A Rake Like You

Prologue

London, England

June 1810

Louisa Strickland dashed down the front steps of Lady Ramsbury’s Park Street mansion without much thought. As it turned out, rational thoughts were hard to come by when one was angry, confused, and upset, especially when one was feeling all those things simultaneously. Although she could hear Charles Finch’s frantic shouts coming from behind her, she did not stop, despite having no idea where exactly she was going. She only knew she needed to get away from Charles as soon as possible.

“Louisa!” he yelled.

She looked over her shoulder to find him no less than ten paces behind her. Turning forward, Louisa muttered an unladylike oath under her breath, one that her stepmother would have rightfully scolded her for using.

Home, she decided. That was where she was going.

Louisa quickened her pace, passing brick town house after brick town house with long, purposeful strides. Hopefully no one was peeking out their windows, watching her. That was the last thing Louisa needed: a headline in one of tomorrow’s scandal sheets that read VISCOUNT D— AND MISS S— QUARREL ON THE LAST NIGHT OF THE SEASON. NO ENGAGEMENT IN SIGHT!

Louisa took a right on Green Street. Only a few more yards, and she would be home. She reveled in the idea of slamming the door in Charles’s face just before he could catch her. Such a conclusion to their time together might do him some good. Some men needed a woman or two to slam a door in their face.

But then Louisa felt his gloved fingers wrap around the crook of her elbow. Without hesitation, she spun around and slapped the viscount clear across the face. The sound echoed like a clap of thunder on a rapidly cooling summer night.

“Unhand me!” she cried.

Charles let go of her. Somewhere, a dog barked, probably startled by the sudden loud noise reverberating through the streets. Louisa was rather startled herself. She hadn’t realized she had it in her.

Louisa stared down at Charles, his face presently turned to the side, cradling a cheek marked by an angry red handprint. He cursed, turning to face her. She remained expressionless, doing her best to ignore the way her palm stung. She had never slapped anyone before and hadn’t expected to injure herself in the process.

“What the hell was that for?” Charles asked angrily, still holding his hand to his cheek.

Louisa’s nostrils flared. How could he ask such a thing after what she’d seen?

“Surely you do not expect me to remain celibate through such a long charade!” he exclaimed when she didn’t answer.

Celibate? Charade? Louisa winced at the words. So he hadn’t gone to bed alone every night, thinking of her as she thought of him before she went to sleep. Why would he? It was all a charade, just as he said. That was what she wanted, after all.

Then why, she wondered, did it hurt so much? She stood in front of him, hands clenched into fists at her side. Inwardly, she told herself not to cry. Of all people, Charles Finch would not see Louisa Strickland cry.

“No, I did not,” she said, her unaffected tone nothing but a façade. “But I did expect you not to embarrass me in front of the entire ton. Now I will inevitably be poor Miss Strickland, the girl who would have been a viscountess had she not caught her intended in the library doing unspeakable things with the entertainment for the evening.”

Charles looked away from her, closing his eyes and bringing a thumb and forefinger to his temple. He let out a deep sigh, then turned to look at her, his blue gaze capturing her mirror one. There was something deeply endearing about Charles’s boyish good looks, and she softened toward him against her better judgment.

But then she promptly squared her shoulders. She would not forgive Charles—not this time.

“I did not mean for you—or anyone—to catch us.” He paused for a moment, reaching for her hand, the one that had just slapped him. He ran his thumb over her knuckles, his soft touch making her freeze. “I highly doubt anyone noticed we were missing from the party aside from you, so terrified to be alone for five minutes.”

Louisa inhaled sharply, her anger flaring. They both knew she didn’t particularly enjoy social occasions, but there was no reason to bring it up now and insult her. Do not try to blame this on me, Viscount Drake, she thought.

Charles started again. “If you hadn’t followed me—”

She snatched her hand away from his. Unable to contain herself any longer, she began to shout at him.

“Whatever you were doing appeared to be something you wanted to do for much longer than five minutes. I am surprised you could pull yourself together long enough to chase after me like a madman! Why didn’t you just let me go?”

Louisa’s eyes drifted toward the crotch of his breeches. When she looked back up at his face, she was sure she was flushing, and Charles was shaking his head. “You are jealous, that’s what you are,” he said, quietly laughing as he wagged a finger at her.

She folded her arms across her chest, throwing her head back to avoid his accusing gaze. “I am not jealous,” she said. He did not look like he believed her.

Instead, he smiled at her as if she’d just told a great joke, but the only farce was the affection Louisa and Charles pretended to have for one another in public.

It was a ruse Louisa took part in to avoid any real attachments or potential proposals that season, having no desire to marry despite what society demanded of her. Charles Finch was her annoying neighbor and former childhood friend; they had grown apart as they grew older. Why he agreed to help her, she had no idea, but that didn’t matter now. The party at Lady Ramsbury’s was the last rout of the season. The Stricklands would return to Kent tomorrow, and Charles would stay on in London doing what rakes like him typically did in town: drinking, gambling, and whoring every evening, presumably in that order.

