Addicted To A Rascal Duke (Steamy Historical Regency Romance)
Addicted to a Rascal Duke
A Steamy Regency Romance
Scarlett Osborne
Contents
A Thank You Gift
About the Book
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Epilogue
Extended Epilogue
The Viscount Who Seduced Her
About the Book
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Also by Scarlett Osborne
About the Author
A Thank You Gift
Thanks a lot for purchasing my book. It really means a lot to me, because this is the best way to show me your love.
As a Thank You gift I have written a full length novel for you called Seduced by the Brooding Duke. It’s only available to people who have downloaded one of my books and you can get your free copy by tapping this link here.
Once more, thanks a lot for your love and support.
With love and appreciation,
Scarlett Osborne
About the Book
"I've never bowed to anyone, but will gladly live the rest of my life on my knees before you...if you'll be mine."
Obliged to spend the rest of her life with a safe but boring husband, Sophia Appleton is sick of living life on other people’s terms—especially her father’s. Fate finally shows her a better path when she catches the dashing Duke of Bersard's fiery eye…
While assuming his duties as the new Duke of Bersard, Wesley Fifett comes across something unexpected but also disturbing: his father’s will. Forced to take a wife within a year, he keeps it a secret from the ravishing Lady Sophia, who has made a home for herself both in his thoughts and his heart.
But rumor travels fast...
Desperate to keep Lady Sophia from slipping through his fingers, Wesley's trail leads him to a baffling place. Back to the beginning, where it all started. His father's will, that just might be the key to unraveling a ploy that reaches deeper than his own familial roots...
Chapter 1
Lady Sophia Appleton was reading. Or, to be more accurate, she was both reading and hiding.
The large library at her family home in Mayfair was the perfect place to engage in both these activities. It boasted many shelves with nooks inside that allowed one to curl into an armchair and escape from the world for whole hours at a time.
At the moment, it was not the whole world that Sophia was trying to escape from, but rather her father. She knew he wanted to speak to her, and she also knew that whatever he had to say, she would not like it. Because it would be about marriage, and she had never liked any of their conversations about marriage.
Her father, the Duke of Wellingson, a stoic, harsh man who rarely smiled and never laughed, was going to try to convince her to marry someone. He had been doing this for the past two years and had the unfailing ability to choose a gentleman who invariably was the exact opposite of the sort of mate Sophia would choose for herself.
She supposed she partially understood his fixation on the subject. As the only child and heir to the Wellingson fortune, which included properties in Dorset, Essex, Newcastle, and Cheshire, Sophia’s choice of husband was of great importance to the family. If she married well, she would elevate their family’s standing in society to the very highest echelons. If she married poorly, she would sour the family’s good name and attract the censure of the many members of the ton who thought that daughters should only be entitled to small properties and pin money, rather than whole fortunes.
And yet I cannot stand the idea of Papa choosing me a husband.
Looking down at the book nestled in her lap, she knew the reason. Her views on marriage had been formed not by society, but by the volumes that surrounded her in the library. Shakespeare, Austen, Lord Byron, Mary Shelley, Wordsworth—they had all taught her about sweeping love stories, star-crossed lovers, men and women fated to end up together from the first.
Sophia had spent a good part of her life devouring these and a myriad of other stories in everything from novels and serials to poetry. She had been a truly terrible student as a child and had forced no less than five governesses to quit, all of whom complained that she cared not a fig for sums or Latin, but wanted only to read, and quietly, without interruption.
Back then, she was fascinated by fairy tales, and even now, she longed for a happy ending for herself. She wanted to find her own prince, and she was certain that whatever gentleman her father was planning to present her with next would be the very opposite of her imaginings.
Her suspicions were proved correct when, half an hour and three chapters of Persuasion later, her father found her, tucked between the bookcases holding the history and nautical texts. She had chosen those two sets of shelves in the hopes her father would not look for her there, since Sophia had no interest in either subject. But alas, she had been foiled.
“Sophia, dear, put that book down right now and sit up straight,” her father instructed. “You’re practically horizontal on that chair, and it isn’t the least bit becoming. Proper young ladies most certainly do not sit in such a fashion.”
Sophia obediently shut her book, noting the page number before placing it on the floor next to her. She stood up, fixed her now wrinkled skirts, and then sat back down, folding her hands primly in her lap.
