Dare to Love a Duke

EVA LEIGH is the pen name of a RITA® Award-nominated romance author who writes novels chock-full of smart women and sexy men. She enjoys baking, tweeting about boots, and listening to music from the ’80s. Eva and her husband live in central California.

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AND MILLS & BOON

The Scandalous Ladies of London series

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COUNTING ON A COUNTESS

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ISBN: 978-0-008-27266-1

DARE TO LOVE A DUKE

© 2019 Ami Silber.

Published in Great Britain 2019

by Mills & Boon, an imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers 1 London Bridge Street, London, SE1 9GF

All rights reserved including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form. This edition is published by arrangement with Harlequin Books S.A.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, locations and incidents are purely fictional and bear no relationship to any real life individuals, living or dead, or to any actual places, business establishments, locations, events or incidents. Any resemblance is entirely coincidental.

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To Zack

Contents

Cover

About the Author

Booklist

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

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

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Epilogue

Acknowledgments

About the Publisher

Chapter 1

London, England

1816

A droplet of sweat rolled between the shoulder blades of Thomas Edward O’Connell Cúchulain Powell, Earl of Langdon, as he steadied the cocked dueling pistol and took aim. He looked down the weapon’s barrel, his concentration fixed on his target twenty paces away. His exhalation misted in the chill midnight air as he fought for calm.

He inhaled, held his breath, then pulled the trigger. There was a flash and a cloud of smoke as the weapon’s concussion split the night’s stillness.

Twenty paces away, glass shattered.

The hushed crowd burst into applause and cheers of “Bravo!” as Tom lowered the pistol and grinned. He kept his footing as people swarmed around him, offering their congratulations and hearty thumps on the back. Numerous women, scented heavily with perfume, kissed his cheeks—so many that he imagined it looked as though he wore rouge.

“The hero of Regent’s Park,” George Mowbray declared.

“Not to Culver, I’m afraid.”

Tom looked over at his opponent, Lord Culver, who sulked as he handed his dueling pistol to a footman. Culver had missed when taking aim at the bottle of claret. Perhaps if Tom had been more virtuous, he would have deliberately missed so that there was no winner and no loser. Though Tom was an earl and the heir to the Duke of Northfield, no one would ever call him virtuous.

“Ah, shag him,” Mowbray said magnanimously.

“I’ll leave that to the professionals.”

Tom smiled ruefully as Culver’s hired companion for the evening attempted to soothe her client. When Culver shoved her away and she stumbled, Tom immediately strode through the crowd and jammed his fist into his opponent’s sternum.

“You may have lost, but you’re still a gentleman,” Tom said in a low, warning voice. Gently, he took the woman’s arm to make sure she kept her footing. “Apologize to the lady.”

“She’s just a whore, Langdon,” Culver said.

“Apologize.” Tom’s jaw firmed as he held up the pistol. “Or else the next time I fire this, it will be at your worthless heart.”

Culver scowled, but said in a grudging voice, “I’m sorry.” Under his breath, he muttered, “You Irish son of a bitch.”

Tom narrowed his eyes. “Repeat that.”

“I . . .” Culver gulped. “It was a jest.”

“A poor one.” Since the age of twelve, when he’d been brought from his mother’s Irish home to be educated in his father’s country of England, Tom had heard some variation of Culver’s insult. Why anyone thought Tom ought to be embarrassed about his Irish blood, he’d no idea. But he wouldn’t tolerate slurs. “Must I ask for another apology?”

“My sincere contrition,” Culver said. After casting Tom a wary glance, he hurried toward his waiting carriage.

“Hope I didn’t cost you your night’s earnings,” Tom said to the woman.

“Ah, no.” She gave him a dry smile as she eyed the throngs of young, wealthy bucks passing bottles back and forth as they caroused. “There’s plenty of pickings in this crowd.” She glanced at him and her smile turned more genuine. “Happens that I’m free right now, my lord. If you’re interested.”

“Perhaps another evening.” He wasn’t ready for bed yet.

One of the rakes came forward with a substantial bundle of cash and jammed it into Tom’s hand. “Your winnings, Langdon.”

No sooner than the cash was in his hand than Tom turned and handed it to the woman. “For putting up with Culver.”

“I couldn’t, my lord,” she said as she tucked the money into her bodice. She gave him a wink. “’Night, love.” She pressed a quick kiss to his cheek, then strode off into the darkness.

“That was near seventy pounds, Langdon,” Mowbray said in shock.

“She’ll have better use of it than me.”

There was no shortage of funds in Tom’s coffers, between income from his earldom as well as his generous allowance provided by his father, the duke. Other lordlings and bucks swam in seas of debt, hounded constantly by tailors, club proprietors, and wineshop owners. Tom made certain to pay everyone on time, for no other reason than the fact that he could.

