The Duke of Mayhem (Rakes and Roses #3)

Chapter 1

Dowager Countess Lydia Montrose’s Estate

“Here you go, my dear.”

With pleasure, Cecilia took the glass of champagne from her husband-to-be and took a sip. “Thank you.”

As she looked around the ballroom, she caught the faces of various ladies giving her the eye. Blithely, she ignored them.

It was to be expected when she was to marry one of the most eligible bachelors of the Ton.

At eight and twenty, Gabriel Whitmore, Duke Rutherford, was tall and breathtakingly elegant, a study in elegance from the top of his head to the champagne shine of his boots.

There was not one blemish to his name; the man treated every lady with respect, he had no affairs, and donated to charity every year.

He was perfect.

They had just finished a spirited Vienna waltz, and while they rested for the next dance, Cecilia used her thumb to nervously twirl the ring on her finger.

“Gabriel, how far are we on the wedding?” she asked quietly. “We haven’t spoken about this in over a month.”

His jaw tightened a bit, but when he spoke, his voice was calm, nonchalant even. “There is no rush, my dear. People have been engaged for longer than we have.”

It’s been nearly two years, and with how we started on so strongly, people are starting to talk.

“Would you like to take a turn through Hyde Park later this week?” She pressed. “We have not had an outing in over a month, too.”

“I’ll arrange something,” Gabriel murmured, his tone dismissive. What irked her, too, was that while he spoke with her, his gaze was trained on something—possibly someone—over her head.

Was it that hard to pay an ounce of attention to her?

“Gabriel, please—”

“I am terribly sorry, dear, but please excuse me.” His voice was flippant and even held a hint of contempt. It felt like he could not wait to get away from her. “I need to speak with someone.” He took her hand, swiftly kissing the back of it before he walked off.

Cecilia gave herself a minute to look at the broad span of the gold of his waistcoat, fashioned to mimic Alexander the Great’s golden breastplate.

It was fitting for the lady’s masquerade party, but there was nothing noble about his dismissive treatment of her. Glumly, she retreated to the seating area and joined her friends.

“That is not an expression I’d expect to see from a lady who just had a romantic dance with the love of her life,” Miss Rosalind Winston, or Rosie for those close to her, Cecilia’s bosom friend, said.

“I—” she sighed. “I do not know what to do. When I speak, it seems like it is going through one of his ears and out the other: It’s as if he’s just… absent.

“A far cry from the man who would send me a bouquet of flowers every day and would call twice a week when we were first engaged,” Cecilia groused. “He hasn’t called in the last month and—”

“A month!” Emma gasped in horror. “Why didn’t you tell us?”

“I…” she blew out a breath. “I did not think too much of it, you know. Dukes are men with constant business after all. But when he had not sent any flowers or cards, no invitations to take a drive, or to the opera. Not even luncheon, I felt confused and ashamed.”

“Don’t fret,” Rosie cautioned. “We can find a way to solve this. Surely, one of the many novels we’ve read has an answer to this.”

Gabriel’s bright golden hair was a beacon, and Cecilia followed it as he went to speak with some of his gentlemen friends. Friends, she belatedly realized he had never introduced her to.

Looking at the ring on her finger, a magnificent diamond, she wanted to smile—but it fell flat.

It was hard not to feel snubbed, and little by little, her hopes of one day becoming Lady Cecilia Whitmore were extinguishing.

The whole of the ton had been in agreement that the match between her and Gabriel was the love story of the season.

Those present on the night of her debut swore that the moment their eyes had met across the room, every guest there had fallen silent as though sensing that the epic meeting of two perfect souls had just occurred.

It does not seem so now, does it…

All her life, she had done everything right—excelled in school, had no missteps, no scandals, not even whispers, and when Gabriel had offered her marriage, she’d been elated—so why is she still waiting for her marriage two years in?

“Cecilia?”

“Hm?”

“Could there be a way for you to force him to pay attention to you?”

