Chapter One
Club Damnation
Mayfair, London
Bloody bloody hell.
Why the hell was she doing this? Did she not care about my reputation or hers?
When he huffed in annoyance, one of the other club members who was near to his chair glanced his way. “I apologize.”
The Duke of Eggleton frowned. Perhaps in his mid-to late fifties, he was the founder of Club Damnation.
He’d worked tirelessly to make certain the organization was a safe space for men with the title of duke as well as those men who didn’t.
The ones who didn’t were both titled otherwise or they were not, but every man within the club held the moniker of “duke” whether they were born with it or were able to choose their specific name.
It meant that every man there was on the same footing; no one was better than another.
“Clearly something has upset you this evening, Thornton, but first, let me welcome you back to Town.”
Cecil inclined his head. “Thank you, though I’m not sure it will prove an enjoyable visit.
” Already, he detested it here and had since he’d returned from Thornton Hall in West Berkshire before the Christmastide season began.
Now, snow kept him here… as well as the knowledge that his errant wife was causing scandal and trailing gossip in her wake.
Apparently.
Eggleton huffed. “Why?”
He stabbed an index finger at the missive that had just been delivered to him at the club from the butler at Benningfield House in Mayfair.
“It seems my wife is gaining far too much notice with her scandalous behavior while in society. If it has reached my butler’s ears and even he has raised an eyebrow at it, then her actions must be quite disturbing.
I can no longer turn a blind eye toward it. ”
One of the other dukes in the room chuckled.
Steppingford downed the remainder of his drink then grinned.
“Did you ever consider the fact that perhaps she’s doing what she is to gain your notice?
” He was a tall man with a barrel chest and graying brown hair but piercing eyes that seemed to look right through a person.
Within the past year, he’d recently married, and rumor held that he was so besotted with his young wife that he vastly preferred being closeted with her over moving through society.
Was it obsession or merely tip-over-tail love for her? Perhaps no one had the right to judge or say.
“Bah.” He waved away the comment, for it was absurd. “Emma doesn’t care if I’m alive or dead. We’ve been apart for nearly two years.”
To be fair, it had been his decision to leave her only a couple of months after they’d married, a month after he’d returned from war when his commission had expired.
God, that day seemed a thousand years ago.
He’d been so damned grateful not to be fighting, not to have to endure adverse conditions in Spain, not to miss her after so long.
They had met four years before their wedding date at a ball.
He’d promised one of the patronesses of Almack’s that he would drop by one of the events being thrown there, for there was more interest when members of the military were in attendance as well as an unattached duke.
At the time, he had no interest in finding a romance, being matched, or even contemplating the possibility of taking a mistress.
All his concentration had been centered on his upcoming stint with the cavalry, but from the moment he glanced across the crowded ballroom, and his gaze had connected with hers, his world had upended.
Immediately, he’d danced one set with her.
Captivated by her clear gray eyes, he’d never wished to leave, but the evening had passed far too quickly.
Daring much, and fully knowing what society would say afterward, he’d danced a waltz with her even though they were considered quite scandalous at the time.
By the time the ball concluded, he’d asked for her hand or at least her promise, which she gave readily and kissed him behind a grouping of potted ferns as most of the guests were leaving the ballroom. His heart was not his own following that night.
While he’d been away fighting in the war, he and Emma had written letters, and there had been many times when news from home, no matter how dull, had saved his sanity.
She’d had a knack for writing, for making each letter contain a slice of life glimpsed through her unique point of view that took him away from reality for a time.
And then there had been other missives where she’d tell him about herself, where she indicated how much she looked forward to him coming home so they could start their lives together, and how much she wanted to marry him…
as well as do very naughty things to him.
There had been no time for that since he left London the day after the ball, the day after becoming engaged after mere hours with her.
Of course, he’d written back, patiently answering every one of her questions, telling her about himself, about what he saw on a daily basis while away.