“It’s true,” Louisa continued, resisting the urge to slap him again, though still desperate to erase the smile from his face. Those smiles were what had addled her brain in the first place, causing her to run when she saw him with the opera singer bent over the red settee in the library. Those smiles had tricked her into believing he felt something for her when he hadn’t at all.

Louisa wished she had laughed when she saw them. She should have laughed when their gazes briefly met while Charles thrust into the woman from behind. That would have shown just how ridiculous Louisa believed him to be. After all, she really wasn’t jealous. She certainly didn’t wonder what it would have been like to be the opera singer that evening.

“I pity the women who fall for your charms,” she said, ignoring those intrusive thoughts inside her head. “You are nothing but a degenerate, destined to spoil your father’s name and waste his fortune. I appreciate the help you have given me over the past few months, but I am through with you now. Let us return to being indifferent neighbors. Good night, Viscount Drake.”

Louisa turned quickly, dashing the last few yards down the sidewalk to the house her father had rented for the season. Mr. Strickland was a wealthy gentleman, but he owned no property in London. Like his daughter, he much preferred the comforts of Strickland Manor, their estate in Kent. But Mrs. Strickland, Louisa’s stepmother, convinced her husband that his eldest daughter must have a season in town, no matter how much Louisa protested. In the end, his wife’s wishes won out over his daughter’s.

“Louisa!”

She stopped halfway up the front steps, slowly turning to face Charles, who remained standing below her on the sidewalk. The glow of the lamp beside the front door illuminated those aforementioned boyish good looks, causing her heartbeat to falter. A splattering of light freckles marked the bridge of his nose, and his dark hair formed thick, unruly curls on top of his head.

“If you are not jealous, then why are you angry with me?” he asked, slowly climbing the stairs, a frown playing at his lips. He stopped on the step beneath Louisa, their heads nearly level with one another now. She could smell the brandy on him.

“I am not angry with you,” she quickly countered, growing nervous. She did not want him to press her anymore on the topic of jealously, so Louisa shook her head instead, forcing a smile. “I am only tired and ready to go home. You know how I hate it here. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I would like to—”

Charles grabbed hold of her hand as she turned, causing her head to snap back in his direction. Their lips were mere inches apart now, her hand still resting in his. His eyes drifted downward, and she was somehow out of breath, though she remained utterly still.

“You claim you wish to be nothing more than indifferent neighbors, but why can’t we part ways as friends? We have grown close during this season, have we not?”

She narrowed her eyes at him. “Friends?” she asked. What business did she and Charles Finch have being friends? They had completely different interests and goals in life.

“Friends,” he repeated, their faces still mere inches apart. “I know you are curious about what Miss Coppola and I were doing together. I see it in your eyes. I could return to Kent as well, you know, and show you—”

Louisa did not hesitate. She slapped him again, this time across the other cheek, so they had matching red handprints. “You are the worst sort of rogue, Charles Finch,” she hissed. “I would never be interested in a rake like you.”

Retreating into the house, Louisa heard his laugh on the other side of the door. She closed her eyes, resting her head against it. In the darkness of the entry hall, silent tears dampened her cheeks. She angrily wiped them away, noting a light emitting from one of the rooms down the corridor.

Papa’s study. Louisa went to the mirror in the entry hall, inspecting her eyes. She wanted no evidence of tears when she visited her father. Slowly, she walked to the room, where she found him in his armchair, his legs propped up on a stool. He wore his spectacles, and a thick tome rested on his lap. Louisa stood in the doorway, smiling at him. She would have preferred to stay home from Lady Ramsbury’s party as well, but there were different set of rules for young ladies and seasoned gentlemen like her father, much to her chagrin.

Louisa cleared her throat, and Mr. Strickland looked up from his book. He smiled. “Louisa! You are home early.”

“I grew tired and quietly snuck away before Mrs. Strickland could notice,” she said, coming to stand beside him and bending over to press a kiss to his temple as she rested her hands on his shoulders.

Mr. Strickland furrowed his brow. “Did Lord Drake not propose?” he asked. “I would have thought you would be out until dawn celebrating.”

Louisa tried to feign sadness. Surprisingly, it wasn’t all that hard. Although she had never wanted to become engaged, Charles had disappointed her in other ways, ways she would never be able to explain—at least not to her father. “Unfortunately, Lord Drake did not come up to scratch this evening.”

Her father’s frown deepened. “Is that why you look so upset?” He immediately shook his head. “Do not give up hope, Louisa. There is still time. He may return to Kent for the summer and call on you at Strickland Manor.”

Louisa hoped not, but she didn’t dare say that aloud. She had to pretend that she was permanently wretched so that her stepmother wouldn’t try to force any other suitors upon her in the future. But in truth, Louisa still needed some distance between her and the viscount to focus on her true desires: one day running Strickland Manor by herself.