“Like what?” Cecilia asked dourly. “I doubt I’d get his attention if I suddenly rode into the dancefloor on an elephant’s back while juggling apples while balancing a teacup and saucer on my nose.”

“Oh! I know,” Emma practically bounced in her seat. “We can send a note to him, by a footman, to ask him to meet you in the library upstairs.”

Cecilia listened with half an ear.

“Now, he’s dancing with Ophelia Hawthorne,” Cecilia nodded. “This year’s diamond-of-the-first-water. I—I wish I could understand the male mind.”

“Good lord, not tonight,” Rosie muttered. “I wish the good lady would not invite such riff-raff to such genteel events.”

“What do you mean—” Following her friend’s line of sight, Cecilia muttered, “Oh.”

Instantly, her heart walloped in her chest, moments before ire sparked in her veins. There was one secret Cecilia held dear to her heart, one that would never leave her lips.

Two years and three months earlier, the very night of her debut, before she had met Gabriel, she ran—quite literally—into Cassian Fitzroy.

“Easy there,” he’d said, steadying her from toppling. “Where is the fire?”

He’d looked so lean and powerful in somber grey; mesmerized by the intensity of his slate grey eyes, she’d whispered, “Thank you… um, who are you?”

His slow, self-deprecating smile devastated her senses. “My manners aren’t usually this shoddy. Forgive me, Cassian Fitzroy, newly minted Duke of Tressingham, at your service.”

A silly little infatuation had birthed in her na?ve chest that night, and even when she’d learned that he was one of the worst rakehells in London—it still happened.

Emma whispered, “His Grace is here.”

“You mean his scapegrace,” Cecilia said sourly.

Reaching over, Rosie patted Cecilia’s free hand, “Dearest, it is about time you let that incident go.”

She dropped her bread on a platter and wiped her hands. “Let it go? The man humiliated me and then jabbed salt into the open wound.”

“Yes, dear, we know,” Rosie monotoned. “We were there.”

Pushing the horrible memory to the back of her mind, she tried to train her thoughts back to the issue with Gabriel. She did not know what to do as there was no way she could force Gabriel down the aisle, but even worse, this new dismissive attitude from Gabriel rubbed her wrong.

Is this my fault? Have I done something wrong?

“Duke Tressingham is handsome,” Rosie sighed, while flapping her fan. “It is such a shame he is a rakehell.”

While refreshing her cup, Cecilia had to—silently—agree. Despite his erroneous character, the lord was Narcissus reincarnated.

With a lean face, the hollows of which highlighted his sculpted cheekbones and granite jaw, he always wore his inky black hair a bit long, brushing his shoulders instead of cropped like a true man of the ton wore theirs.

His eyes, though… his eyes were spellbinding, like ethereal smoke caught in a glass.

Cassian Fitzroy was the god of wine personified, his hair wild and tousled, as if he had just rolled out of bed. Knowing his reputation, he quite possibly had. He was holding a comically large goblet in his hand while the wreath of grape leaves tilted on his head as he laughed.

Between a rakehell I cannot stand and my fiancé who seems to not want to stand with me… I don’t know what to do. I feel stifled.

“If you’ll excuse me, I need a breath of fresh air,” she said to her friends while she stood and brushed her skirts down. The bodice, constructed of white and silver satin, had a wide V-neck gown that almost left her shoulders bare.

The gown fitted tightly to her torso, then cascaded into full skirts covered in shimmering white feathers that, when she moved, made her look the most gracious swan.

Fixing her mask, a creation of lacework and seed pearl, Cecilia took a passing look in the mirror. Her blonde hair was pinned away; the carefully plucked tendrils cascaded down her temples, while her dress was the ace of perfection.

As she circuited a path around the dance floor, she thought—not for the first time—that the night’s endeavor was rather pointless.