“Yes, Papa? Why is it you came looking for me?” she asked, feigning innocence.
Her father rolled his eyes with impatience and huffed. He was a portly man of middling height with a bushy mustache above his lip that always quivered when he was particularly vexed. It was practically vibrating right now as he glared at her.
“I’ve just been to the club, and happened to run into Lord Montrose. You remember him. David, The Earl of Montrose. We went to his ball only a few weeks ago, and you danced with him,” her father said, his voice taking on a lighter, almost joyful tone, as though he was jealous that he himself had not had the opportunity to sweep across the ballroom floor with Lord Montrose’s sweaty palm lingering inches away from his face.
“Yes, Papa. I remember him,” Sophia said, not bothering to hide the bored, disgruntled look on her face. She might have to obey her father, but there was nothing that said she had to look happy doing it.
“Excellent, excellent,” her father said, nodding and fashioning what to him was a wide smile on his face. To everyone else, it was barely above a frown, but then, Sophia suspected her father’s facial muscles had never had time to learn the art of smiling. From what little she knew of his life before he met her mother, he had been a grave, serious boy prone to scowling. Grinning was simply not in his nature.
“Yes, it is excellent, indeed,” Sophia said. She was being truly horrid now, making fun of him, but he didn’t notice. She almost wished he would, and that he would yell at her, scream. But just as her father did not understand happiness, he also did not understand anger. He was the human personification of the color grey, middling in everything: height, shoe size, stature.
“I am sure you will therefore be delighted to know that the Earl has taken a particular interest in you. As you know, he has made it known that this is the Season he intends to find a wife, and I have it on good authority from the gentleman himself that you are the lady he has set his sights on.”
Sophia could feel herself sinking into the chair, any residual joy left over from reading gone as her fate descended upon her. This was the fifth gentleman her father had tried to push her towards, but none of them had been so well placed in society. The Earl of Montrose was a powerful peer and well reputed as being one of the wealthiest men of the ton. Sophia knew she would not be able to refuse him.
My father will not allow it.
Her father was now staring at her intently, waiting for her reaction. She knew she needed to show some excitement or joy. Showing anything else would only result in him leaving the room in a huff and her mother coming in after him to lecture Sophia on the importance of marriage. There would then follow a good half hour in which Sophia’s mother would bemoan having a child who was so strange and contrary, and then Sophia would retire to her room and cry, while wishing desperately that she was of different parentage.
That she was, in fact, a different person entirely. Elizabeth Bennett, perhaps, or maybe Marianne Dashwood. Neither of those characters were remotely as fortunate as Sophia, but really, other than a vast array of books to choose from, how had her parents’ fortune ever benefited her?
Indeed, it seemed to prove only as a hindrance to her.
Turning toward her father, she mustered the bright
est smile she could and said but two syllables, neither of which she meant at all. “Splendid.”
She was rewarded with another almost-smile from her father, who then leaned over and patted her awkwardly on the head, called her a “good girl,” and left, no doubt to go and tell her mother the good news. Sophia slumped down into her chair the moment her father was gone, wishing that all the books in the shelves bordering her on either side would come tumbling down and rend her unconscious.
However, since a large lump on her head and bruises on her body would not benefit her—not if the Earl was coming to call tomorrow, which she was sure he was—she settled for opening her book up again. She lost herself in the words of Austen, imagining that she was Anne Elliot, waiting patiently for her Wentworth.
If only life was like fiction.
Chapter 2
David, Earl of Montrose, bounded up the steps to Halsey House, the home of the Duke of Wellingson and his family when they were in London. It was a large townhouse, but David was gratified to discover, not nearly so large as his. His residence was the biggest in Mayfair, and he wasted no time in reminding everyone of it.
But why shouldn’t I brag?
What good was fortune, favor, and property if one couldn’t flaunt it a bit? Not enough to elicit censure, but just enough to inform everyone in David’s vicinity that he was, indeed, far better than the lot of them.
Of course, he knew he could show no such hubris today. Not when he was trying to impress the Duke and his daughter, Lady Sophia.
David had spotted her at a few balls thus far in the Season. Indeed, he had even danced with her at the last ball, held at his own residence, and had enjoyed himself far more than he had expected.