Everyone thought her father was odd for naming Louisa as his sole heiress instead of his nearest male relative. But the entailment of the estate ended with Mr. Strickland, so now he could do whatever he damn well pleased with it, thank you very much—or at least that was what he always told anyone who ever questioned him. And Louisa was happy with his decision, for it meant she would achieve total independence, unlike most of the women she knew.

“I wouldn’t plan on it, Papa,” she told him bitterly. “You know how the viscount loves being in town. I suppose it was my mistake to pursue someone so young. Drake is not ready to settle down.”

Her father made a sound of annoyance. “Then he should not have led you on to believe that—”

“It is fine, Papa,” Louisa insisted, hoping to end the conversation. Perhaps her show of heartbreak was too convincing. “I am sure I will recover once I return to the country. I have been craving the fresh air for a while now, and I am willing to bet you have been feeling the same way.”

Her father grunted his agreement. Then his eyes became bright, as if he had just gotten a splendid idea. “Perhaps we might invite Cousin William to say with us this summer. You enjoy his company, don’t you?”

Louisa’s face immediately fell. “Not particularly.”

“Louisa!” her father exclaimed, his eyes widening.

She only shrugged in response. Cousin William was Father’s nearest male relative, the one they said should inherit Strickland Manor. They were distant cousins, sharing the same great-great-grandfather. Periodically, he would come to Strickland and attempt to woo her, but Louisa found him terribly uninteresting. Besides, he only wanted her for the estate, and there was nothing worse than a man who only wanted a woman for her inheritance.

Forcing herself to smile slightly, Louisa bent down to kiss her father on the temple once more. “I apologize, Papa. I am only tired. Perhaps Cousin William might come some other time when I am not so worn out after such an eventful season in town.”

Her father nodded, and they bid each other good night.

Later, sleep eluded Louisa in her bedroom, where she tossed and turned at least half the night, her mind still too wrapped up with thoughts of Charles Finch. Louisa supposed that was her punishment for making a deal with the devil.

Charles Finch, Viscount Drake, heir to the Earl of Bolton, stood on the steps outside Louisa Strickland’s green door, laughing to himself. He had enjoyed tormenting Miss Strickland since they were children, but at one-and-twenty, she had become much more than a rough-hewn young girl with long, awkward limbs and flaming red hair. Now teasing her felt much more dangerous, but unfortunately for him, he couldn’t help himself anyway.

He hadn’t been joking about his earlier proposition, though Charles would never admit it to anyone. It was much easier to let Louisa—as well as himself—assume that he was, hence why he continued to laugh to himself, albeit somewhat sadly now, while returning to his aunt’s party, his hands stuffed into the pockets of his breeches. But Charles could not fret for long, knowing if he’d confessed to only using the opera singer to rid himself of his desire for Louisa, the response would have been much the same. She would never have believed him.

Charles sighed, his forced laughter fading as he turned back down Park Street. He brought a hand to his chest as he walked, wondering how such an awful feeling had come to rest there. The past few months had just been a game he and Louisa had played to trick their families and the ton—hadn’t it?

She didn’t want to marry. Neither did Charles—not yet, anyway. He supposed he would eventually, as was his duty, but at present, he shuddered anytime his mother or father mentioned heirs or spares. Their so-called attachment was the perfect distraction from their true motives: using each other to avoid actual engagements, especially on her part. At three-and-twenty, Charles would have years before any real pressure to settle down began. Louisa was not so lucky.

Most women weren’t.

They’d always planned to go their separate ways at the end, but Charles never expected their subterfuge to end so poorly. He came to a stop on the sidewalk and looked over his shoulder, wringing his hands at his chest. Perhaps he ought to go back and apologize. No. He’d only feel worse. When he faced forward again, he closed his eyes, picturing a naked Miss Coppola beneath him. That should have been a distraction enough, but soon Miss Coppola had red hair and much longer, shapelier limbs.

Charles immediately opened his eyes, moving forward once more, quickening his pace toward his aunt’s Park Street mansion. He didn’t need Louisa, and whatever lust he may have felt for her after spending nearly every day with her for three months would subside given time. If Charles could have any woman he wanted, why should he settle for a bluestocking whose only goal in life was running her father’s estate after he died?

The answer was that he shouldn’t, so he returned to his aunt’s ballroom with a smile on his face, feeling as though someone had just lifted an enormous weight off his shoulders. He looked around the room, admiring the bevy of young, attractive women his aunt had invited that evening. Now he could dance with any one of them without fearing Louisa’s censure over what such actions might do to their public image as a supposed couple.