“I’d do it again for free if it meant humiliating Culver. Bloke’s had it coming since he refused to cover his mistress’s bills.”

“You’re a daft bastard,” Mowbray said with a shake of his head.

“I’d agree,” Tom said affably, “except everyone knows about my parents’ celebrated fidelity. Bastard in deed but not blood.”

Someone handed him a bottle of whiskey and he took a drink before passing the spirits along to a trio of bucks who looked in dire need of refreshment.

“Good Christ, here you are!”

The throng opened up just enough to allow Christopher Ellingsworth to emerge, looking slightly bedraggled despite his military bearing. Since returning home from the War a year ago, Ellingsworth had renewed the friendship he and Tom had begun at Oxford, and from that point forward they had been nigh inseparable, with the exception of tonight.

“Missed the excitement.” Tom handed his pistol to the footman, who returned it to its polished mahogany case.

“Not for want of trying,” his friend said. “I’ve been to the opera, two gaming hells, and a phaeton race. Everywhere I went, I’d just missed you by ten minutes.” He shook his head but his eyes gleamed with reluctant admiration. “Good thing we’re not competing for the title of Most Scapegrace Gentleman in London, or else you’d best me.”

“That trophy isn’t much sought after, anyway. Why such urgency to find me?” Tom lifted an eyebrow. “My father’s not looking for me, I hope.”

The duke periodically got it into his head that Tom would somehow reform and conduct himself with the dignity and sobriety of a ducal heir with a family history of deeply traditional beliefs, but that was precisely why Tom spent his days asleep and his nights in endless rounds of revelry. One day, hopefully in the far distant future, Tom would inherit the title, and with it, the morass of responsibilities and duties that came with being one of the most powerful men in England—and a voting record dedicated to preserving the ancient systems of power.

Life as Tom knew it would end. He’d say goodbye to nights entertaining opera dancers, midnight swims in the Serpentine, and behaving like the kingdom’s veriest rogue, with his equally dissolute companions keeping him company.

As a marquess’s third son who had recently sold his commission, Ellingsworth had considerably less money but shared Tom’s appetite for running riot. There wasn’t one corner of the city they hadn’t explored in search of amusement and pleasure.

Ellingsworth hooked an arm around Tom’s neck and led him several paces away from the celebrants.

In a low voice, he said, “I’ve heard about something that I knew would interest you. A place in Bloomsbury called the Orchid Club.”

Tom groaned. “I’ve grown weary of clubs. Same games of chance, same people, same wine, same everything.”

His friend’s grin flashed. “This club is different. For one, it opens its doors only once a week and it just so happens to be open tonight.”

That wasn’t enough to snare Tom’s interest. Many clubs did what they could to cultivate an air of mystery in order to ensure steady business from those eager to discover its secrets.

“What else makes it so special? Is it a brothel?”

“It is most decisively not a brothel. You’ll need this, however.” Ellingsworth unhooked his arm from around Tom’s neck. He reached into his coat before producing something, then slipped the item into Tom’s hand.

Tom held up the object so he could study it better. It was a half mask made of midnight blue satin.

“What the devil . . . ?”

Ellingsworth chuckled. “You’re intrigued.”

“You’ve gotten my attention.”

Tom had torn all over London tonight, but still edginess and restlessness pulsed just beneath his skin. He needed diversion. Surely there had to be something in the city he hadn’t already done.

“Excellent.” Ellingsworth clapped his hands together. “I left my horse with the boy watching yours.”

He headed toward where the animals waited, and Tom quickly followed.

“Won’t you tell me more about this mysterious Orchid Club?” he asked.

“I wouldn’t dream of ruining the surprise.”

They reached the horses and after tossing coins to the lad holding the reins, Tom and Ellingsworth swung up into the saddles.

“Not even a hint?” Tom pressed.

In response, Ellingsworth put a finger to his smirking mouth, then wheeled his horse around.

Together, he and Tom rode off into the night.

Bloomsbury slumbered peacefully as Tom and Ellingsworth rode down an avenue lined with prosperous-looking homes. It hardly seemed the environment where a club—of admittedly unknown character—might thrive. The street was empty, while lamplight glowed warmly on the houses’ facades.

Ellingsworth pulled his horse up outside one genteel but ordinary home that boasted several stories and a colonnade, with potted plants flanking the front door. Heavy curtains had been drawn in all the windows, keeping the activities inside hidden. Not a sound emerged from the structure. No human voices, no music. Nothing.

“Still as the grave.” Tom eyed the building doubtfully. “You’re having me on. There’s no club in there.”

