Needed: A Dishonorable Duke: Calling All Rakes

  NEEDED: A DISHONORABLE DUKE

  CALLING ALL RAKES

  TAMMY ANDRESEN

  CONTENTS

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Epilogue

  Found: Bare with a Baron

  About the Author

  Other Titles by Tammy

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  www.tammyandresen.com

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  Hugs!

  CHAPTER ONE

  Miss Mona Ayers had to admit that there were certain disadvantages to being a wallflower.

  First and foremost was the lack of suitors she’d managed to obtain. She could blame her looks to a certain extent. Her shock of bright red hair did not help her to appear the docile society creature that most gentlemen sought for their demure brides. Her penchant for saying what she thought was not really an asset either.

  And so, she’d combatted both of those deficiencies by making herself as invisible as possible within a ballroom. Hidden behind a plant, or tucked behind the punch bowl, no one snickered at her hair or sneered at her insightful commentary. Insight was not generally appreciated in ladies, it was a skill reserved for men.

  And in those hidden places, she’d found wonderful friends. Women, who like her, didn’t quite fit the mold.

  She’d been happy as a wallflower and content to remain separate with her friends, which had led her to her second problem. Her mother was far less satisfied with her lack of suitors. A woman of Scottish descent, she’d married the second son of an earl, and in some odd attempt to prove she was well-suited to the role, she’d set about making Mona her great triumph.

  Which was ridiculous. Not even her name was right. Girls who hoped to marry well were styled Mary, Agnes, or Emma. Her mother had gotten it wrong from the very start, not that she would take the blame. No. According to her mother, it was Mona’s fault.

  And finding Mona’s lack of motivation and skill in the marriage mart unsatisfactory, Lady Ayers had gone about making a match for her daughter herself.

  Mona should have seen that coming. Her mother was not a woman to be denied, which was rather ironic considering how that same stubbornness within Mona herself made her a deplorable debutante. But she digressed.

  Her mother had set about making a good match for her daughter, and she’d managed to snag a marquess.

  A fact that made Mona want to alternatively laugh and cry. Because while the man was both rich and well-titled, he was also—well—old.

  He sat across from Mona now, the early afternoon sun only highlighting just how wrinkled and aged his skin actually was. Spots covered his cheeks and jaw, a few warts peppered his nose, and his lips thinned over grey and black teeth. Which she could clearly see because he’d fallen asleep during their visit.

  His snore punctuated the silence within the room, and Mona clapped a hand over her mouth to keep from giggling. She’d not, for all the world, wake him now.

  Her chaperone softly cleared her throat from the corner and Mona gave a quick turn in her seat to glare at the Esther, her maid. But the rustling her skirts made must have disturbed the marquess because she heard him snort several times and then splutter, clearly waking.

  Drat.

  She’d been enjoying their time together as her thoughts had been free to wander.

  Perhaps that’s what their marriage would be like? She’d have most of the day to do as she pleased while he napped?

  “Did I fall asleep?” he said, his words slightly slurred as he pushed himself up on feeble arms.

  “Only for a minute, my lord,” she said with a smile as she picked up the scissors from the table in front of her.

  Under them were a series of newspapers, dated from the last two weeks. She’d been carefully cutting out any stories of interest.

  “What are you working on?” he asked, scrubbing his face with his gnarled hands.

  They’d discussed this topic three times at least. “It’s a collection of clippings.”

  He nodded, his gaze turning toward the clock. “Yes. That’s right.”

  What sort of collection, she didn’t say. And she wouldn’t. Not to him and certainly not to her mother.

  He pushed himself up to standing, stretching his back, and pushing out his stomach, which was decidedly large when compared with his thin shoulders, grunting as he did so. “You’ll have to excuse me, my dear. I’ve an appointment.”

  She took a quick glance at the clock. Two hours past noon precisely. He never stayed past two. Ever.

  Not that Mona was complaining but it was curious.

  She set down her scissors and rose. “Of course.”

  He held out his hand and slowly, she placed hers in his as he brought her gloved fingers to his thin lips and placed a lingering kiss on the back of her hand.

  She tamped down her shiver, glancing away as she quickly curtsied her goodbye.

  The moment he quit the room, she sat back down, placing the article she’d cut out within the pages of her Bible, closing the book. Then she neatly folded up the paper from which she’d cut it and placed the sheet back on the desk in the corner. Her father never read them and tonight the paper would be tossed aside to make ways for tomorrow’s periodicals. Later, when she had a moment to herself, she’d pull this article out to read and then add it to her collection carefully tucked within her mattress. She’d created the slit herself and it made for the perfect hiding spot for the flat sheets of paper she’d been using as research.

  The subject of her studies? The Deplorable Duke.

  At least that’s what some called him. Others the Disreputable Duke, still others, the Dishonorable Duke. If the stories were true, all the names fit.