But before he could approach any of them, Mrs. Strickland appeared at his side, a concerned look on her face. The woman was only ten years older than her stepdaughter Louisa, her face still vacant of any deep wrinkles. His other neighbor and friend, the Duke of Rutley, had pointed out Mrs. Strickland’s attractiveness on more than one occasion—as did every other male who learned Charles was courting Louisa.

Pretending to court, that is. And no longer pretending anymore, thank God. She was more trouble than she was worth.

Charles beamed at Mrs. Strickland as if he hadn’t just chased her stepdaughter through the streets of Mayfair after she found him with his breeches down and his cock inside another woman.

“Are you enjoying yourself, Mrs. Strickland?” he asked. Despite his jovial tone, the woman’s look of concern only grew, but he ignored it, looking out onto the ballroom of twirling dancers. “Quite the crush, don’t you think?”

“Indeed,” Mrs. Strickland replied, pursing her lips. “Have you seen my daughter, Lord Drake? The last I saw her, she said she was going to look for you.”

His lips twitched, fighting an even broader smile forming on his face. Louisa always hated when her father’s wife referred to her as her daughter. Louisa would make a point of correcting her whenever she did, saying she was Mrs. Strickland’s stepdaughter, as if the idea of actually being related to the woman was bloodcurdling. Despite all that, Charles was sure Mrs. Strickland loved Louisa, even if Louisa did not always reciprocate her stepmother’s feelings.

“I did see Miss Strickland,” he admitted, nodding. “She said she was tired, so I offered her my carriage to take home. She happily accepted, and I reckon she is already in bed as we speak, eager to return to Kent tomorrow morning.”

Mrs. Strickland regarded him as if she knew he was lying, but how could that be? He was sure no one had seen him chase after Louisa into the street. Everyone had been in the ballroom at the back of the house—except for Miss Coppola, of course, who he’d left half naked in his aunt’s library.

Charles searched for her now across the crowded ballroom. Perhaps she would enjoy a second rendezvous at his private apartments later than evening. Such tempting thoughts were interrupted by Mrs. Strickland, who cleared her throat beside him.

“Did you speak of anything else while you were alone, my lord?”

Louisa’s stepmother looked up at him with such hopeful eyes that it almost upset him to crush her hopes for an engagement between him and Louisa. His palms even became sweaty under the woman’s critical gaze. If he told her his courtship of her stepdaughter was nothing but a ruse, he imagined it would be something akin to stepping on a defenseless field mouse.

“We did speak of something else,” Charles began, nodding. Mrs. Strickland leaned in closer, her eyes wide. He tilted his head to the side as he regarded the woman, releasing a sad sigh from his lips for dramatic effect.

“What was it?” Mrs. Strickland asked, leaning closer yet. Charles wouldn’t have been surprised if she grabbed hold of his jacket and began shaking him. He looked away, sighing again.

“I suggested that I return to Kent tomorrow as well so that we may continue our acquaintance, but she was not interested.”

Charles turned back to Mrs. Strickland, his face the picture of hurt. She looked as if she was trying not to scream. “Not interested?” she repeated.

As Charles sadly nodded, Mrs. Strickland shook her head. “I apologize, my lord. I do not know what’s come over her. Perhaps she was only tired and didn’t mean it. Yes, that can be the only explanation. I will have her write you first thing tomorrow morning and explain herself.”

Charles realized then his grave miscalculation. He’d blamed the end of their courtship on Louisa instead of himself. Mrs. Strickland would be furious with her, and Louisa, in turn, would be even angrier with him.

“There’s no need,” Charles said quickly, growing panicked. He shook his head. “I am sure the decision was entirely mutual. In fact, I’m relieved she does not want me there.”

Now Mrs. Strickland stiffened. She looked down, pulling a fan from the velvet reticule hanging around her wrist. “You are relieved?” she asked.

Charles grimaced. Could he not just say the right thing for once? “I only mean that I am still young, and Louisa understands that, and—”

“That’s enough, Lord Drake,” Mrs. Strickland snapped, her face turning red as she rapidly wafted her fan in front of herself. Charles turned red as well, immediately realizing the impropriety of calling Louisa by her Christian name. He looked around the room, hoping neither his mother nor father were near.

“I will take my leave, then. Give your aunt my regards. Perhaps we will return next season, but most likely not.” The woman snapped her fan shut, and Charles nearly jumped. “I will have a terrible time convincing Mr. Strickland to fund another season after this disaster. It will be my fault for encouraging her to chase after a viscount, after all.”

“Mrs. Strickland—”

The woman held up a single gloved hand, effectively silencing him. He supposed it was better that way. The truth would have only disappointed her more, and Louisa would have killed him if he admitted to their ruse over the past three months.

“Good night, my lord.”

Mrs. Strickland turned on her heel, leaving him to stare after her, wondering again if he had made a grave mistake. Louisa Strickland would undoubtedly be plotting his murder by morning.

Charles suddenly felt a large hand on his shoulder, and when he turned, his friend Robert, the Duke of Rutley, was standing behind him, his dark brow arched at him. “What was that regarding?” he asked.