“I’d never feed you poor intelligence. Not when it came to finding new pleasures.” Ellingsworth looked affronted that Tom even suggested such a thing.

“My most sincere apologies.” Tom inclined his head. “What do we do with our cattle?”

“We take the mews to a stable in the back, but everyone enters through the front door.” Ellingsworth clicked his tongue as he guided his horse toward the narrow alley beside the house, and Tom followed.

A considerable brick stable awaited them, staffed by three smartly dressed grooms. A few carriages were parked outside, dozing coachmen sitting atop the vehicles. But within the stalls, there were horses of varying quality and age. Some were sleek, pampered animals clearly purchased from Tattersall’s, while others had seen years of hard service to their owners. There was even a donkey.

As he handed one of the servants the reins, he studied the groom’s face for some indication as to what kind of place this might be—a knowing wink, or maybe a sneer of disgust. Yet the servant seemed to deliberately school his features so that he gave nothing away.

“Be needing a mask, sir?” the groom asked.

Tom frowned at the servant’s use of sir rather than my lord, but he surmised that any club requiring a mask seemed to want anonymity for its patrons, insisting that he be called by his proper title might be ill-advised.

“I have one,” Tom said, patting the inside pocket of his jacket.

“You’ll want to put it on now, sir. Before you go inside. House rules.”

As Tom donned his blue satin mask, he saw that Ellingsworth did the same with one made of bronze silk.

“We’re to play at being highwaymen?” Tom guessed.

In response, his friend smirked. “Badger me with as many questions as you like, but I’ll answer nary a one until we’re inside.”

Tom heaved a sigh. “You’re enjoying my torment.”

They walked back up the mews to the front of the house.

“The trouble with you, Langdon, is that you’re far too indulged. That’s what comes of being the heir. Whatever you want, you get, and if anything is denied you, you insist it’s worse than the sufferings of Tantalus.”

“I am not indulged. I merely dislike delaying gratification. Waiting is unsupportable.”

Ellingsworth snorted. “You may be able to wield a sabre, and you can shoot, but you’d make for a terrible soldier.”

“I’ll leave soldiering to more desperate blokes like you.”

His friend’s expression darkened. “Those days are behind me.”

Tom fell into troubled silence. Since returning home from Waterloo, his friend’s temperament shifted and altered rapidly from moment to moment. Ellingsworth might be full of quips and jests, and in a trice, he would grow moody and withdrawn. Though it worried him, Tom never asked about these abrupt changes in humor, held back by a concern over his friend’s masculine pride. He sensed it had something to do with the War, something that, as a ducal heir, he would never experience.

How could he offer Ellingsworth a listening ear when he couldn’t begin to understand all that his friend had seen and done, all that he’d survived? Perhaps someday, Tom might bring the subject up—delicately. Until then, he’d be Ellingsworth’s companion in revelry.

They emerged back onto the street, and Tom held the gate that opened to the walkway leading to the front door. As if sensing the new experience that lay just steps away, his heart thudded with excitement as he approached the club’s entrance. Distantly, the bell at St. George’s proclaimed it to be one in the morning, straight in the middle of a rake’s day. While the good people of London slept and rested in anticipation of their labors, he and people of his ilk prowled the streets in search of adventure.

Ellingsworth stepped to the door and knocked. Tap. Tap-tap. Tap.

Tom’s lips pressed together as he suppressed a laugh. A secret knock? Truly? How trite.

The door opened, revealing a masked young black woman with closely shorn hair. She wore a coral-hued mask, and she gazed at Tom and Ellingsworth expectantly.

“I’ve come for the plums,” Ellingsworth said.

“We haven’t any,” was her answer.

“Peaches will suffice.”

Tom frowned, dimly recognizing the exchange from someplace, but he couldn’t quite recall where he’d heard it. A moment later he realized the phrases came from Alone with the Rogue. He’d read the erotic novel—penned by the mysterious and wildly popular Lady of Dubious Quality—cover to cover, and then reread it almost immediately after turning the final page.

For all its pretense at secrecy, the Orchid Club certainly had good taste in literature.

The masked woman opened the door wider. “Come in, friends.”

Tom and Ellingsworth stepped into the vestibule and the woman firmly shut and locked the door behind them. A single candle burned in the candelabra on a small table, but Tom could still make out the details in the entryway. It resembled any other in a well-to-do home, with nondescript but well-rendered paintings of exotic flowers hanging on the walls, and a large unlit chandelier hanging overhead.

“Is this your first time at the Orchid Club?” the woman asked.

“Yes,” Tom replied.

Ellingsworth said, “My name’s—”

She held up a hand. “No names here. The club abides by a code of strictest privacy. All are equal within these walls.”