Only twice was he able to see her while on the march, once every other year as it happened. Others would say it was torture, but for him, he’d fallen in love with her lock, stock, and barrel through her letters, so that one night at the ball hadn’t been a fluke.
But everything changed two weeks before he was due to come home.
Eggleton cleared his throat. The sound wrenched Cecil from his thoughts. “Not to pry or prod, but I rather think Steppingford is correct. The duchess is not so subtly crying out for your attention. I mean, you aren’t residing beneath the same roof. She needed to grow creative.”
Cecil snorted, for that was also correct.
Since he’d come back to London, he didn’t wish to live at the townhouse, not with her, so he’d taken a room at the club.
The space was cramped and at times the noise from other rooms on that floor where courtesans entertained club members grew excessive, but what was he to do?
This time it was the “Duke” of Nottingham who responded. His red hair gleamed like molten lava in the candlelight. He was one of the club members who had been able to pick out the name for his honorary title with the caveat from Eggleton that it be one from literature.
“Let’s suppose for one moment that the duchess isn’t hoping for Thornton’s attention.”
Eggleton nodded. “Then what is she doing?”
Nottingham shrugged. “Perhaps she has grown tired of waiting for her husband to remember she exists and has chosen to live life on her own terms.”
“That’s even worse,” Cecil grumbled as he peered into the depths of his brandy glass.
“Ha!” Steppingford moved his chair closer to Cecil’s then leaned forward and rested his forearms on his knees with his hands dangling between them, his empty glass in one hand.
“Look, Thornton, I understand your thinking to a point, but you can’t have both sides of the coin.
However, from what I saw of your wife the last time we met, she still retains her looks and is quite striking.
There are many men in the ton who wouldn’t hesitate to take her into their beds or crawl into hers if she’s asking. ”
A wave of jealousy rose in his chest even as he internally fought against it. “Yet she is married to me.”
“Indeed.” One of Steppingford’s salt-and-pepper eyebrows rose in challenge. “You had only been married two months before you decided she wasn’t worth the cost of the paper or the ink on the marriage certificate. How is she supposed to act?”
“That’s not true at all.”
As hot annoyance continued to circle through his insides, Cecil thought back to the weeks before his commission expired.
They’d been in the midst of a battle. The damned French had numbers and determination on their side while the English, though they’d joined forces with Spanish troops, had suffered horrific losses.
He’d attained the rank of captain during his stint, and it was his responsibility to lead his men in the best way possible as well as to protect them as best he could.
After he’d mounted his horse, he gave his men a string of encouraging words.
Two minutes later, they’d surged forward in readiness to meet the enemy.
That was when cannon fire erupted, from seemingly all sides.
Chaos reigned. His horse fell beneath him.
Through the screams and cries as well as the thick, acrid smoke, he slowly came to realize that he’d been injured.
The extent of those injuries hadn’t dawned on him until much later that morning, for he’d dragged men to safety and kept up with others as the charge forward continued.
It was only after he’d grown annoyed at having to wipe blood from his eye and the fact the left side of his body wouldn’t obey his brain’s commands at times that he let a field doctor examine him.
Such news hadn’t been ideal. He suffered burns plus embedded shrapnel from the cannon ball’s explosion into their supply wagon and cannon that he was given a horrible diagnosis.
Some of the shrapnel could be removed but some couldn’t.
What was more, there would be scarring both from that as well as the burns, and the sight in his left eye may or not have been affected.
He would always walk with the assistance of a cane, and he would forever be marked from that day.
None of the accolades or medals of merit could make up for the fact that he returned home to London a monster, not a whole man, someone that others stared at when they encountered him on the street.
Yet he was to marry Emma, and the dear woman had said his appearance didn’t matter because his heart—his spirit—was pristine.
Though he’d believed her at the time, it soon became apparent that it was a lie… or at least that was what his mind had tricked him to believe. Sanity was often missing beneath the nightmares, day terrors, and phantom sounds or pain.