“Miss Strickland,” Charles replied casually, trying to appear uninterested so Rutley would stop asking questions. But the duke continued.

“What happened?”

Charles sighed. “Our courtship came to an end this evening.”

The duke snickered. “No surprises there. I saw you run off with the opera singer earlier this evening. I gather everyone else did as well.”

It was a good thing Louisa didn’t have a brother, and that her father was much too eccentric to ever challenge Charles to a duel. But Charles did not wish to think upon her any longer. “Shall we visit the cardroom?”

Rutley shot him a skeptical look, which Charles ignored. He grabbed a glass of champagne from a footman’s nearby tray, only half listening as Rutley spoke. “You have already lost a thousand pounds at cards this week.”

“Come on,” Charles said, taking a swig of champagne. “I am sure I will make it all back this evening.” He clapped his friend across the shoulder. “I can feel my luck changing as we speak.”

But he did not make any money back that evening, nor the evening after that. He lost money every night until he was in so much debt that he was sure Louisa or her stepmother had somehow cursed him that evening. But the entire ton knew that the only curse Charles Finch suffered from was stupidity, and it would be another seven years before he broke it.

Chapter One

London, England

May 1816

Charles Finch woke like he did most days, with a distinct pounding in his head from an excess of drinking the evening before. Except lately, he did not limit his drinking to evenings. A bottle of brandy was the first thing he reached for most mornings, even before the bellpull beside his bed that he used to summon his valet.

But this morning, he recalled the promise he’d made to himself last night at the club while surrounded by old friends, plentiful liquor, and cheap whores. Charles meant for last night to be the final hurrah before he gave that all up, as there was no use denying it anymore. His life was in shambles, and he had to do something, especially after his past plans to fix things had failed so tremendously it could almost be considered comical.

With few options for moving forward, sobering up was his only choice left. How else could he begin to clean up the mess he’d caused?

Remaining prone beneath soft linen bedclothes, he reached for the bellpull, tugging it downward. His muscles ached, and his joints creaked with every movement. Charles wondered if he had always felt so old or if he only noticed the total weight of his nine-and-twenty years on this planet now that he had decided to swear off liquor.

When his valet, Mr. Gibbs, finally appeared, the man—a middle-aged fellow with round, ruddy cheeks and a thick neck—seemed out of breath when he opened the door, appearing at Charles’s bedside panting. Charles turned, propping himself up on his elbows. The bed linens pooled around his waist, revealing his bare chest.

“What’s the matter with you?” he asked, squinting at Gibbs. The man was now bent over in what looked like pain, his right hand clutching his side. He wrapped his other hand around a liveried kneecap.

“You rang so early,” he began, still panting but standing at attention again, his hands behind his back. “I wasn’t prepared. I thought there was an emergency. Are you all right?”

Charles glanced at the clock on his bedside table, then turned back to Gibbs, narrowing his eyes at the valet. He supposed eight in the morning was early for him. He typically remained in bed until noon most days.

“Of course I’m all right,” Charles said, doing little to hide his annoyance as he tore the bedclothes away from his frame and moved his legs over the edge of the bed. He stood, completely naked, and Gibbs scrambled to place his slippers before his feet. Gibbs was not usually so scatterbrained.

“Is an earl rising early on a weekday to finish some work before breakfast truly all that unusual to you? I am sure my father did the same all the time.” Charles stepped into the slippers one by one. Gibbs then grabbed his velvet banyan from a nearby hook, moving behind Charles and holding it out for him. “I will have my bath and then go downstairs to my study until Mother rises for breakfast.”

Charles turned after he shrugged on the banyan, expecting Gibbs to start buttoning it closed. Instead, the valet stood there practically trembling, the color drained from his formerly ruddy cheeks. Gibbs mumbled something Charles couldn’t hear. “What did you say, Gibbs?”

“It’s about the dowager countess, my lord,” Gibbs replied, louder this time so Charles could hear him. “She left yesterday evening—while you were out.”

Charles furrowed his brow, confused. To be sure, his mother was upset with him, but she hadn’t said anything about leaving town. “What do you mean she left? Has she returned to Linfield without me?”

Linfield Hall was the Earl of Bolton’s country seat in Kent. It had belonged to Charles ever since his father died earlier that spring.

“Not exactly,” Gibbs replied sheepishly, pulling a folded and sealed letter from his jacket pocket. He handed it to Charles, who looked at it, immediately recognizing his mother’s handwriting. She had scrawled his name in artful strokes on the front.

Quickly, Charles tore the letter open. He scanned its contents, then looked at Gibbs, frowning. “She is deserting me for the Haddingtons and their house in the Lake District.”

Gibbs nodded as if he already knew, and Charles sighed, handing the missive back to his valet. “Fine,” Charles muttered. “I was growing tired of her company anyway.”

