Cameron, Duke of Athelby strolled down Bond Street, his cane tapping a crescendo on the cobbled footpath as he went. People moved out of his way, a common occurrence for him and a helpful one. A few debutants that he’d seen the previous evening at Almacks tittered as their mama made her goodbyes and without stopping and only giving the slightest bow, Athelby continued. Weston’s, his tailor was not much further, and he didn’t have time to stop. The new cravats Cameron had ordered last week were not to his standard and became limp half way through events, and it was not to be borne. He would need to speak with the man himself, to have the situation amended. His clothes along with his reputation must always be the highest of standard.

No one would ever term the Duke of Athelby as a man without respect for himself or his name. Never would he allow scandal to tarnish his title again. His late brother if he had taught Athelby anything, it was that the family name and what the ducal title meant to people must never be taken for granted, used or abused for a life of reckless follies.

His step faltered, and he almost dropped his cane when Lady Darcy de Wolfe, or so she was calling herself these days stepped out of a fabric emporium laughing at something her ladies’ maid said. He frowned. Who laughed with their servants. Really, the woman had no shame.

He studied her as she continued her conversation. Darcy was a striking woman, ebony locks, and eyes with the darkest, longest lashes he’d ever seen on a woman. Her lips were full, but not overly so. On her coming out she’d been married before the season’s end, and his one regret was never having danced with her. They had been friends once, a long time ago but a lot had happened since then.

She caught sight of him, and her features shuttered. He ignored the pang of regret that darted through him. It was such a pity to see the smile that had lit her beautiful face fall from view. Darcy curtsied, the shallowest he’d ever seen as he bowed.

“Your grace,” she said. Or spat more like, as if the word was toxic on her tongue.

“Lady de Wolfe. I see you’re quite recovered from your exertions last evening.”

She stared at him a moment, and he had the oddest urge to shift on his feet. An absurd notion since he’d done nothing wrong. He’d merely pointed out that it was she who was foxed last evening and made a fool of herself. And after such inebriation, it was quite common for the person inflicted to be ill the following day. Or so he’d heard. He never partook in such pastimes. On top of being morally well behaved, he also did not drink. Just the thought of having to cast up his accounts was enough to halt any such thoughts if he had any. Which he had not.

“I have and what wonderful exertions they were, your grace. But I’m sure, with your stoic way of life, you would not know what I’m talking about.”

He clamped his jaw as annoyance tinged her tone. Athelby tried to curb his irritation that she’d made a total fool of herself the following evening. Women should not be foxed, it wasn’t becoming, and certainly not for an Earl’s daughter. She would never fit his mould of duchess. No wife of his would take indulge in excess and strife, gossiping or acting without decorum. Darcy de Wolfe no matter how beautiful she may be, even now looking up at him with eyes that could bewitch the strongest man, she would not do. Ever.

“I do not, no.” He glanced towards the shop from which Darcy had exited and quickly looked away when he spied a woman inside twirling before mirrors and her family admirers. They really ought to put up curtains to stop the passing public from seeing such a thing.

“What a shame, your grace,” she said, waving down a hackney cab like a commoner. “For if you tried a little fun, you might just have some. Good day.”

Athelby gaped at her and shut his mouth with a snap when he realized Darcy and her maid were laughing at him.

He walked on and didn’t bother to wait for her hackney to pull away. To think that his grandmother would like that piece of muslin to be his wife was an absurd notion. And she’d had many over the years when trying to match make him with some preening miss new to town.

No one so far had met his exalting standards, and in all honesty, it was becoming a problem. He was no longer the young man he had been, within a few months he would turn nine and twenty and well due to settle down and beget some heirs.

He didn’t want to lower his expectations, and yet…a wife was proving hard to acquire. His brother, God rest his soul never had trouble with women, and it was a carriage race over a woman, his betrothed no less that had taken his life. Although Athelby had only been young when his brother had passed away, the pain of his death had wrecked his mother and father which was something he’d never have inflicted on them.

There were women who’d turned their gazes his way, but he’d simply directed his in the opposite direction. None of them had been suitable. The ones he had courted always proved eventually, that they would not suit. Their laughs were grating, they were too skittish around a duke or not skittish enough. Gossiped too much or hung about him with an air of desperation he could never abide.

He wanted a woman similar to him. One who played by the rules, spoke only when required, and did not enter into the games of the ton. Surely such a woman was not impossible to find.

The image of Darcy laughing at him, her mischievous nature that had once been the sole focus of his life, at least for the month-long house party they had attended as children taunted him. He’d thought her perfect, and fun, not something he thought a girl could be. She’d not lost that love of life, but instead of being admirable for such a view, all it did was vex him.

Disregarding his cravats entirely, Athelby went to Whites and soon was ensconced in the first-floor sitting room. He accepted a copy of the Times from a footman and started to read the latest political dramas to keep his mind from wandering to the vexing brunette who aggravated him to no end.

The leather chair across from him crunched as someone sat, and Athelby wanted to growl at the interruption. He was not of the mind to have another conversation that would probably be as annoying as the last one he’d had on Bond street.

“Your Grace,” a deep, familiar voice said from behind his paper.

