A Mind of Her Own (Duty and Desire #2)

Chapter 1

The knocking was sharp, insistent—like a creditor at the door, come to collect what was owed.

It echoed through the opulent chambers of Miss Nadia’s House of Delights, tucked discreetly behind velvet drapes and gilded walls in Mayfair, where only titled men with voracious appetites and deeper pockets found entry.

The sound was swallowed quickly by the heavy stillness of morning after excess.

Inside, the room reeked of everything that had transpired the night before: stale wine, musk, sweat, and the cloying rose-oil scent favored by Miss Nadia’s girls. The air was thick with it—damp and heavy.

William Strathmore, Marquess of Blackmeer and heir to the Dukedom of Westford, was sprawled across a four-poster bed with silk sheets in disarray.

A cut-glass decanter of brandy lay uncorked on its side, dark liquid soaking into the brocade carpet.

One of the whores, Maggie, all soft curves and smeared kohl, was curled beneath the sheets, her painted lips already wrapped around the morning’s task with languid, practiced ease.

Another woman—bare-breasted and drowsy—lay draped across William’s chest like a discarded shawl.

A third snored on her stomach at the foot of the bed, a long peacock feather tangled in her hair.

The knocking came again, louder. No one stirred. The whole room was sunk deep in a haze of drink and debauchery.

Then, with a loud crack, the door burst open. The hinges groaned in protest as Andrew Colville, longtime friend of William’s, strode in, his boots thudding against the ruined carpet, his expression the very image of coiled fury.

“Good God,” he muttered, drawing a perfumed handkerchief from his breast pocket and pressing it to his nose.

William blinked through sleep, brandy still clinging to his breath.

He groaned, tossing an arm over his eyes against the light spilling through the ruined door.

“You broke down the door?” His voice was rough velvet, amused more than surprised.

“You cannot do this here. It’s Miss Nadia’s, not a tavern in St. Giles. ”

Andrew’s gaze swept over the room—over the empty wine bottles, the spilled brandy, the lace-trimmed shifts lying in tatters, over the shamelessness. His jaw twitched. “Do you have no shame?”

At this, William groaned again but didn't stop the whore at his lap, who was swirling her tongue around his cock with great gusto. “Ask her to stop, would you?” he said lazily. “I think not.”

Maggie glanced up briefly, gave a slow, feline smile, and went back to her work.

William reached down and ran his hand affectionately through her tangled hair, as if she were a favored pet.

“I would have let you in, you know. Eventually. You didn’t need to storm the gates like a Jacobin after a crown. ”

Andrew pinched the bridge of his nose. “I am here to collect you for your duel, remember? Curse it, man. I’m your second!”

William laughed—low, wicked, and utterly unrepentant. “Oh, that old fossil? I could shoot him with Maggie still on my cock,” he said, shifting just enough to reach her and slapped her backside with an idle hand. She squealed, delighted.

Andrew turned a shade grayer.

“I told him,” William continued, his voice syrup-smooth, “I did not have an affair with his wife. I haven’t even spoken to the woman outside of a dance at Court. If the lady has found herself in a delicate condition, am I to be blamed for every bastard born in Mayfair?”

His grin was lazy, devilish. “If you ask me, it’s that mincing dancing tutor of theirs. The man has the hips of a satyr.”

Andrew looked like he wanted to retch. “You are utterly depraved.”

William shrugged and poured himself the dregs of the brandy, raising the glass in salute. “You say that as if it’s a bad thing.”

He leaned back against the pile of pillows, the silk sheet falling just low enough to expose the trail of honey-blond hair down his taut abdomen.

The morning light caught the edge of his aristocratic cheekbones, the rough stubble across his jaw, the sin-curled grin of a man used to scandal and privilege in equal measure.

Andrew sighed and turned away, as if he could shut out the sight.

They had been boys at Eton together, and then Cambridge.

He had once believed William might do something great.

Had seen in him the fire of leadership, intelligence, even honor.

But now, looking at him, sprawled like the Prince of Lust in a brothel chamber where the air reeked of sex and perfume, he wondered if there was anything left of that boy.

Perhaps it had all gone to rot under the influence of the Earl of Ravensby—an older rake who had taken William under his wing at twenty and turned him into something the gossips whispered about.

If he weren’t engaged to William’s sister, Andrew might have ended the friendship on principle alone.

“I swear,” Andrew muttered, rubbing his temples, “if you die today, it will be your own fault. And I’ll have to explain to Charlotte why you were felled with your breeches halfway down your legs.”