His mother blamed him, of course, for what happened with Rosamund, his younger sister. His only sister, as far as he was concerned. The other one—the bastard—didn’t count, even if she did try to offer him her inheritance to pay off his debts to the duke. Rutley was quick to foil that plan, anyway, as was the girl’s husband, his former friend and solicitor Samuel Brooks.

His father had revealed his half sister August’s existence on his deathbed earlier that year, along with his intention to leave her twelve thousand pounds. He also insisted that she be made part of the family. Obviously Charles objected. He would not be made the laughingstock of London by introducing Lady August to the ton, as his father insisted upon calling her.

The late earl sent Brooks to inform her of her inheritance and true family. After his father died, Charles sent August to live with their aunt, Lady Ramsbury. He thought if anyone could handle such a scandal, it was the dowager duchess. But somewhere along the way August fell in love with Brooks, and they were married soon after that, much to Charles’s chagrin. He wanted August to marry his cousin on his mother’s side, Edward Swinton. But Brooks uncovered Charles’s plan to have Edward give back August’s inheritance to him once they were married. Brooks was furious with him.

Charles sighed. He was running out of friends now that Brooks wasn’t speaking to him. He could always find someone to drink or gamble or whore with, but a true friend? Those were in short supply.

Meanwhile, his sister was having second thoughts about her intended, the duke. And now she had finally called off the wedding to the man Charles owed twenty thousand pounds to.

To put it simply, Charles was in terrible trouble.

He glanced at his valet. “You won’t leave me, right, Gibbs?” Charles asked.

The heavyset man shook his head right away. “Of course not, my lord.”

Charles was relieved to hear it, but then again, what other choice did the man have? Charles frowned, and Gibbs headed to the sideboard where Charles kept brandy and glassware.

“Shall I pour you a drink?”

Charles hesitated. He must do this, he decided. If there was one thing he must do, he must avoid brandy. “That’s all right, Gibbs. As of today, I am giving up all that.”

His valet nearly dropped the bottle of liquor he was holding. “G-giving up b-brandy?” Gibbs practically sputtered. “Are you sure nothing is wrong, my lord?”

Charles’s face fell. Did everyone think he was some sort of helpless drunkard? He sighed. Well, he supposed if they did, they had good reason to. “Why would there be something wrong, Gibbs?” He glanced back down at the bottle of brandy in Gibbs’s hands. “You should clear the house of all of it.”

“All of it?” His valet’s brow rose comically high.

Charles sighed again. “That’s right. All of it.” He pointed to the collection of bottles. “Some of those unopened bottles might fetch hefty prices. You should try selling them.”

Unfortunately, we might need the money, Charles thought to himself. Gibbs still seemed confused but eventually nodded slowly. When they were through talking, he helped Charles dress and bathe, and after having his very sober breakfast in the morning room, he went to his study.

Charles had an hour to pore through his estate’s books before meeting the duke. He hoped to find some sort of resolution to his financial crisis that wasn’t marrying off either of his sisters, seeing as how one was already married and the other refused to marry, but none of the numbers made sense, and his head still hurt from the night before, even after a hearty breakfast and a large cup of coffee.

He sighed, then sat back in his chair, admiring the ornate surroundings of his study—the floor-to-ceiling cherry bookshelves, the giant globe in the corner by the window. The house was quiet with no one but him there. He wondered if that was what it would be like from there on out, just him alone at home, where there were no temptations.

For a moment, he considered selling Finch Place, the London town house where he presently sat. Selling it would certainly solve his problems, and staying away from town would help him avoid temptation. But where would he stay in London if he ever decided to take his seat in the House of Lords? He intended to do just that one day, so selling their home in town was simply out of the question.

Other than selling the liquor—which would hardly be enough—Charles had no idea how he would come up with the twenty thousand pounds needed to pay back the duke. He hoped Rutley had a plan other than berating him when he called on him later that morning.

The duke’s home in London was a short walk from Finch Place, only on the opposite end of Berkeley Square. Charles and Rutley had been best friends since childhood, which close proximity rather than a closeness to one another dictated. Their fathers’ country homes were located on adjoining estates as well, but their difference in rank was drilled into them since they were children. Charles always felt he had something to prove as a result.

He anxiously waited in the entry hall while the butler informed the duke of his arrival. They had not seen each other since the earl’s younger sister decided to break off her three-year engagement to the duke the previous day, and he did not know what to expect when he finally saw the man again. Rutley hadn’t gone to the club with Charles the evening prior, preferring to be alone.

When Charles finally entered the duke’s study, he was sitting behind his desk, watching Charles with careful eyes. He was just the type of man most society girls swooned over, tall and dark and handsome. Truthfully, Charles couldn’t understand why Rosamund no longer wanted to marry him. There was the issue of his past infidelity while they were engaged, but what man was faithful? Charles’s late father was not, which was how he ended up with a second sister he did not want and twelve thousand pounds missing from his estate coffers.