The night air was cool, and this far in the countryside carried the smell of forestry and the nearby river. So far from the clustered houses in Mayfair or Grosvenor Square, she was able to breathe freely, which calmed her inner restlessness.

A few minutes of respite before she opened the glass door once more and heard the roar of a ball ahead of her. Maybe she should try to talk with Gabriel once more and get him to understand her anxiety.

“If he does not give me a fitting answer, I’ll count this night as a loss and go home,” she squared her shoulders and stepped back into the ballroom.

Spying Gabriel, she headed there only to get intercepted by a passing Duke Tressingham, who stepped directly into her path.

Lifting his goblet to her, he asked, “What, my dear Lady Disdain! Are you yet living?”

Her heart beat a rapid staccato at Cassian’s voice, but she kept her eyes on Gabriel. By rule of habit, she turned and curtsied to him but kept her voice sharp.

“Disdain shall not die while there is much food to feed it, Signor Nuisance, oh pardon me, I mean, Your Grace.”

He slapped a hand over his heart; his hurt expression was comical. “Oh, such a dagger to my soul. How ever shall I recover?”

“Jump out of another paramour’s window,” she slid an eye to him. “Breaking a bone might divert the pain.”

His lips flickered. “I have no idea what you are referring to.”

“Of course you don’t,” she said dryly. “And the Sahara desert is full of flavored ices.”

He tapped a finger on his chin. “You know, that might be the destination for my next travel. Shall I send you some strawberries?”

“No, thank you. It is probably laced with belladonna,” she muttered. “Now, please excuse me, I need to speak with my husband-to-be.”

He looked over his shoulder, “It seems he is occupied—” Cassian returned to her, his brows lowered over his mesmerizing eyes. “In the interim, would you like to dance with me?”

She gaped at him, “Are you mad?”

He cocked his head, “Possibly. I do not think there is a word for my condition.”

“I have many,” Cecilia put in. “Reckless, wild, madcap, rakehell, wanton, licentious, self-absorbed, brazen, lush, aimless, vagrant—”

His left brow lifted. “Do you think of me that much, my dear?”

“I am not your dear,” she spat.

Cassian looked to Gabriel once more as he bowed over Molly Attenborough’s hand. “From where I stand, it does not seem as if you are his either. Otherwise, you would be there and not here.”

That stung.

“Goodbye, Lord Jester,” she snapped.

“How long has it been?” His words stopped her. “Two years now since he proposed?”

“Sixteen months… and two and a half weeks,” she said stiffly while refraining from twisting the engagement ring on her finger. “Not that it is any of your business anyhow. And no, I will not dance with you. Not now, not ever.”

He turned his head to view the dancefloor, and Cecilia absently marked the cut of his jaw over the knot of his toga. “You do know that night was simply a jest.”

“You said I had stepped on your foot and pranced around with a limp all night.” The heat of that shame ran through her again. “You even wore crutches to the next ball!” she accused him.

He raked a hand through his hair. “I thought it was funny.”

She stiffened, “It was not to me.”

“I’ve apologized countless times.”

“The ton called me Club Foot Cecilia for months,” she hissed.

“Do you want me to write my apology in the sky?” Cassian asked.

“Yes,” she said firmly while dipping out another curtsy and moving off. “And fetch me a hunk of cheese from the moon to go with my supper, too.”

As she walked away, she felt his hot gaze shiver over the back of her neck, his gaze as piercing as a scalpel. Bereft, she went to join Emma and Rosie at the sidelines and sank to a chair with a huff. She was on the verge of crying.

She dimly reacted when Rosie gestured for a footman to come to them and startled when he handed her a glass of champagne. “Your Grace,” he bowed.

That cut even deeper.

“I’m not a duchess,” she snapped.

“My apologies, my lady,” the footman bowed lower.

Emma piped up again. “What do you think about my suggestion, to send His Grace the note to meet you?”

Rubbing her eyes, Cecilia nodded, “We can do that. At this point, I do not see what else can go wrong.”