CHAPTER TWO
Oliver Barnes, the Duke of Weston, West to his best friend, against his better judgment, climbed the outside stairs to the Earl and Countess of Barrington’s townhome for the first ball of the Season.
Damn his friend, Robert Harris, the Earl of Hudson, for insisting he meet him here.
It was time for him to attend social events again.
It had been almost a year since he’d buried his third wife.
Yes, his third, and he was only thirty-five.
Life had been cruel to the women he’d married.
Enough that he wondered which lady would want to become his fourth wife.
After greeting his hosts, the Master of Ceremonies announced him, “The Duke of Barrington,” in a deep, booming voice that drew every eye in the large ballroom to him. His skin crawled. Really, he’d swear there were bugs slithering up and down his skin.
Then he heard the whispers: “It’s the Duke of Doom.”
Hudson had warned him he would be referred to as the Duke of Doom, but he hadn’t wanted to believe him.
Since when were the members of the ton rude to a duke?
What was society coming to? Dukes were used to commanding loyalty, friendship, and obedience.
Their word was never questioned by anyone of lesser rank.
Now his peers were making fun of the fact that he had buried three wives.
How rude and heartless. He may not have had a great love for any of them, but he respected, admired, and cared for each of them in his own way.
He mourned them deeply. Even his second wife, who ran away with her lover and perished that very night, along with said lover, in a tragic carriage accident.
It didn’t matter that he wasn’t responsible for any of their deaths; he was still to be called the Duke of Doom. Well, he would make light of it. It was the only way he could survive this foray back into Society as he sought his fourth duchess.
“What an entrance, West,” Hudson said, sneaking up behind him. “I tried to warn you.”
“Indeed, you did. I just couldn’t imagine members of the ton stooping so low as to insult a duke. And not just any duke—me.”
“It’s all in jest.”
“That’s a bloody lie, and you know it,” Oliver scoffed.
“Please try to find it in your heart to forgive the bloody arses of the members of the aristocracy.”
“Would you?” he asked, one eyebrow raised.
It was a look he’d perfected at the tender age of sixteen.
People used to shake in their boots when he gave it.
How the mighty had fallen. His shoulders sagged, and he sighed.
“Don’t answer. I don’t blame them. It’s true.
Every young lady I marry is doomed to die.
I’m afraid to marry again. Yet I need an heir, or the line ends with me.
I can hear my father cursing like a naval sailor from the grave. ”
Hudson put his hand to his ear. “I think I can hear him.”
Oliver elbowed him in the side. “Stop that.”
Hudson’s hand that was once at his ear was now rubbing his side. “Your elbows are bony.”
“Aren’t they all?” Oliver chuckled. “So tell me who the most sought-after young ladies are.”
Hudson choked on the wine he had just taken from a passing waiter and was sipping. “I think you should stick to the wallflowers.”
“Why the wallflowers?”
“You’ll find out soon enough. Come, let’s sign some dance cards. That group of debutantes looking this way is a good place to start.”
“Ah, you’re forgetting one thing—we need introductions.”
“Hell,” Hudson said as he hurried off and returned with the Master of Ceremonies. “The duke and I would like an introduction to those three young ladies over there.” His friend pointed.
Oliver tried not to feel insulted as the man looked at him with pity and shook his head. “Come this way, Your Grace, my lord.”
They were presented to Lady Sophia Linfield, Lady Betsey Trubridge, and Miss Frances Smythe.
All three ladies blushed. Oliver wrote his name on Lady Sophia’s dance card for a waltz.
Hudson scribbled his name on all three dance cards.
He was always one to outdo everyone else.
It amazed Oliver that they were friends, since they were complete opposites.
Perhaps that was why their friendship worked.
When it came time for Oliver to collect the lovely Lady Sophia for his waltz, her mother intervened, explaining it was a misunderstanding. A Lord Cheville was scheduled for the waltz.
Every time he tried to speak to or dance with a young lady, the mother, father, or brother would intercede.
Several wallflowers he approached even snubbed him.
Being treated as a pariah was wearing on his nerves and self-esteem.
Yes, he needed a wife, but he would go about it at another time.
A dull ache was forming behind his eyes, and he sought peace and something strong to drink.
He found Hudson. “I’m leaving. I’ll be at White’s if you want to join me for a nightcap. ”
“Perhaps,” he said, frowning. “Forgive all the idiots here tonight, West. They mean you no harm.”
“Right.” Oliver thanked the Earl and Countess, and just as he had the exit to the ballroom in sight, he was stopped.
“Your Grace,” said the elderly widow, Lady Dorchester, a friend of his late grandmother. “Leaving so soon?”
He bowed. “Lady Dorchester, how lovely to see you.” He tried to hide his dismay at the cruel treatment he had endured tonight, but he feared he failed, his frown betraying him. “One knows when one is persona non grata.” He winced. “Forgive me.”
“No need. I’m shocked by how you were treated. Don’t give up. Your duchess is somewhere in the ton.”
“Thank you,” he said, bowing again. “I bid you goodnight.”
The footman handed him his overcoat, hat, and gloves. He donned them and made his way outside to his carriage, which was nearby. “Take me to White’s, Hebert.”
“Yes, Your Grace,” Hebert, his driver, replied.
Once inside his luxurious town coach, which he had commissioned from Barker & Company when he married his second wife, he leaned against the squabs and sighed deeply, letting out the night’s tension.
Or at least some of it. He didn’t think he’d ever relax completely.