That thought gave him pause. Perhaps Rosamund had a point in breaking off her engagement.

“Charles,” the duke said. He tried not to let it bother him when his family and Rutley all called him Charles instead of Bolton. He liked to think it wasn’t a lack of respect, only that he did not command so much of it as, say, the duke.

“You seem different,” he continued, observing him. Charles stared back at him. He was not wearing a jacket, only a shirt and waistcoat, and he had pushed his sleeves up to his elbows. A stack of papers, a half-empty pot of ink, and a pen rested on the desk between them. Rutley sniffed once. “You smell different.”

Charles’s lips twitched. “I took a bath this morning. Thank you for noticing.”

“No,” Rutley said, shaking his head. “It is not that. You do not smell of brandy.”

Charles nodded once. “Ah. That is true. I have given up the stuff.”

The duke nearly scoffed. “Truly? For how long?”

Charles pursed his lips. He did not blame the duke for not believing him. They had attended Oxford together, and the duke had seen Charles in all the different stages of intoxication, including facedown in the mud.

He did not want to admit it had been less than twenty-four hours, but Charles saw no other option. “Since this morning. I thought it was the least I could do after the mess I’ve made of the estate. Even my mother wants nothing to do with me. She’s gone off to the Lake District with the Haddingtons.”

“That sounds like a wonderfully quaint way to spend the summer.”

“Quite.” Charles cleared his throat with a single cough. “But we aren’t here to talk about my mother.”

“No, we aren’t.”

The duke stared at him, and Charles shifted uncomfortably in his armchair. The chairs in Rutley’s studies, both in Kent, where they were neighbors, and in town, were always far too small for any grown man to sit in and be at ease. Charles swore the duke did it on purpose. After all, Rutley was one of the most powerful men in England. Why shouldn’t his guests be uncomfortable?

“How are you feeling?” Charles asked, unable to bring himself to say something about his debt. “I am sorry about my sister, by the way. I know you cared for her, regardless of what she thought.”

The duke glanced down, fiddling with the stack of papers on his desk, then looked back up at Charles. “I am fine,” he said, smiling, though Charles could tell he was forcing himself to appear unperturbed. “I am more than fine. I no longer care. I have decided the end of our engagement is for the best.”

Charles nodded, though he wasn’t quite convinced the duke meant what he said. “I wish you would reconsider taking her dowry anyway and counting it against my debt. God knows she doesn’t deserve it.”

Rutley’s eyes darkened, and Charles feared a furious put-down in exchange for his derisive comment about his sister. “We went over this yesterday in the carriage, Charles. I do not want Rosamund’s dowry. Whoever her worthless husband turns out to be may have it.”

Charles scoffed. “Why should I give anything to her future husband? She has made her hatred of me well known. I rid myself of all responsibility for her. She is my aunt’s problem now.”

“Do you think it’s wise to leave your sister in her care?” The duke shifted in his chair. “I hear she frequently receives late-night visits from Lord Ridlington.”

Charles tried not to laugh. Rutley sounded like a concerned mama. “How scandalous.”

The duke’s jaw clenched. “Do not mock me.”

“And you say you do not care.” The duke’s glare deepened, and Charles bit back peals of laughter. When he regained his composure, he continued. “But in all seriousness, Your Grace, you sound like Brooks. He protested when I sent August to live with my aunt, and look what happened. He married her.”

Rutley cleared his throat. “Well, I apologize, but look what happened to force that marriage in the first place. The incident at Lord Ridlington’s ball is a perfect example.”

Charles cocked his head to the side. “Do you mean the incident with one of Lord Fitzgerald’s sons?”

Rutley nodded. Charles supposed he had a point. If it weren’t for that incident, August and Brooks might have never married. His cousin Swinton might have eventually wooed her and gained her hand instead. Her inheritance would have become Swinton’s upon their marriage, and his cousin had agreed to give that money back to Charles.

But that didn’t happen. Nothing had gone to plan—or so it would seem. Charles let out an angry huff.

“Well, she did end up married by going to my aunt’s, and isn’t that the goal for any young girl’s season?” Charles shook his head. “But I digress. We should be discussing my debts—all twenty thousand pounds of it. If you will not take Rosamund’s dowry or allow me to consider August’s offer—”

“A very generous offer you do not deserve. Perhaps you ought to think twice before shunning your half sister.”

Charles rolled his eyes. He didn’t understand why everyone acted like August was some sort of saint. “Yes, yes, I know. But if you do not let me do either of those two things, I am unsure what my other options are. I have already decided I cannot part with Finch Place.”

The duke shook his head. “I do not want you to sell Finch Place. I have another proposal for you.” He took a piece of paper from his stack and slid it across the desk. Charles picked it up, squinting at the figures written on it. His gaze went back to Rutley.

