“Poppycock,” she snapped. “You deserve the kind of happiness I share with Preston. Grand passion, not an empty existence with a near-stranger.”
Bennett gritted his teeth. “No one wants grand passion with Humdrum Tun. Anyway, duty is infinitely more important than love, as my trustees advised—”
“Former trustees. Former. Must I remind you that the splendid soiree I organized back in October was actually your twenty-fifth birthday? When you at last escaped the gilded legal cage? Obviously my ‘happy freedom day’ banner should have been the size of a castle, rather than a mere drawing room wall.”
“Damn it, Judith—”
“Ten years, Bennett,” she flung back, tossing her head so sharply that a lock of brown hair escaped her chignon. They might look alike, but were opposites in temperament. “Ten bloody years those monsters manipulated and punished you, dictated where you went and what you did…all in the guise of managing your finances. I’ll never understand why Papa named them in his will. Ever.”
“Because they were honest men. Upright. Didn’t cheat me out of a single penny.”
“Bah. Those old windbags cheated you out of confidence. Happiness. And now they want to slither back and start again, this time in the guise of helping you find a wife—”
“Enough,” he said firmly.
Judith blamed his predicament on the trustees appointed because he’d inherited as a minor, but the real problem was—and always had been—him. Never would he become the assured and capable duke others expected him to be. He certainly didn’t have a plethora of friends, bulging social calendar, or beautiful mistress. For God’s sake, he was still a virgin.
Thankfully that remained a secret. Everyone assumed that even Humdrum Tun had coaxed or bribed at least one lover into bed; that he knew how it felt to have a woman beneath him, her ragged moans loud in his ear as he thrust deep into her welcoming wet heat. Ha. Truth be told, it was difficult to envisage carnal pleasure outside of a poem or etching. All he could hear in his mind were his trustees telling him such acts were unbecoming of a duke. Shameful. Unseemly. Hell, he didn’t even pleasure himself because he’d been told so often it was wrong.
He just needed to accept he was Humdrum Tun: the greatest ducal disappointment in the history of the realm.
“Bennett,” said his sister, her tone softening, “You’ll find your forever love, I know it. But don’t marry a stranger you feel nothing for. Please. Not when it’s just a few weeks until Christmastide. That would be an affront to God—”
To his great relief, a sharp knock sounded, and a footman peered around the library door. “Beg pardon, Your Grace, but Lord Fletcher is here about the horse race.”
“Send him in,” said Bennett. “Do excuse me, Judith, but I am shortly to receive a winner’s purse.”
“Bite the guineas,” she replied. “They are from that unspeakable wretch Flatulence, after all.”
“You must stop calling Fletcher that.”
“Why? He is a windbag heir…oh, don’t give me that pained look. I’m going! But think about what I said. Good day, brother.”
With that, his sister swept from the room in a flurry of bright yellow skirts. Shortly afterward, Fletcher sauntered in looking entirely too jovial for a man suffering a loss.
Bennett frowned. “My lord. You appear to have forgotten the winner’s purse.”
The slender, blond-haired viscount, eldest son of his trustee Lord Hurst, smirked. “Alas, Your Grace, I am the bearer of bad news. Your horse ran a distant fourth; I have the confirmed results here signed by the official.”
“Very well,” Bennett agreed reluctantly. “How much do I owe you, then?”
“Oh, I don’t want money,” said the other man, his eyes gleaming. “I’m requesting a favor instead.”
His stomach churned. A better man would have stood firm rather than be goaded into accepting a wager with this cretin. While their parents always encouraged a friendship, Bennett had never liked the popular viscount. Since joining the Prince Regent’s Carlton House set Fletcher had grown even more obnoxious; now he drawled rather than spoke, drank to excess, and treated his wife shabbily. But if Bennett gave him the cut direct, or even unleashed a long overdue right hook, it would only start a scandal and society gossiped enough already.
“A favor? And what might that entail?” Bennett asked, with great trepidation.
“Nothing too daunting, old chap. I’m considering membership at Delilah’s Temple. I’d like you to go there tonight and tell me if it’s worth the exorbitant cost.”
Delilah’s Temple?
Bennett sucked in a breath. Bloody bastard Fletcher knew he blushed and became tongue-tied in social situations, especially ones involving ribald conversation or women. Naturally the favor would be visiting the most hedonistic pleasure club in the city, owned by the notorious Delilah Forbes, a widow from Cheapside who now reigned supreme as London’s Mistress of Sin. Such a lark, sending him into a den of debauchery to be humiliated, after which he would endure the wrath of his trustees for bringing the dukedom into disrepute.
“I can’t,” Bennett blurted, his damned annoying cheeks beginning to heat.
“Why not?”
“Er…surely Lord Hurst would disapprove.”
The viscount’s face hardened. “My father need not know. Unless you are reneging on our wager? I’d hate to have to share that tidbit around town.”
Christ. Bad enough to be gossiped about, but called dishonorable as well? Father would turn in his grave.
“Of course I’m not reneging,” Bennett replied slowly. “I…ah…received an invitation to inspect the premises some time ago, so will visit Delilah’s Temple and provide a full report.”
“Excellent! I’ll return in the morning. Not too early—you’ll need time to recover after a night of drunken depravity, eh Tun? Fare thee well,” said Fletcher, waggling his fingers and whistling a jaunty tune as he departed the library.
Trying not to shudder, Bennett unlocked his desk drawer and withdrew the gold invitation he’d hidden beneath a pile of legal documents. Really, it should have been thrown away years ago, but sometimes he pretended he was the kind of bold and lusty rake who frequented an establishment like Delilah’s Temple. Usually he shoved the invitation back in the drawer, because torturing himself was unproductive.
Not today, though.
“You can do this,” he muttered. “It’s an easy quest. Just Humdrum Tun trying to use an expired invitation for a full tour of a pleasure club without being seen.”
Good God.
Delilah Forbes loved the Temple. Had built it from nothing, created a sanctuary where patrons could discreetly, safely, and consensually explore their wickedest fantasies, and made a fortune so large she would never spend it in her lifetime.
But what nourished had also consumed these past five years. Between the relentless drive for business perfection and suppressing her own desires to manage those of London’s wealthiest each day from dusk ‘til dawn, she’d quite lost herself. It was time for a different adventure, a different life outside this luxury cage. Recently she’d come to terms with a buyer, and while Temple staff and her friends supported the decision, her banker had wept for a week.