William smirked. “Then help me button them, old boy. I’ll be damned if I let some gout-ridden cuckold get the better of me.”

William tossed back the sheets and swung his legs over the side of the bed, reaching lazily for his clothes. Maggie gave a drowsy pout as she was displaced, crawling toward the pillows with her hair in wild tangles.

He began dressing—half-heartedly—but after a few seconds paused, frowning in frustration.

“Well,” he muttered, “this simply won’t do.”

Andrew looked up from where he stood by the doorframe, arms crossed. “What now?”

William looked down pointedly. “The devil take it, I’m still cocked like a pistol.”

Andrew’s silence was blistering.

William continued, tone maddeningly casual. “If I attempt to button up like this, I’ll either maim myself or split the seams. The damned thing won’t bend—unless I’d like to sing treble for the rest of my days.”

He waved a hand toward the whores on the bed. “I must have my release before I face the old bastard. Just ten minutes. Perhaps twelve. Be a sport and wait outside, will you?”

Andrew opened his mouth, then closed it again. His nostrils flared.

“I’ll take Maggie,” William added generously. “She’s already warmed up.”

Andrew turned without a word and stormed off down the corridor, his steps echoing furiously against the polished floorboards.

William grinned, pulling Maggie toward him by the waist.

“Well, darling,” he said, voice thick with amusement, “seems I’ve got time for one more farewell.”

* * *

The mist hung low over Primrose Hill, gray as ash, curling around the boots of the men who had come to settle a matter of pride and honor before breakfast.

London’s dawn offered no warmth—only dampness, a mournful chill in the bones, and the sour smell of wet earth. It soaked through gloves and greatcoats alike. The grass squelched underfoot. Above, the sky was a smudged palette of lead.

The Earl of Hawthorne stood stiffly, his face pale with fury, powdered wig sitting absurdly on his head like a relic from a more dignified era.

His jaw was clenched, but his hands trembled—not from fear, but rage.

He looked less like a nobleman and more like a man unraveling.

His second, Sir Thomas Weatherby, lingered behind him, uneasy.

“I beg you, my lord,” Weatherby whispered urgently. “He may be an irredeemable rake, but Blackmeer is the finest shot in London. Do not die for this.”

The Earl’s nostrils flared. “I will not raise his bastard as my heir.”

“He has denied it. Repeatedly.”

“He was seen leaving my house. Twice. At night. And my wife—” his voice cracked with bitter conviction—“my wife has not conceived in six years. Now her womb quickens?”

Weatherby hesitated. “That proves nothing, my lord. You know it. Why must you assume—”

“Because one of my own servants saw him, clear as day—or rather, clear as night—slipping out the side gate. Who else would dare such a thing?”

A sudden sound of footsteps in the grass interrupted them. Both men turned.

Lord Blackmeer, arrived with his coat unbuttoned, hair tousled by wind and sin.

Andrew Colville followed a few paces behind, somber and dignified.

Blackmeer, by contrast, looked every inch the libertine: silk cravat askew, boots muddied from God-knew-where, a hint of perfume still clinging to his clothes—something floral and vulgar, the sort favored by women of ill repute.

A pistol hung lazily in one hand. His gray-blue eyes were bloodshot, but bright.

“Good morning, gentlemen,” he drawled, surveying the scene with a lopsided grin. “Lovely weather for dying, wouldn’t you say?”

The Earl recoiled in disgust. “You reek of whores and brandy.”

Blackmeer smiled. “You have quite the nose, my lord. It’s true—I came here straight from Miss Nadia’s. Took the edge off with a fine creature named Maggie. She sends her regards.”

Weatherby closed his eyes briefly, as if praying for patience from the heavens.

Hawthorne was apoplectic. “You dare to jest?”

“I’m not jesting,” Blackmeer said coolly. “I’m merely honest. But I’ll be honest about something else, too. I’ve no qualms about killing you, Lord Hawthorne. Yet if I do, you’ll die never knowing who fathered your wife’s child. Because it wasn’t me.”

“You lie.”

Colville, the picture of restraint where Blackmeer was not, felt compelled to defend his friend. “He’s many things, my lord,” he said evenly, “but a liar is not among them. I swear it on my honor.”

“If it were true, I’d admit it. God knows my reputation can’t get any worse. But your lady wife, for all I know, has been faithful to you.”

“Then why—”

“I was at your house, yes. But your wife wasn’t the reason.”

The words split the silence like a thunderbolt heralding a storm. The old man went pale, lips curling in rage. Who, exactly, had the scoundrel just confessed to debauching? A guttural shout tore from his throat.