The Magnificent Earl of March (The Rake Review, Season Two #3)

Chapter 1

Chapter One

The cold March air punched Hunter Wakefield, the sixth Earl of March, across the face like a bare-knuckle boxer as he staggered out of Sinners Gaming Hell.

Two light skirts clung to him, kind enough to escort him to the streets, their laughter loud and practiced.

They lingered in the hope of coaxing another shilling of his cursed inheritance from him.

He would have happily obliged them, if he had not already given them a fortune. Hunt had also spent the entire evening into the early morning gambling and frolicking until he grew bored.

There was a small part of Hunt that wished to squander his fortune on sheer depravity. To drown himself in drink, flesh, and ruin until there was nothing left to him but the title.

The funds were never really his; every pound, every shilling belonged to his father, Percy Wakefield.

Hunt would’ve gladly squandered it all, like his father before him; however, most of the Wakefields’ current fortune was because of his mother.

Her widow’s portion, from a former marriage, had saved the precious March earldom from poverty.

Yet it did not stop his father from perfecting the art of neglect.

Hunt was an inconvenience, after all, nothing more.

His twin sister, Helen, though the eldest by thirty minutes, had escaped their father’s disdain by the convenience of her sex.

She was no threat, or rival, to his preferred heir, his precious nephew, Augustus.

“Are you sure we can’t convince you to stay, my lord?” Charity, one of his regular ladies at Sinners, asked. She played with the buttons of his waistcoat, blinking long lashes up at him.

His great coat and jacket hung from his arm. He’d abandoned them earlier to free himself from any confines. Sinners was the one place he could be himself, or at least it was, until the Belle printed that blasted gossip sheet.

“There he is, the Magnificent Earl of March!” A drunk Duke of St. Clara called out as he tumbled into his waiting carriage.

“The Magnificent Earl!” A few other men shouted in agreement, laughing at Hunt’s new title.

Bloody hell.

Ever since The Rake Review was printed, it was all the Ton could speak about. For one year, the Belle, the author of the infamous gossip rag, targeted a different gentleman every month.

Unfortunately, every single one of the so-called rakes found themselves caught in the parson’s mousetrap. After a year’s holiday, the tumultuous author was back, already claiming two victims to her righteous cause.

Now, Hunt was her next prey. Well, he would not fall, not to some simpering debutante in want of a wealthy husband. He wasn’t meant for marriage; his bastard of a father saw to that by blatantly ignoring Hunt in favor of Augustus.

“I thought we were leaving?” his closest and only friend, Reginald Stanton, the Marquess of Westcott, asked, walking past Hunt and his companions.

“I’m sorry, ladies, but I must go,” he said, before gently removing his arms from the ladies’ tight grip.

Following Reg to the waiting carriage, he greeted his coachman, John, ignoring the constant call of the exiting patrons.

“Look how magnificent he is!”

“Hide your wives and daughters, here comes the Magnificent Earl!”

“He’s next for the slaughter, gents!”

Hunt practically threw himself inside, ignoring every abhorrent comment that was being shouted at him.

“Bloody hell! Will this ever end?” He ran his hand down his face, cursing the gossip sheet.

Out of all the titled, pompous lords in London, this Belle had to choose him. Surely, there was nothing wrong with enjoying himself, but this author made it sound wicked.

“Probably not until April when there will be a new unsuspecting rake up for slaughter.” Reg sat back against the leather, his dark skin shining in the moonlight.

They’d been friends since they met at Eton and discovered that they were easy targets for the other boys. The only two of African descent that would inherit coveted English titles—of course, they were preyed upon.

Reg was not a casual acquaintance, someone with whom he’d shared an occasional brandy or practiced bare-knuckle boxing. No, Reg was the brother Hunt had longed for his entire life, especially his first week at Eton.

One particular day, Hunt found himself surrounded with a busted lip when suddenly his attackers were pushed to the side by a dark, tall, skinny boy.

He joined Hunt in the center of the circle, gave him an arrogant smile, and simply said, “Let’s get the bastards, shall we? ” before he threw the first punch.

They still laughed about it often. Together, they had defeated four older boys, and from that moment on, they were brothers, fighting back-to-back to ward off their attackers.

Together, they had been unstoppable.

Reg held up the gossip sheet, waving the cursed thing in the air.