  It was February and, at the cusp of a new season, the gossip sections of the papers were filled with all sorts of stories about upcoming events and the people who’d attend them. The Deplorable Duke was a favorite topic among the columnists as he managed to have a position of great power and yet have the reputation so ghastly as to frighten away most prospective debutantes. But not all.

  Some marriage-minded mama set her cap on the duke with a fair bit of regularity and almost always resulted in her daughter being humiliated. At least, if the papers were to be believed.

  Mona had never met him, but if the articles were true, he was sinfully handsome and dangerously direct.

  She drew in a ragged breath. She didn’t care that much about his looks. He was young, he was single, and he was in need of a bit of help too. Or so she hoped. And that had begun the basis of her plan.

  The only way to avoid marriage with the marquess was to find a different man, a better match than the one her mother had chosen.

  Who was better than a marquess? A duke, of course.

  “Where is my mother now?” Mona asked, returning to the settee, and picking up her Bible.

  “Out for tea, I believe.” Esther answered as she collected her crochet work. “Do you need anything else, miss?”

  Mona shook her head with a smile of genuine gratitude. If her mother was out, that left her free to read her latest clipping in peace. “No. Thank you, Esther.”

  With a nod, Esther left the room as well, likely eager to
finish her chores for the day. Mona returned to her seat, flipping open her Bible. Careful to keep the article tucked within its pages, in case her mother arrived unexpectedly, she began to read.

  The first parts were bits of hearsay and proclamations of past wrongs that had garnered the Duke of Durham his black reputation.

  But at the end…she sucked in her breath.

  Lady Wistcomb was having a ball before the season was officially underway. It was rumored that as Lady Wistcomb was a widow and seen with Durham and a few of his rakish friends, the band of rakes might be in attendance.

  She stood, slapping her Bible shut. This was exciting news. It was one thing to research the duke, another to dream of approaching him with a match of convenience that would be to both their benefits, but quite another to have an actual place and time with which to set the wheels of her plan in motion.

  With a suitor at her door, her mother wasn’t likely to parade her through every party and ball, so Mona’s chances of crossing paths with the duke were rather…slim.

  Until now.

  Swishing down the hall, Bible still in hand, she made her way to her the morning room where her mother’s desk was located.

  It contained neat stacks of invitations, carefully sorted into piles in which she was sure to reject, events they might attend, and events they certainly would.

  Mona let out a rush of air, when she found Lady Wistcomb’s invitation already in the pile of events they’d be going to.

  She brushed her finger over the smooth paper, the wax seal already broken.

  Mona smiled to herself as she returned the stack to its original ordered state. The fates were aligning, she could feel it.

  By next week, she’d have herself out of this match with the marquess and into one with the Duke of Durham. Surely, this was the hard part?

  One week later…

  * * *

  Braxton Hughes, Duke of Durham, stood before the fire, whisky in hand. He’d already shed his coat, his cravat, and his vest. His sleeves were rolled up and his shirt open.

  He looked down at his feet, considering whether or not he should remove his boots. It was presumptuous on his part. He knew that.

  Then again, he and the widow had been dancing around a tête-à-tête for the past few weeks. Her blonde hair and slender figure weren’t quite to his taste, but her smile told him that they had same goals in mind. Her look was…salacious.

  He couldn’t blame her.

  She’d been married to a man thirty years her senior and she’d only just managed to provide him with an heir before he’d up and died. But it left her free to access the estate and, more importantly, free to pursue her passions, of which Brax would guess she had many.

  She had a certain reputation for being high-spirited.

  He was most eager to find out.

  This was her party, of course, so when she’d suggested that they meet in private, he’d been more than ready to agree.

  Whether he was here for a quick tup or a lengthier seduction, it mattered not to him. Either way, he’d ease the need that had been steadily growing inside him.

  While he hated attachments, he wasn’t terribly fond of being alone either.

  A conundrum to be sure.

  Not that this problem would ever convince him to give up his life as a bachelor and wed. At least, not anytime soon. As a man who liked variety, he’d suffer through the bouts of loneliness and the sea of debutantes—and their mothers—who routinely set their cap on him, in order to continue to partake in the pleasure of new flesh.

  The door rattled and his stomach tightened in anticipation.

  It was Sara. Lady Wistcomb. Finally.

  He didn’t turn toward the door however, appearing too eager would spoil the mood. Instead, he leaned against the mantel, dropping his head to stare into the fire as the door softly opened and with a quick whoosh closed again.

  And then he heard the faint click as the lock slid into place.

  He smiled to himself even as a growl of satisfaction rumbled in his throat. He should have taken off his boots.

  Slowly pushing off the mantle he listened to the delicate swish of silk as the lady approached. Damn but he loved that sound. It was as soft and delicious as what lay underneath those skirts.

