Page 1 of The Last Duke She'd Marry
Chapter 1
White’s Gentlemen’s Club, St James’s, London, May 1817
“Romeo!”
The joyful exclamation shattered the sanctified silence of the library at White’s.
Heads turned, glowers proliferated, grunts of disapproval rumbled. Creating a ruction in these hallowed halls of masculine privilege simply wasn’t done.
Lucas Hebden, Duke of Evesham, stirred in his winged leather chair near the fire and cracked open heavy eyes. An army of blacksmiths slammed hammers on the anvil inside his head, although as usual, he only had himself to blame for his misery. The brandy at the gaming hell that he’d visited last night had been poor stuff indeed. Which hadn’t stopped him from downing a lake’s worth of the rotgut swill.
Through his headache, he struggled to make sense of what was happening. A stout, balding fellow wearing an unfortunate daffodil yellow coat loomed in front of him. The fanatic light in his eyes brought back memories of Eton. Just so had Evesham’s sports master looked at him after his schoolboy self had scored a century in a cricket match against Harrow.
“Romeo!” the man shouted once more.
As Evesham didn’t know the cove – and as his name, thank heaven, wasn’t Romeo – he closed his eyes and struggled to resume his snooze.
“Romeo!”
“Shh!”
“Pipe down!”
“Dashed intolerable behavior!”
Evesham muffled a sigh. The chorus of protest from the club members swelled until a man couldn’t recover from an almighty drinking spree in peace. More was the pity.
Once more, he forced his eyelids up. This time, he winced. That yellow really was too much when a chap suffered from a sour stomach.
“Are you addressing me, sir?” he asked, impressed that he could string so many words together through the clanging in his brainbox.
“I am indeed.”
Given Evesham’s parlous state, the sprightly tone struck him as obnoxious in the extreme. Still, he made an attempt at politeness. He was more accustomed than he should be to encountering people he’d met on the carouse then completely forgotten, once the night’s high jinks were done. “Are we acquainted?”
This man wasn’t like his usual companions in crime. He looked excessively healthy and cherubic. Not to mention that he must be closer to sixty than to Evesham’s thirty. And even at the bottomest of the bottom of the deepest tankard, Evesham couldn’t imagine ever introducing himself to anyone as Romeo.
“I’m Portdown, don’t you know?”
No, he didn’t know. And why did the fellow have to keep shouting? “I believe you have mistaken me, my lord.”
“Never. I must speak to you right now.”
Evesham was a very democratic duke, happy to mix with all levels of society. But this upstart proved so presumptuous, that even his rusty sense of consequence was offended. “In that case, leave your card at Hebden House.”
“Whatever the devil you do, shut your traps or get out of this library,” Lord Castellaine snapped, rattling his newspaper in an aggressive manner from an armchair a few feet away. “If you don’t, I’ll call a footman and have you both thrown out.”
Evesham glanced around to discover a circle of hostile glares centered on him and Portdown.
Disapproval was nothing new. In his one and only London season nine years ago, witty and wicked Verena Gerard had dubbed him His Dis-Grace rather than His Grace. But however disgraceful he might be, he had no wish to be banned from White’s.
“Come with me now.” Portdown muffled his bellow to a loud whisper. “It’s urgent.”
“I doubt it.” Evesham folded his arms across his powerful chest and stretched out his long legs. He leaned his head back and closed his eyes again. “Go away.”
He rarely summoned up his ducal tone, but when he did, it always evinced instant obedience. So he was too astonished to put up much of a fight when Portdown grabbed his arm and hauled him out of his chair. Even through his annoyance, he couldn’t help but commend the man’s strength. Evesham was three inches over six feet and built like a prizefighter.
Clearly enthusiasm won out over fifteen stone of solid muscle, because he found himself on his feet and towering above Lord Portdown. With some trouble, he found his balance. “What the hell—”