“What is this?” he asked.

“A plan to pay off your debt—all twenty thousand pounds of it—within five years. You will probably have to economize to meet the monthly payments, which I am sure I can help you achieve if you allow me to look at your ledgers.”

Charles sighed. “I suppose I do not have any other choice.” He did not like the idea of Rutley controlling his spending, but Charles would have to bear it. He folded the piece of paper and placed it in his jacket pocket.

“There is one other option,” Rutley said.

Charles raised his brow. “Oh? What is that?”

“You could marry someone wealthy.”

Charles laughed. “The last thing I need right now is a wife, no matter how wealthy she may be. Besides, any respectable woman would not be interested in me after the way my family’s name has been dragged through the mud this season. The daughter of a cit who wants the title of countess might have a different opinion, but I have no interest in social climbers, thank you very much.”

Rutley pursed his lips, annoyed. “You do recall our neighbors to the north in Kent, don’t you? The Stricklands?”

Charles grew very still. He hadn’t thought about Louisa Strickland in a long time, but just the idea of her red hair was enough to make his heart skip a beat. He hoped Rutley would not hear the uncertainty in his voice. “Yes.”

“The youngest daughter will debut next season. Her dowry is thirty thousand pounds. That is more than enough for you to pay off your debts.”

Charles shook his head at Rutley as if the duke were mad for even making such a suggestion. “I cannot marry her.”

“Why not?”

The image of Louisa Strickland’s face walking in on him in his aunt’s study while he mounted an opera singer from behind flashed in his mind. “You do not recall me courting the elder sister six years ago? Surely it would be in bad form to go after the younger sister now.”

A look of recognition passed over the duke’s face, then disappointment. “I had forgotten about that,” he murmured.

But Charles hadn’t forgotten. After Louisa left town, he decided to write to her, hoping they might leave on better terms after their argument. But his letter went unanswered, and his feelings of loneliness only grew for some perturbing reason. He even returned to Kent for a month during the summer. He attempted to call on her a few times, but she was always busy whenever he did.

The only time he managed to see her was at her father’s funeral, but even then, she avoided him. She even had the nerve to use some distant cousin named William as a shield against him that day. Charles almost expected to find out she married him one day, but she never did, preferring to be an independent spinster, just as she’d always planned.

Charles was happy for her. Louisa had gotten what she always wanted. He wished he even knew what he wanted. Maybe then he could go about finally achieving it. For now he would just try to get out from underneath Rutley’s thumb.

The duke sighed, interrupting Charles’s tumultuous thoughts. “Regardless of all that, Flora Strickland was still the best option I could find for you.”

Charles couldn’t disagree more, and he was sure his face showed that. “What do you mean?” he asked.

“Why should I have to explain it to you any further? She is rich. I don’t care who her sister is. Since you have tried so hard to meddle in the affairs of your sisters in the past few months, I think it is only right that I try meddling in yours. If you do not want me watching your every move for the next five years while you pay off your debts to me, then you should marry Flora Strickland.”

Charles shifted in his chair. He could not think of a worse idea. “The last time I saw Flora Strickland, she was twelve years old. She is far too young for me—not to mention her sister and mother hate me for what I did all those years ago.”

The duke sighed. “What exactly did you do, Charles? To make them hate you so?”

“It doesn’t matter,” Charles said, shaking his head. It would take too long to explain, and the two women hated him for very different reasons. Louisa hated him for the truth, and Mrs. Strickland hated him for the ruse. Charles and Rutley sat in silence for a long moment while Charles considered his options. “Could I marry any heiress as long as her dowry was at least twenty thousand pounds?”

The duke considered this for a moment, then shrugged. “I suppose. Heiresses do not exactly grow on trees, though. Just remember that you are land rich and cash poor right now, Charles. You can use all the help you can get.”

Charles rose. “Well, then, I accept your challenge. If I must marry to get myself out of this mess, then I will. In the meantime, you can take a look at my ledgers. I supposed living as a pauper will only motivate me to find that special woman as soon as possible.”

Rutley smiled, then made an encouraging gesture with his fist. “That’s the spirit.” He paused a moment. “You really ought to consider Flora Strickland, though. My mother tells me she is quite accomplished and far prettier than her older sister.”

Charles almost defended Louisa but didn’t want the duke suspecting him of anything untoward. He supposed Rutley’s mother just didn’t know Louisa like the earl did—or at least the way he used to know her. He sighed. “I will call on her at Strickland Manor when I return to Linfield if that pleases you, Your Grace. But do not think Flora Strickland will end up being my only option. I plan on returning to town next season a changed man. I’ll be the most eligible bachelor in all of London. You’ll see.”

The duke snorted, turning back to the papers on his desk. “Yes, we most certainly shall.”

Charles bristled at his friend’s lack of confidence in him, but given what he owed, he was hardly in a position to say otherwise.

***

Available 8/31/21

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