Hunt took it out of his friend’s hand, his eyes scanning the blasted article.

“Dearest Readers,” Hunt began reading, his voice full of disgust, “Welcome to March. I’m back!

As the snow thaws and the weather begins to warm, all of Society’s elite make the arduous journey to London for the start of the Season.

Now that our January and February rakes have met their forever matches, it is time to turn our gazes to our scoundrel for March.

It is a well-deserved title, if I do say so myself. ”

Hunt stopped reading, unable to read the account of his life. “Damn it all to hell!” He tossed the sheet up in the air, following it as it landed between his and Reg’s feet.

“It could be worse,” Reg said, shrugging his shoulders, his dark brown eyes peering at Hunt. “At least she highlighted your better qualities.”

“Better qualities? She objectified me like I was a fucking light skirt!” Hunt shouted, raising his hands. “Not only that, but she also went on and on about my family, detailing personal matters.”

“Everyone in England is aware of your family history. It is not a secret your father was a bastard to you, your mother, and H-Helen.” Reg’s voice staggered at Hunt’s sister’s name, a fact that Hunt ignored since the man was his closest friend.

“It doesn’t matter that it’s not a secret. To have it announced as if it were not a painful experience for my mother is cruel, even for this Belle person.” He huffed out in exasperation.

It was one thing to attack him. Bringing his sweet, kind mother into this debacle made Hunt furious.

“Your mother is one of the strongest women I know. She can handle anything.” Reg folded his long arms over his chest. “What are you really upset about?”

“I’m upset about the damn target on my back for every chit of marrying age and their eager mamas.” Hunt pointed out the window.

Hunt couldn’t believe it. He’d seen what this Rake Review article had done to its previous victims. Targeting them, releasing all of Society on them until the gentlemen had no choice but to marry. Poor fools, they’d easily fallen into the spider’s trap, but that would not be the case for him.

No, he’d seen firsthand the cruel indifference of marriage. How a seemingly lovely spouse—according to his mother—could suddenly turn their back on you and their own children.

His father never wanted an heir. Why would he, when he had his precious nephew to inherit it all?

After Hunt and Helen were born, their bastard of a father abandoned their mother, professing to all who would listen that she had deceived him into believing she was barren.

It was absurd, of course. It was not his mother’s fault that she never conceived a child with her first husband.

Nor was it his or Helen’s fault that they were born, but the man who’d fathered them had blamed them all the same.

There was no point in marriage. Why bind yourself to another person when you couldn’t depend on them to honor their marriage vows?

No, it was better to let the whole fucking earldom crumble around him, rather than to further his father’s line by marrying. It would be a sweet bit of revenge on his father, who only ever cared about his precious earldom.

“I for one,” Reg began, jolting Hunt out of his own head, “would embrace it.”

“Embrace it? Are you mad?” Hunt tilted his head at his friend, raising an eyebrow.

It was an old habit of his, from when he was a child and he and his sister would make funny faces at each other to pass the time. They both had exceptional eyebrow-manipulating skills to prove it.

“Yes, embrace it! Bed a debutante or five. This is a golden opportunity for you, my friend—for us.” Reg waved a finger between them.

“I’m not deflowering a debutante,” Hunt said, not believing his suggestion.

Hunt was a great many things because of his father’s disdain, but he did not take advantage of an innocent.

Perhaps if he hadn’t had his mother and his sister beating decency into him, he could easily have been the person his father, the Ton, and this Belle believed him to be, but he did have some scruples.

“Most debutantes aren’t innocent. It’s 1822, Hunt. They’re women of the future. They just pretend to marry some poor nob who doesn’t know the difference between a virgin and a whore.”

Hunt laughed at his friend’s words, thankful for the day they’d met as children.

He was a lonely boy, until he’d met Reg.

All of Society labeled him a bastard, but there was no proof.

There were no lovers in his mother’s wake, one thing his father could never deny.

Both Hunt and Helen were in possession of the Wakefield sparkling green eyes, a shocking trait to be sure, but even more beautiful on Hunt and his sister with their rich chestnut skin.

“You do realize we’re both considered nobs,” he said, as a sharp knock rang through the carriage.

They’d arrived at Reg’s humble accommodations for the Season. No matter how much Hunt and his mother insisted, his friend refused to stay at March House. Reg had no fortune, no mother or siblings. He was alone, but he’d always have Hunt.