He glared at the interior of the large coach, wondering why on earth he’d purchased it.
When he’d commissioned it, he’d envisioned it filled with his wife and children.
Tonight, the emptiness mocked him, much as the occupants of the ball had.
He wasn’t one for self-pity or melancholy, but bloody hell, he deserved some good and happiness in his life.
Tomorrow, he would come up with a definitive plan for finding a suitable wife.
Tonight, he’d drown his anguish in some fine whisky.
By the time his coach stopped and his liveried footman opened the door, he felt lighter on his feet.
The sweltering, sweaty crush of the ballroom was far behind him in memory as he stepped into White’s.
The back of the room was his preference whenever he visited, so he headed in that direction and took one of four chairs around a low table near the blazing hearth.
Once he rested his weary bones in the comfortable chair, he raised his hand, signaling a waiter. “Whisky, and leave the bottle.”
“Yes, Your Grace.”
Moments later, the waiter poured him a glass of whisky and set both on the table. “Is there anything else, Your Grace?”
“No.”
The waiter bowed and left him to his whisky and thoughts.
He relished the whisky as it went down nice and smooth with a subtle burn, but not his thoughts.
He poured himself another, leaned back in the chair, crossed one leg over the other, and perused the room as he sipped his drink.
White’s was moderately crowded, and here he had thought everyone was attending the Barrington ball.
He recognized Lord Whitley, who had two daughters of marriageable age.
Perhaps he would approach him or call upon him. Maybe, maybe not.
As he nursed his second glass of whisky, two young bucks, Mr. Cambridge and Viscount Meyers, recently out of university, approached. “Do you mind if we join you?” Meyers asked.
“Be my guest,” he said, using his drink to indicate the empty chairs. Once they sat, they waved over the same waiter. Oliver said, “Bring two glasses. The drinks are on me.”
“Thank you, Your Grace,” both men said.
“So, why are you fine gentlemen not at the Barrington Ball?”
Mr. Cambridge coughed into his hand, trying not to laugh. “We are not actively seeking brides. You must know that when a single gentleman attends such a social function, it goes without saying that he is seeking a bride.” He cleared his throat and looked at the viscount. “And we are not.”
“I didn’t think so. I just thought I’d ask.”
“May I ask you a question, Your Grace?” the viscount asked.
“Go on.”
“What do you think of being called the Duke of Doom? It is rather rude, in my opinion.”
What a bold young rake. “I understand it. I did bury three wives.” The whisky was churning in his stomach, making him deuced uncomfortable.
“Have you ever been to the Lyon’s Den?” Cambridge asked in a quiet voice.
“Never heard of it. Should I have?”
“Obviously you don’t gamble,” Cambridge added. “The owner, Mrs. Dove-Lyon, runs the gambling hell. You should go.”
“Why on earth would I go there?”
“Because,” Meyers added, “she is secretly a matchmaker among the ton.”
“How do you know this?”
Cambridge shook his head. “My brother, Richard, lost his lower arm in the war. He gambled away a large sum at the Lyon’s Den and was summoned to the office of the Black Widow of Whitehall.
That’s what they call Mrs. Dove-Lyon. Not to her face, of course.
From what I hear, she wears widow’s weeds, a black veil, and is frightening to say the least. She makes grown men piss their breeches. ”
“Piss their . . .”
“Not you. She won’t scare you,” Cambridge said. “Anyway, to make up for Richard’s losses, he agreed to be paired with someone of her choosing. You see, ladies of the ton with dubious pasts and ruined reputations pay her to find them suitable husbands.”
“And your brother was suitable?”
“He is a war hero. Losing an arm doesn’t make him unsuitable, at least to some people. He also has five thousand pounds annually. Our father is a very wealthy man.”
“Yes, I know that,” Oliver said. “Did they marry, and who was the lady?”
“The Marques of Haverhill’s youngest daughter.”
“Ahh, I remember the scandal. Caught in the arms of a married earl.”
“Yes, well, don’t believe the gossip rags. He forced himself on her when she tried to escape into a library to ease her aching head at a musicale.”
“I see. Are your brother and the lady married?”
“Yes. Married for almost a year and living in the country, happy as can be with a babe on the way,” Cambridge said, smiling.
“Why are you telling me all this?”
“You need to go to Mrs. Dove-Lyon so she can match you with a single lady.”
Thank goodness he wasn’t in the middle of taking a sip from his glass. He would’ve spewed it all over himself. “I’ll consider it.” He set his glass on the table and stood. “Goodnight.”
As he made his way toward the exit, the Earl of Greenwich waved at him. Oliver looked around to be certain he was trying to attract his attention and not someone else’s, but when he said, “Duke, a word,” his jaw tightened as he went his way.
“Greenwich.”
“Duke,” the earl said, his face flushed and his eyes glassy. Someone was well into his cups. “I’ll be out of town for a few days, but I want to invite you to tea next Tuesday. In case you don’t know, I have three daughters of marriageable age.”
“I didn’t know. I just came from the Barrington ball. Were they in attendance?”
“No. One of my daughters was unwell.”
Oliver couldn’t believe the earl was inviting him into his home and introducing him to his three daughters. Would they have heard the rumors? What about the countess? He couldn’t imagine she would want him paying homage to one of her daughters.
“Will you come?” Even in his cups, he looked excited at the prospect of his visit.
“Yes. I will be there. Goodnight to you.” He turned and hurried to the exit before someone else stopped him, with a lighter heart than when he’d arrived an hour ago.