  He turned, readying to pounce.

  “Sara—” The name died in his throat.

  The woman before him was not Sara. Not even close. In fact, if he might have pictured Sara’s precise opposite, this woman was surely it.

  The differences began with her hair. Twisted up in elaborate coif, it was a mass of tendrils that shined vibrant red in the firelight. Her eyes were naturally wide and even in the dim light, bright green. Her features were delicate and perfectly symmetrical, her nose small and straight, her lips rich and full, her neck and shoulders, exposed by the cream gown she wore, leaving her pearly skin on full display. But what caught and held his attention was her cleavage. The sheer abundance of it was…decadent. “Your Grace,” she murmured, dipping into a curtsy so that he was free to devour the view. “I apologize for interrupting your evening.”

  Sara was pretty in an ordinary way but this woman…she was stunning. A rare gem that sparkled and glowed in the firelight.

  His brows lifted and begrudgingly, he brought his gaze back to hers. “Then why did you, Miss…” He was guessing that she was a miss and erring on the side of caution. Better to assume she was young and unmarried.

  She drew in a breath, tilting her chin up to him. “Ayers.”

  “Miss Ayers.” The name did not sound familiar. But then again, he rarely paid attention to unmarried women at all. Not unless they thrust themselves in his path. Which this one had just done.

  And pleasant as she was to look at—and she was exceedingly pleasant—he was not about to change his rules. “Well then, Miss Ayers, since you are sorry, and I am busy, perhaps you should return from whence you came and leave me to continue on with my evening.”

  She gave her head a gentle shake as she took a half step closer. He caught a whiff of her scent and nearly cursed a streak. She smelled of plums, ripe from the summer sun and begging to be picked. Begging to be eaten.

  “I’m sorry, Your Grace, but I can’t do that. Not without saying my piece first.”

  Her piece? Well. Shit. “Your piece can be delivered to someone who cares.” He reached for her arm, intent upon escorting her from the room but she saw his move coming and jerked her arm up so that his hand landed on her side, just above her waist, his thumb just grazing the underside of her breast. Satisfaction and desire rippled through him. Her ribs were small and delicate, his hand wrapping about her side. He’d like to reach for the other side as well and measure her circumference.

  “Oh, but you see, I think you will care.”

  “I know I didn’t bed you, I’d remember,” She’d be very difficult to forget. “So you can’t be here to tell me I’ve begotten you with a child.”

  Her chin pulled back, her brows drawing together. “Do women tell you that often?”

  He squeezed her ribs a bit tighter as he stared down into the wide green eyes. He had to confess, her question took him by surprise. What was an unmarried woman doing here asking him about his relations with other women?

  And then he realized. He was partially undressed already. They were alone.

  Any moment, her brother or her father would break down the locked door and demand, in front of the entire ball, that he marry the scheming chit.

  Fortunately, there was a second door. One which he’d be escorting Miss Ayers out, posthaste. He slid his hand down to her waist and began guiding her away from the fire. A direction she willingly took, moving along with him with an ease that made him stop once again.

  Brax had learned long ago a man could learn a great deal about a woman with a single touch. From a hand at her arm or waist, he’d know if they were compliant, resistant, or revolted. Did they wish to lead or follow?

  At his pause, she dropped her arm on top o
f his, her gloved fingers spreading out on his biceps. “Oh,” she said, looking down at her hand. “I didn’t know a man’s arm could be so large.” Then she swallowed. “Or so hard.”

  Christ. His cock twitched. Who could blame it? He was looking down at a gorgeous woman with an ample bosom and an easy grace as she discussed his muscles. “Miss Ayers.”

  “Yes?”

  “Who is about to come through that door?”

  She blinked, her little nose wrinkling. “No one.”

  “No one?”

  “I locked it.”

  “I’m aware.” He took a fortifying breath. They weren’t getting anywhere, and he was certain she was stalling. “Why?”

  “Because…” And then her tongue came out, dancing across her top lip in a way that made him want to suck that tongue into his own mouth. “I needed to speak with you privately.”

  “About?”

  “Marriage.”

  Oh no. That was not going to work. His cock be damned. Miss Ayers needed to leave immediately.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Mona watched the duke’s jaw harden even as the hand he’d placed about her waist tightened. Her fingers on his bicep tightened too. She was preparing. For what, she couldn’t say.

  “No.”

  The single word split the air, whistling over her ears with its definitive ring. “But…”

  “No.”

  “You haven’t even heard—”

  “I don’t need to hear.” His voice had gone from smooth butter to chips of ice even as his other hand came to her arm as well. She grasped his other arm, in what felt like an awkward dance position.

  And then he picked her up, lifting her high into the air, like a small child who hardly weighed anything at all, and started carrying her across the room. For a single moment, she marveled at his strength as she stared down at his face.