The Duke’s Unexpected Family (The Wicked Dukes Society #3)

Chapter 1

One

“Is that the Duke of Westvale?”

“It can’t be…”

“It is. The scar on his face… it must be him.”

“What is he doing here?”

“I thought he died…”

“I heard the king ordered him never to leave his estate…”

“And for good reason. I mean, look at him…”

The not-so-subtle whispers hounded His Grace, Ronan Ward, the Duke of Westvale, as he skulked into the grand ballroom.

This was the first time he had been seen in a public setting like this for close to ten years.

They came from everywhere, seemingly all sets of tongues wagging and all eyes turning to watch him as if a ghost was emerging before their very eyes.

And if not a ghost, a demon. I am half tempted to snarl and snap at them, confirming the rumors because their minds are already made up. At least doing so will keep them from approaching me.

It was the Winthrope Ball that Ronan was attending.

An offer had been extended by its host, and had been accepted by him not because he was struck by a sudden yearning to socialize and engage with his fellow lords, but because he’d had no choice.

Times were not what they once were, and even a man as stubborn as Ronan was forced to compromise when he would have very much preferred to stay at home.

He walked with his shoulders hunched, a sneer on his lips as he moved through the crowds, all of which parted for him as if on instinct, as if to get too close might see danger fall upon their shoulders.

But while they were happy to give him space and avoid his gait, they were just as happy to stare and mutter beneath their breaths. Such was his reception that Ronan was certain a few ladies even cried out as if from shock.

None of this bothered Ronan. In fact, he preferred it. When Lady Winthrope extended him the invitation for tonight’s affair, Ronan’s only goal was to be seen. A goal well achieved, in his estimation.

To remind my peers that I do indeed exist. That despite what might be said of the Westvale name, it has not died an ignominious death and it will not be forgotten.

So it was that he moved through the ballroom like a ghoul, sticking to the edges and happy to be avoided by the women dressed in their colorful gowns and the men decked out in their smart suits. People watched him. People spoke behind hands. But none dared to get too near…

Or rather, that was the case, until Ronan spied through the masses a smiling face and sparkling eyes of joy, fixed upon him as their owner laughed in a way that most would not dare to do in his presence.

“If I did not see it with my own eyes…” His Grace, Alaric Wolfe, the Duke of Ravencourt, beamed as he emerged from the crowd. “I dare say I would not have believed it.”

“Alaric,” Ronan grunted in greeting. “Try not to look so darn pleased with yourself.”

“Is that how I look?” Alaric reached Ronan and extended an arm to shake, which Ronan eyed with a raised eyebrow but did not move to take.

Alaric was unbothered by the refusal. “When you told me you were attending tonight, I thought you were playing games. Not something you are known to do, but I suppose that was what made it so intriguing.”

“You know why I am here,” Ronan snapped. “Let’s not make a whole thing of it.”

“I do…” Alaric’s smile was broad as he looked Ronan over. “Although it looks to my eyes that you misread the night entirely. Did you think it was a funeral? Or are you merely hoping that someone dies and it becomes so?”

Ronan had few friends in this world. Three, in fact, which was more than he’d thought possible for a man like himself. It was more than he’d ever wanted, but he’d found them for himself because, once upon a time, those same three men existed in this world much like he did. That being, on its edges.

Alaric, the Duke of Ravencourt, was one of them.

Not so long ago, Alaric had been a most moody and somber character, known as the Devil of Ravencourt to those of the ton.

It was little wonder that he and Ronan got along as they did.

But times had changed, and Alaric had changed with them.

Although he’d spent years denouncing companionship as if it was poison, he had fallen in love, got married, and now lived in a state of perpetual bliss. Or, that was the way he told it.

“I see you have managed to pry yourself away from your wife,” Ronan said with a derisive scoff. “Has she finally gotten sick of you?”

“Not yet, I’m afraid,” Alaric chuckled. He was a tall and imposing sort, dark features, once possessed of cold eyes that gave nothing away, now constantly smiling. He used them to effect, turning and searching the ballroom. “She is… somewhere. And she is positively eager to see you.”

“I doubt it.”

“With an attitude like that…” Alaric looked Ronan over again. “Nice suit, by the way. Black always was your color.”

“Matches my soul,” Ronan muttered.

Alaric laughed. “And your sense of humor.”

Indeed, Ronan was dressed entirely in black, as he always was.

His hair was dark auburn, messy and untamed because he did not see the point in combing it.

His eyes were light green, clashing terribly with the scowl he always tried to wear.

He was tall and thick of body, lumbering in his movements, and purposefully powerful in his gait; he liked that people seemed to sense him coming, giving them time to flee.

Ultimately, none of this mattered much, as what most saw—and then remembered when first meeting him—was the deep scar which ran along his jawline and toward his neck. It was no wonder people stared.

“I suppose Sebastian and Cassian are here?” Ronan asked.

“They are.”

Ronan exhaled sharply. “And I suppose they are just as surprised to see me.”

