Two Notorious Dukes

Front Cover: “The Gallant Suitor” by Edmund Blair
Leighton
Public Domain via Google Images

The right of Lyndsey Norton to be identified as the
author of this work has been asserted by her in
accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act
1988.

All the characters in this publication are fictitious and
any resemblance to real persons, living or dead is purely
coincidental.

John Spencer Argyll, the Duke of Goring,
staggered from his coach into the grand entrance of his
family townhouse on Grosvenor Square. He went
straight into the study, sat at his desk, staring in the fire
and consumed more brandy, before he staggered out
and took a run at the first flight of stairs to the upper
parlours. On the wide landing he crashed
unceremoniously onto the carpet as he lost his balance.
‘Christ! I can’t seem to stay in the saddle tonight!’ he
cursed as he crawled along to the stairs to the upper
floor. He pushed aside the footman who tried to help
him up the next flight of stairs and in the end he
crawled up the last few steps on his hands and knees.
As he turned to go down the landing he stopped as his
eyes couldn’t believe that a pretty girl was sitting
outside his bedroom door. He sat back on his heels.
‘Who is that?’ he tried to whisper in wonder. ‘Is she
really sitting outside my door?’

‘That is Lady Elizabeth’s maid, Your Grace.’ The
Footman said calmly and his valet, Carter, arrived just in
time as the Duke started to crawl towards the
unsuspecting maid. ‘This way, Your Grace, her Grace has
had the green room prepared, just in case!’

‘The Green Room? What the fuck am I doing in
the Green Room?’ Argyll blurted without any caution
whatsoever. ‘My Rooms are down there!’ he said most
haughtily as he pointed down to the maid, ‘and she can
keep me warm tonight!’ he said as his eyes tried to
focus on the maid. He started to crawl again. ‘Hello,
little missy.’ He said lasciviously. ‘I’ll be right there!’

Everyone in the corridor heard the blood
curdling scream. ‘What the hell is that?’ the Duke asked,
even through two bottles of Claret and a bottle of
Brandy he could hear the horror in that scream. It made
all the hairs on his body stand on end. The maid stood
up and went straight into his room. ‘What the hell is
going on in my house?’ he demanded, but he was far
too drunk to really understand.

His valet and the footman had to force the issue,
so they yanked him to his feet and helped him into his
room, stripped off his jacket and cravat and undid the
front of his lawn shirt. They stripped off his boots and
then let him fall face first onto the bed, where he
snored until the morning.

He groaned loudly.
God! How much did I drink
last night?
He asked himself bitterly as his head
thumped and his mouth felt like the Sahara Desert.

