -on favorite was thought to be Lady Elizabeth Robertson. Lady Elizabeth’s father w as

a dear boyhood friend of the duke’s, and it was agreed by all wagging tongues that her pedigree for becoming a duchess was unparalleled.

What the gossips didn’t know, however, was that the marquis and the duke had engaged in many loud arguments about L ady Elizabeth in which the marquis had steadfastly refused to entertain the idea of a match with her and the duke insisted he would approve of no other match.

It was, in fact, another on dit in this morning’s newspaper that had prompted the duke to summon the marquis like a servant once again.

Jared came, but he sat carelessly as his father paced. The duke was gripping the latest edition of the

Times in his hand, too angry to speak for several moments. “ ‘A certain widow,’ ” he read, and threw the paper down as he pinned Jared with a cold glare. “I know very well to whom they allude—everyone in

town knows of your affair with Lady Waterstone.”

Jared shrugged. So he’d been visiting the widow’s bed —he was a man, and he’d developed a certain corporeal fondness for Miranda, Lady Waterstone.

“Have you no care for your reputation? What if Lady Elizabeth should read this?” the duke asked him through gritted teeth.

“What if she should?” Jared responded irreverently. He owed no measure to Lady Elizabeth that he

could see, and frankly, if his father was so keen to see the woman married, Jared thought, perhaps he, a widower for many years, should do the marrying. Jared was completely unrepentant about his refusal —

he thought nothing of living every day as if it were his last, and no fatherly desire to see him wed a woman with the face of a horse would keep him from it.

But as Jared’s refusal became more entrenched, the greater umbrage his father took with him, today notwithstanding. “I have suffered the indignity of hearing of your association with this woman at my club

—and now I must read it as well?”

“I am not responsible for what is printed,” Jared said.

The duke’s face turned dark. “Yet you are responsible for the contemptible behavior that ignites such rubbish to be printed, are you not? I demand that you not debase our name and title with the likes of that woman, do you quite understand me? You w ill not lie with a harlot who married above herself,” he

snapped. “Now that she is widowed, she would sink her talons in the heir to the Redford title, and I will

not have it! Lady Elizabeth is perfectly suited to carry a legitimate heir, and as soon as is possible within

the bounds of propriety!”

Jared bristled with indignation. “Is that all that I am, your grace? Breeding stock for your vast realm of influence?”

His father’s dark brown eyes narrowed. “You are vile.”

“Very well,” Jared said, quietly seething, “if the price for having been born to your exalted house is to produce a bloody heir, I shall do so. But I shall do so at my leisure and with whom I please.”

“You will not produce an heir with whomever you please !” his father thundered. “There is much more at stake here than your lustful cravings! I should think you would have learned as much from the ugly consequences of your previous libertine habits!” he said, piercing old wounds. “I warn you, Lord Middleton, i f you think to dishonor me further, I will see you disinherited by order of the king!”

Jared threw his arms wide with a shout of incredulous laughter. “By all means, my lord! I will not stop you—I would welcome it, for at least I’d be free of the yoke you have put on me!” He meant that

sincerely. Granted, he’d made his fair share of mistakes —but so had the duke. Let him disinherit—Jared was a marquis in his own right; he had no need of the title of duke and frankly, he did not want it.

But his father suddenly sank into his ornate mahogany chair behind an even grander desk and covered his face with his thin hands for a moment. “For the love of Christ, Jared,” he said, his voice hoarse. “For the love of Christ, please do as I ask.” He lifted his head from his hands and looked at his son. “You cannot forget that our family was once steeped in debauchery and made bed with whores and bastards. It took years for our name to be recognized by the monarchy. For you to debase that good name now with your slut is unconscionable. Marry a woman of proper standing and put a son in her, then whore with whomever you please!”

“Just as you did?” Jared asked evenly.

The duke paled. He leaned back in his chair, gripped the edge of his desk, every muscle in his body quivering with rage. “Get out of my sight,” he said quietly.

Jared gained his feet. “Your grace,” he said with a nod, and strode out of the massive town house on

Park Lane bound for White’s, desperately angry with his father, and even angrier with the two footmen who had been ordered to follow him.

All his life, he had chafed under the absurdity of his supposed responsibility. His was a dishearteningly simple and primal function —he was breeding stock to the ducal Redfords, valued for nothing more than

his ability to procreate. Honestly, he really remembered little else from his childhood, particularly after his mother had died in his fourteenth year. His memory of her was fading, and he could scarcely recall her softness, or the warmth of her breath, or the smell of lilacs on her skin. He remembered that she would

laugh when she was with him, but in truth, he saw her only occasionally. His parents resided in London or

the country, wherever his father’s mistress resided.