“I would say so—but forgive them if they don’t trip over themselves to come and see you.

Not only is your company tragic these days, but they are both rather busy.

” Alaric frowned at his friend, a sense of worry now painting his visage.

“That’s what happens when you vanish without word.

Those once considered to be close friends tend to forget you exist.”

Ronan snorted. “They have better things to do than waste time wondering about me. Marriage will do that.”

Alaric smirked at him. “Spoken like an expert.”

To that, Ronan scoffed, not liking the implication.

Sebastian and Cassian were Ronan’s other two friends, both also dukes, both also once scourges of decent society. And just like Alaric, they too had done as they promised they would not; fallen in love and married.

Ronan was thus the last of the four; a group once referred to as the Wicked Dukes’ Society, since disbanded because there was nothing wicked about them anymore.

At least, not as far as Ronan could tell.

He was the last and only member; a state of being that had no chance of changing.

But that was just because he did not want it to.

He lived apart from society for good reason. He spurned love and companionship, and he would die alone… perhaps not for a good reason, but the right reason. And that will have to be enough.

“So, what is the plan tonight?” Alaric started. As he did, he indicated to a waiter carrying a tray of drinks. “Or am I looking at it?”

The waiter arrived and Alaric scooped up a cup filled with sparkling red wine. The waiter offered it to Ronan, who waved it away. Tonight was not a night to drink. He needed to be in control.

“Indeed you are.” Ronan’s eyes roamed the busy ballroom, relieved to see that the shock of his presence had since died down and the scores of guests were happy to do as they always had done. Pretend he did not exist. “Another hour or so, at the most. Sooner, I hope.”

Alaric sighed. “You know, when you told me you were coming tonight, I thought…” A shake of the head, worry still coloring his expression. “I thought that finally you were ready to—”

“I’m not.”

“—step out from under the rock and start living again. There’s a beautiful world out there, Ronan. Filled with beautiful people. I just wish you’d give it a chance.”

Ronan fixed his friend with a scathing side-eye. “What happened to you, Alaric? The Devil of Ravencourt turned into a dove.”

“Me?” Alaric’s smile grew and his eyes sparkled. “Simple. I fell in love.”

“Sounds painful,” Ronan scoffed. “Besides, as things stand this Season, as wretched as it is to admit to myself, this won’t be the last time you see me. Sorry to say.”

“Oh?”

“My reputation isn’t what it once was—”

“Hard to imagine why.”

“—and I need to reaffirm its name and status,” Ronan said, ignoring the jibe.

“My tenants are rebelling for better leases. Lenders are starting to treat me as if I am one to be bullied. Some people even assume that I have died and are taking advantage of the fact. This right here…” He curled his lips at the ballroom. “It is a reminder.”

“Of…”

“That the Duke of Westvale is still very much a power to be respected…” He gave the slightest of smirks. “And feared.”

“Lovely,” Alaric said, taking a swig of wine.

Ronan would have liked to have been anywhere else tonight, and he was not looking forward to a Season spent doing what he was doing right now.

But he resigned himself to the knowledge that it was just for a Season, and come its end, he would return to his estate, close and lock the doors, and get back to doing as he did best. Living his life alone.

Easy to do, he thought to himself, as being here tonight reminded him well enough of why he spurned the ton in the first place.

It was all so fake to his eyes. So put-on.

Beyond the extravagant colors. Behind the decadence.

Past the make-up that painted lady’s faces and the expensive suits worn by their partners, each person he saw was exactly the same.

Empty vessels who existed solely to pretend they were important and exaggerate their worth.

There was not a one among them on whom he would waste his time…

Or so he thought.

Ronan did not mean for it to happen. In fact, until the moment it did, he would not have imagined such a thing was possible. But, as his eyes scanned the crowds, they fell upon a single figure who walked among them in a way not dissimilar to how he did. One of them… but somehow also apart.

She was petite and unassuming. Chestnut hair worn in ringlets, a pretty face with sharp lines and hard edges, but somehow also soft and subtle.

Her gown was not colorful. It was a simple faded blue without the usual opulence, and she wore no jewelry that he could see.

But she was confident and assured, walking with purpose without appearing needy. Elegant, perhaps, but not snooty.

More appealing still, as she moved, he noticed that those nearby eyed her with a sense of scorn and distrust. And more appealing still, she did not seem to care.

Alaric was speaking to him, but he did not hear what was said.

Despite everything Ronan knew of himself, in that moment, he became utterly transfixed. He watched the lonely woman walk across the ball, head held high, a dismissive smirk on her lips as she ignored those who frowned and shook their heads.

Who is she… and why can’t I look away…

Ronan planned on leaving tonight’s ball as soon as he was able.

Right now would have been preferable. But, as he watched the woman walk toward the outside garden to escape the throng of guests, he wondered for the first time in ten years what it might be like to not hide away as if the world did not exist.

What might it be like to meet a woman like that? A dangerous thought, he knew. But then again, this entire evening was dangerous.