‘Good morning, Your Grace!’ his valet said
cheerfully.
‘God! Don’t shout so bloody loud!’ Argyll
muttered as he turned on his back and looked at the
ceiling. He frowned and looked about the room. ‘Why
am I in the Green Room?’ he demanded.
‘The Lady Elizabeth, Countess of Craanford has
your rooms, Your Grace.’ Carter replied as he
manoeuvred the bath in front of the fire and beckoned
in the first footman with a huge jug of hot water.
‘Why?’ Argyll asked as the servants came in one
after the other to fill the tub.
‘Her Grace, the Duchess’s orders, Your Grace.’
Carter said blithely, as he spread towels out in front of
the fire to warm.
‘So who was the girl on the landing last night?’
he asked his valet, vividly recalling the pretty dark
haired girl sitting outside his chambers.
‘That was Lady Elizabeth’s maid, Your Grace.’ He
smiled softly.
‘What are you smirking at?’ the Duke demanded
haughtily.
The valet’s smile increased. ‘You were intent on
making a personal introduction to the young maid, Your
Grace. I believe you were going to ask her to warm your
bed!’
‘The devil I did!’ erupted from Argyll’s mouth
and he sat up abruptly as the maid brought in a tray of
tea. ‘Ah! Tea!’ he said in bliss. ‘Thank you, Betty.’ He
responded as the young maid handed him a brimming
cup of hot tea. ‘So who exactly is this Countess of
Craanford?’
‘She is a widow the Duchess has taken under her
wing, Your Grace.’
‘Aren’t you out of bed yet, Johnny?!’ Robert
Francis Bosworth, Duke of Roding, bellowed from the
doorway and smiled beatifically as the Duke cringed.
‘Don’t shout, Robbie, it really is too early for
that.’ And he sipped his tea. ‘What are you doing here
so early?’
‘Early!? It’s nearly eleven o’clock and we’re
supposed to be in the House this morning.’ Robert was
disconcerted to see Argyll frowning. ‘Don’t tell me you
don’t remember?’ he said indignantly. ‘I didn’t think you
were that foxed last night!’
‘Carter? Who was screaming on the landing last
night?’ the Duke asked seriously.
‘Screaming, Your Grace?’ the valet asked
evasively.
‘Screaming?’ Bosworth asked intrigued. He
sniggered. ‘Perhaps Lord Monmouth was giving The
Duchess a good time.’
‘No. It wasn’t that kind of scream.’ Argyll sighed.
‘It was a scream to fill your heart with horror. It turned
me to stone and I was blathered!’
‘I don’t recollect, Your Grace,’ Carter said softly,
‘your bath is ready.’
‘I’ll go straight to the house, it’s going to take
you a while to get ready and Lord Liverpool was most
insistent.’ Robert said softly, still frowning at the
unsettled look on his friends face.
Argyll stood up, stripped off his remaining
clothes quickly and plunged his body into the hot water,
gasping at the sting of it. Carter draped a towel around
the back edge of the bath tub, and Argyll settled against
it, lowering his upper half into the water to soak the
ache from his shoulders. He contemplated his knees,
where they were sticking up out of the water and
murmured. ‘Thank you, Carter. I’ll call when I need you.’
‘Very good, Your Grace.’ The valet said and
quietly withdrew.
Johnny Argyll was thirty five, he’d just celebrated
his thirty fifth birthday, with nagging from his
stepmother about marriage and children. He considered
the Duchess. Lady Verity Argyll had married the aging
seventh Duke of Goring when she was still only sweet
sixteen. Her parents had been ecstatic that she had
made such a fortunate alliance.
She was genuinely horrified on the wedding
night, when David spent the entire day drinking port
and brandy to such an extent that he snored until the
early hours in his study, leaving Verity lying in bed
wondering what was wrong. When he did finally
consummate the marriage, it was fleeting and
frustrating for the hot blooded sixteen year old, who
thought the old Duke would be able to service her
properly. But with the succession already decided, there
was no pressure for her to provide an heir and in the
end, the Duke introduced her to Lord Monmouth, Earl
of Withering, who was about ten years her senior. He
took the young Duchess under his wing and showed her
exactly what the Old Duke couldn’t be bothered to do.
She had calmly stood by and watched the old Duke
drink himself to death, secure in the knowledge that she
would retain her title and that Johnny, the eighth Duke
of Goring, wouldn’t eject her from the family estate,
because she made sure that she never gave him a
reason to, even though he was aware of Monmouth’s
attentions.
He smiled softly as he thought about her and
how she was practically a child still as she struggled to
take over the training of a ducal heir. They had spent so
much time together when he was young, before his
father had sent him to Eton and then India, followed by
Cambridge University. He didn’t remember his own
mother, just the unreliable portrait at Goring Hall, which
showed a calm, blond woman, who was obviously as
cold as a fish. When he compared the portrait to the
young woman who he grew up with, he was always
surprised that his father didn’t seem to bother with her,
but he supposed his father was just doing a friend a
good turn by marrying a daughter.
She’s going start pressing soon,
he told himself.
Maybe that’s why this Lady Elizabeth has suddenly
appeared.