Jared, on the other hand, resided elsewhere , with the nursemaids and governesses and tutors who would sculpt him to be a duke one day.

Even when he’d gone off to school, his acquaintances were closely watched, his schooling carefully monitored. He never felt close to anyone, really, save his two g ood friends, Lords Stanhope and Harrison, who had been schooled alongside him.

The talk of producing an heir began the moment he’d come of age, the demands growing louder each passing year. Now, on the eve of his thirtieth birthday, the demands were deafening.

More than once Jared had wished he’d been born the son of a crofter, a merchant, a banker—any occupation his father might have esteemed above his cock. But he’d been born the son of a duke, and from the time he could remember, his father had sought to control his destiny, whom he befriended,

whom he loved.

As a result, Jared loved no one.

He made his way to White’s, the gentlemen’s club to which he belonged, and moped about, refusing to even hold a hand in a game of whist when his friends pressed him.

When the game ended, his oldest

friend, Geoffrey Godwin, Viscount Harrison, insisted he accompany him to the Fontaine ball. “I can’t let you drink alone,” he’d said, clapping Jared on the back. “You may very well harm someone.”

“I don’t want to go to any blo ody ball,” Jared muttered. “I despise the vapidity of the social season. It’s scarcely begun and already there is a parade of debutantes and their mothers before me, all hungry for a spectacular match and unparalleled fortune.”

“Oh now, don’t be so harsh on the poor birds and their mothers,” Harrison said, touching Jared’s glass with his before swallowing the last of his whiskey. “Don’t let the fathers off so easily—there is nothing

more bloody stilted than the conversation of a man with an unmarried daugh ter.”

“Ach,” William Danvers, Lord Stanhope scoffed, waving a hand at them. “Walk in my shoes, will you?

Have your fortune entailed for generations to come so that you must be the one to hope for a spectacular match with a woman of unparalleled fortune.”

“Impossible,” Jared snorted. “Women don’t have fortunes —men do.”

“That, sir, is precisely my problem,” Stanhope said, and with a sound of disgust, pushed a hand through

his blond hair.

“Come on, then,” Harrison said. “Stanhope is headed for the gami ng hells to increase his paltry fortune. But I have it on good authority that there will be a high -stakes table at the Fontaine ball for the wealthy gentlemen who do not enjoy dancing.”

Jared glanced at Harrison. “High -stakes?”

“Very high-stakes,” Harrison confirmed with a smile.

Jared shrugged. “I would prefer the warmth of Miranda’s body to a damn card game.”

“But Miranda is not about, she is in the country. What else shall you do but drink until they carry you home? Come alo ng, then, my good Lord Middleton —come and win a tidy little sum to take your mind from your troubles.”

Perhaps a bit of friendly wagering would serve as a useful diversion from his dark thoughts about his father. “Very well,” he said with a sigh, and scow led when Harrison and Stanhope applauded his decision.

And when he and Harrison stood at the door of the Fontaine ballroom, both of them a head taller than

most, Jared felt a familiar bit of happiness at seeing so many agreeable and attractive women. He missed Miranda in his own way, but Harrison was right, she was not about.

Therefore, the sporting man in him determined that he should give the night his best effort.

Across the room, Ava Fairchild nudged her sister and cousin and nodded at the two impeccably dressed gentlemen standing at the entrance, both of whom were clad in black tails, white silk waistcoats, and

expertly tied neckcloths. The only distinguishable difference was that Middleton wore a badge on his breast that marked his title superior to that of Harrison.

“Oh my,” Phoebe sighed appreciatively as they gazed at the two men. “I should very much like to make their acquaintance one day, if only for the pleasure of a single dance.”

“A dance? I had in mind something far more exciting,” Ava s aid. Her sister and cousin looked at her expectantly, and Ava winked at them. “A torrid love affair. With Middleton.”

It was a game the three of them played, a bit of lustful wondering about the opposite sex.

But Ava’s

choice caused Phoebe to snort indeli cately. “Darling, I do believe you have gone completely daft. You’ve

not a hope for a proper introduction to Middleton, much less a love affair, not with every breathing debutante queuing before him…unless, of course, you are willing to offer up your good virtue.”