Though he knew the Duke did all he could to prevent such an occurrence, Lady Sophia’s reputation as a bluestocking was somewhat widespread amongst the ton. Most young ladies called her a “bore,” claiming she never wanted to discuss gowns and gentlemen, but instead insisted on regaling them all with her latest choice of novel. It was distasteful, to be sure, and usually David would have run in the other direction from a chit like that.
However, Lady Sophia was saved by virtue of her station in life, or rather that of her family. Her father was an extremely wealthy man and held sway in Parliament. He was also a sound businessman, having never made a bad investment, and it was well known that while he was a bore, having him as an acquaintance was to a gentleman’s benefit.
And having him as a father-in-law? Well, that would be one more thing that David could brag about to his audience of admirers.
All he had to do was lay on the charm and, hopefully, he and Lady Sophia could be engaged within the month. That would satisfy his mother’s repeated pleas for him to finally settle down and marry. There would be no more, “Oh, dear David, you’re nearly two-and-thirty. It’s high time you found a wife. A lady for the house. I am quite tired of having to do all the organizing and planning for your galas, I do not mind telling you.”
He could feel his shoulders loosening just thinking about sending his mother off to one of the properties up north, in the wilds of Yorkshire, where the screech of her high voice could not reach him.
However, David was prevented from further musings by the sound of the door opening in front of him. Before him stood the house butler, a sour-looking man in his forties who glared down at David like he had just slaughtered a lamb and left the mess on the doorstep.
“Good afternoon, My Lord. How may I help you?” the butler asked, a bored look in his eyes.
“Good afternoon. I’ve come to call on Lady Sophia. She should be expecting me,” he said, giving the butler an exaggerated, affable smile.
The man did not return the grin. Instead, he gave a succinct nod, then held the door open, inviting David inside.
The hall was cold despite the warm glow of the candles in the chandelier above, and it was eerily quiet as David walked further into the house.
“If you will follow me, Her Ladyship is in the drawing room, My Lord,” the butler said. David followed the man and was lead toward a door down the hall and to the right. The butler opened it for him with a swift swing.
“Thank you,” David said, barely restraining himself from sticking his tongue out and crossing his eyes at the butler as the servant bowed his head in deference as David entered the room. For a two-and-thirty-year old, David had rather immature tendencies.
David remembered Lady Sophia as a petite lady with eyes that, the few times she had lifted them to his, were the most peculiar shade of amber brown, like fresh honeycomb.
It was those eyes he first noticed upon entering the drawing room, for they alighted on him and looked, if not exactly fearful, then some emotion that bordered on it.
The rest of her face, while pretty, was turned in a frown that matched the look that David could now see was not fear, but rather reservation, in her eyes.
She is shy, David realized. Extremely so, if the quiver of her lips and the look in her eyes was anything to go by. Perhaps that was why she was always so awkward out in public. Maybe she wasn’t a bluestocking at all, but rather one of those ladies who babbled about any old subject when they found themselves in a crowd. His mother was one such lady, and the prospect of including another such female in his life was enough to fill him with dread.
Still, he needed to be gentlemanly, and so he stepped toward her and offered a deep, graceful bow.
“Lady Sophia. It is so good to see you again. You are looking well,” he said as he straightened back up, noticing a young lady in a maid’s outfit who must be Sophia’s chaperone sitting in the corner. The girl was looking at him with plain fascination, a small, shy smile playing at the corner of her lips. He was gratified to see that at least one person in the room was capable of showing him the due deference his presence deserved.
Indeed, David nearly wished it were the maid, rather than Lady Sophia, that he was having tea with. The maid was beautiful, with dark hair and eyes that held a hint of mischief in them. She was buxom, too—David could see that despite the frumpy nature of her servant’s frock.
She had a foreign, exotic look to her that intrigued David. He preferred his whores to be of similar breed—French, or Spanish if he could find it. The exact opposite to the pale English roses he was forced to dance with every season. English roses exactly like Lady Sophia.
Who was, at the moment, giving him the most awkward, stiff curtsy he had ever seen. She looked like she was made out of wood, like her limbs were about to snap in two. Not a hint of grace about her.
His expectations for their meeting lowered still further, and yet he trudged onward, knowing he could not leave for at least half an hour. It would be rude otherwise.