He shuddered, picked up the soap and loofah
and proceeded to scrub away the brandy that had
sweated out of his pores over night. He dunked his head
under the water and vigorously lathered his hair, calling
out for Carter, who would be waiting on the landing
with an urn of hot water to rinse his head. Carter came
in and up ended the large jug, keeping the water
cascading, rather than letting it go all at once. Argyll
stroked the soap out of his blond wavy hair and off his
face. As Carter left to get another jug, he soaped his
lower body thoroughly, making sure he got in all the
nooks and crannies. He sat down and rinsed the soap
off of his body and as Carter arrived back, he stood
again and Carter swilled him off with fresh water. Then
he stepped out of the tub, onto the towel in front of the
fire and grabbed a towel, swishing it quickly around his
waist as Carter draped a second towel over his
shoulders. Argyll sat in the bath chair beside the fire and
using another towel rubbed his hair dry as the servants
came in to empty the bath.

The Eighth Duke of Goring was a fine figure of a
man, as the ladies all said. He was tall, broad and
athletic, keeping himself fit by fencing as often as
possible and riding every day. His face was a little florid,
as blond men tend to be, especially if they drink too
much, like Johnny Argyll did. He divided his time
between his ducal duties of running the estates and
keeping tabs on financial matters, and the House of
Lords, which took up most of his time as he was
assiduous in his duties to the House. What little time he
had left over was spent on wine, women and cards, and
not necessarily in that order.

He smirked behind his towel as he recalled
Robbie Bosworth tupping Lady Wentworth on the upper
landing of her house. He had been looking for a little
vixen that was giving him the come on, when he
stumbled across Robbie pinning Lady Wentworth to the
wall, while he gave her one. She was in an almost total
state of undress, her gown was on the floor and the
front of her chemise gaped open. Robbie had her by the
thighs and was pumping away for all he was worth.
‘Lucky bastard.’ He muttered. And while he stood at the
corner, he watched her hair cascade about her
shoulders as she convulsed in ecstasy. Two seconds
later Robbie had her on the carpet and was sucking her
tits at the same time as his hand was busy between her
thighs, making her writhe and moan. Argyll had shook
his head sadly and turned away from the spectacle. He
knew Robbie only fucked them, he never loved them.

‘Who is, Your Grace?’ Carter asked softly, they
actually had very few secrets.
‘Robbie Bosworth. Last month when I caught
him tupping Lady Wentworth on her landing!’
‘Yes, Your Grace, I remember you telling me.’
Carter said from the wardrobe. He had already laid out
a clean shirt, britches, stockings and a cravat. ‘Which
jacket would you prefer today, Your Grace?’ he asked
calmly.
‘First one to hand.’ Carter yanked out a moss
green jacket in fine wool and a matching waistcoat. He
moved around to the washstand by the Duke and
picked up the shaving soap and brush, lathered it up,
slopped it all over Argyll’s chin and with a cut throat
razor, he gave Argyll a nice close shave. The Duke rinsed
his face in the porcelain bowl, patted his face dry and
then slapped some cologne on. Using the brush on his
dresser, he smoothed his shoulder length hair back and
tied it in a black velvet ribbon. He vigorously rubbed
down his body and donned the clothes carter had put
out for him and finished with his boots, as he would be
riding today.
He left with alacrity for the house, even
foregoing breakfast.

Robert Bosworth, Duke of Roding, was as
elegantly dressed as every other man, with his black
boots glistening in the candlelight, his backside snug in
his best chamois britches and a black velvet evening
coat covering his broad shoulders. His chest was hidden
behind his lawn shirt and his throat was trussed in a stiff
white collar and silk cravat that was delicately
accentuated by the ivory brocade waistcoat buttoned
over his flat stomach. His rich dark hair was fashionably
styled, with shorter hair at the front and over his ears,
but the longer back was tied loosely in a black velvet
ribbon, the queue brushing the collar of his jacket every
time he turned his head.

He stood in the foyer of the opera house and
watched the ladies walk by. Husbands were solicitous of
their wives enjoyment and suitors were effusive in their
attentions to the unmarried population that always put
in an appearance at public functions like this one.
Robert looked at the parade of bosoms in various stages
of undress, as they revealed themselves by removing
their cloaks. There were pert breasts and sagging
bosoms, bulging cleavages and bumps barely deserving
the description! The new fashions from France were
certainly revealing, in more ways than one.