Tom’s brows lifted. An egalitarian club was astonishingly progressive. Clubs were supposed to be strongholds of elitism, or so White’s would have anyone believe.

“The only person at the Orchid Club who is permitted a name is our proprietress, Amina. But you are not to ask anyone else for anything that might identify them. Is that understood?”

Both Tom and Ellingsworth nodded.

“There is one other rule which must be obeyed,” the woman said. “Everything must be consensual. No one shall be persuaded, coerced, or bullied.” Her voice firmed. “Whoever does not submit to this will be summarily escorted out and banned from returning.” She snapped her fingers and two brawny men emerged from the darkness, their faces impassive behind their masks. “These gentlemen are here to enforce the rules. I pray you do not make me summon them. Do I make myself clear?”

“You do,” Tom said. His mind spun, trying to determine what exactly transpired at the Orchid Club that required these rules.

“How much to enter?” Ellingsworth asked.

The woman spread her hands. “That is at your discretion. We operate on the largesse of our guests and ask that you pay as much as you are able.”

Tom took a crown from his pocket and held it out to the woman. She plucked it from his fingers and dropped it into a pouch at her waist, then turned her gaze to Ellingsworth, who shot a wry grin in Tom’s direction.

Chuckling, Tom dug out another crown and gave it to the woman. Ellingsworth’s allowance as a third son was comfortable, but his friend went through it at an alarming rate. It hardly mattered to Tom, as he had more than enough to cover their nightly expenses, and then some.

After the woman tucked the second coin into her pouch, she waved toward the hallway branching off the vestibule. “You may enter, friends. Enjoy yourselves.”

His pulse hammering, Tom strode down the dark corridor, Ellingsworth at his heels. A low hum of human voices flowed out of a room ahead, and beneath that came the lilting strains of music. Then came the unmistakable sound of a woman moaning in pleasure.

“What in God’s name have you gotten us into, Ellingsworth?” Tom asked lowly.

The possibility of a brothel had already been ruled out, and Tom was something of an expert in the noises women made when in the throes of passion. He could tell when they were feigning pleasure, and when they were sincere. The moaning coming from ahead was most assuredly genuine.

“Patience,” his friend said. “All shall be revealed.”

They both stepped into the doorway of a large parlor. Tom’s heart jolted in his chest, and blood rushed straight into his groin.

Everywhere he looked he saw exposed flesh. Women’s bared breasts, men’s upright cocks, abdomens, arses, limbs. It was a bounty of people barely dressed, or completely nude save for their masks. Men and women tangled together on low sofas, sprawled on thick carpets, or leaned against walls in groups that ranged from couples to quintets. A man in laborer’s clothing fucked a genteel lady from behind as she bent over a table. Three women formed a complex knot as they lapped at each other’s quims, while a gentlewoman unbuttoned the falls of a man’s breeches so that another man could suck his cock.

Sex. Everywhere, sex. The humid air was thick with the smell of it, and with the sounds of unrestrained sensuality.

Meanwhile, masked servants bearing pitchers of wine or platters of sweetmeats walked between the couplings, calm and disinterested. Clearly, they were quite used to the spectacle.

Tom wasn’t. Though he was no stranger to small parties that evolved into group sex, he had never before witnessed so many people from such an array of classes all engaged in public displays of carnality. He’d seen and done everything that London had to offer, but the Orchid Club was entirely new. And entirely wonderful.

“Bless you,” Tom said to his friend. “How did you learn of this place?”

“One of my old comrades in arms told me. It’s an open secret. Been around for years, actually, but it manages to stay hidden.” Ellingsworth’s lips quirked. “I see it pleases you.”

Tom watched as a man reverently stroked and kissed a woman’s arse while another man fondled her breasts.

“This is Paradise,” Tom said reverently.

Ellingsworth grinned. “None of the thoughts I’m entertaining are at all angelic.”

“Shall we explore the rest of the club?” Eagerness hummed through his body—at last, after years of exploring all of London’s most thrilling facets, he’d found a new experience.

A brunette reclining on a divan in nothing but her shift and a white mask crooked her finger at Ellingsworth.

With a grin, his friend clapped him on the shoulder. “I leave the investigation to you. A pressing matter has come up.” Ellingsworth walked quickly toward his waiting lover.

Less than a moment later, a blonde dressed as a dairymaid swayed over to Tom’s side.

“Shame you being on your own,” she said as she trailed her fingers down his waistcoat. Her accent held the rough consonants of East London. “Shame that I’m on my own, too.”

His body answered with a quick throb of lust, but he softly took her hand between his and pressed a kiss to her rough fingertips. So her garb and accent weren’t disguises. She truly was a dairymaid.

“Forgive me,” he said with a smile. “I’m still getting my sea legs.”