Hunter or as the ton knew him by, the Marques of Aaron was probably the only gentleman in the ton Athelby called a friend. “Aaron, I did not think Thursday was your day for Whites.”

“It is not, but there is a thousand pounds up for grabs due to a bet which I could not pass up.”

Aaron loved gambling, and no matter how many times Athelby lectured his friend on the pitfalls, the stupidity and dangers of gambling, he chose not to listen and continued to squander his family’s fortune. Not that the man didn’t have more than enough to last him ten lifetimes, any such waste was really not appropriate.

“Are you not going to ask me what the bet is about?”

Athelby lowered his paper and gave his friend his full attention. “Even though I do not care, I’m sure you’re going to tell me in any case.”

“I thought the bet would interest you since it involves your family.”

“My family!” Athelby sat up, closed his paper and placed it on the table before him. “What on earth could a bet here at Whites have to do with us.” His mind raced as to what it could possibly be about.

Aaron laughed, sitting back in his chair as if it was a lark to see him so addled.

“Well, not really your family, but certainly a close friend of yours and your grandmother’s goddaughter,” he grinned.

Darcy… “What are they betting on her ladyship this time?” Not that he wanted to know, but still, with the knowledge of what was happening here, he had reason to speak to Lady de Wolfe and try and correct her manners so these gentleman, not one of them would win such a sum. It was not to be borne.

“They’re betting that sweet piece of muslin will be ruined before the end of the Season. Or have a lover. I should say there are two bets, five-hundred pounds apiece, one for ruination. One for a lover.”

The notion of Darcy taking a lover made him want to be physically ill. He blinked to clear his vision of her enjoying a man using the carnal knowledge she gained from marriage. Not that he’d ever admit it anyone, but the day she’d announced her betrothal to the Earl of Terrance something had died within Athelby, curled up and rotted away. Not that she had ever been meant for him, no. It had never been that way between them. Friends yes, lovers never. It was simply irritation that she had managed to accomplish something that he had not.

That was all it was. Nothing more.

The little devil now sitting on his shoulder snickered and whispered liar in his ear, and he flicked a piece of lint from his coat.

“And you’re going to add your name to this bet?” Athelby met his friend’s amused glance with a narrowed gaze.

“I am and so should you. You know her better than most. I bet should you ask her she may even tell you her choice. For it is rumoured she’s looking for a lover, and it would be a fool indeed who turned down that little fox.”

Athelby clenched his fists and reminded himself that Lord Aaron was his friend. “If she asks you to be her lover, I would hope you would turn her down.”

Ire flashed in his eyes before he folded his long legs on the table before them. “Absolutely not! I’m not a simpleton.”

The words hit Athelby, another blow to his gut or possibly a little higher. What was wrong with him? It was certainly not jealousy, although the emotion he was experiencing was eerily familiar to it… Whatever it was he would mention it to his doctor at his next appointment, which occurred weekly. One should not ignore their health, and being a duke without an heir, his health and keeping healthy was paramount.

The thought of being jealous of who took Darcy de Wolfe to her bed was a ridiculous notion and not something any sane man would consider.

“As she’s my grandmother’s goddaughter, I would hope because of our friendship you would indeed say no to an affair with the lady, and help prevent any trouble she could find herself in should she sleep with a man not her husband.”

Aaron sighed, nodding slowly. “I see your predicament, and it’s to your credit that you’re worried about her. But men of our ilk know how to ensure no unexpected gift is bestowed and delivered several months later.”

“You cannot guarantee that and she would be indeed ruined if that befell her. I ask again, as your friend, do not try and seduce Darcy. She is not for you.”

“Who is she for then shall I ask?” his friend stated, steeping his fingers before his chin and watching him with eyes that could read a blank page, Athelby was certain. “You, by chance?”

“Certainly not,” he protested with a laugh, but the sound came out hollow, and that little devil again whispered liar in his ear. “I cannot tolerate her wayward manners or flagrant disregard for rules and manners within our society. Sometimes I despair that she is even of noble blood.”

“Oh, but you forget who her family is and their strong willed, proud heritage. The de Wolfes are not people to be told what to do. They make the rules that the rest of us should follow. If we don’t, we’re left in the cold and soon forgotten.”

How very true. It had always surprised Athelby that Darcy seemed to be able to do and say whatever she pleased without ever receiving censure from society. It was almost as if the family were immune to the repercussions of their scandalous pursuits.

“Well, I would be quite happy to be left behind if it meant living the life that Darcy de Wolfe seems determined to inhabit.” Athelby stood, and straightened his jacket. “I bid you good day.”

“Shall I see you at my sister’s ball this evening? You know it’s her first since marrying The Earl of Glenn, and Sara has always been fond of you.”

“I sent my response directly after receiving the invitation. I shall be in attendance.”

Aaron grinned. “Very good, see you this evening then, your grace.”

Athelby left Whites, and thankfully his coachman had followed him on his jaunt and was parked out front where he was able to leave directly. He tapped on the roof with his cane and stared sightlessly out the window. Why did the thought of Darcy moving on with her life, loving someone else and possibly marrying another gentleman annoy him so much?

He called out the window for his coachman to take him to Dr. Duncan’s residence, his physician. He needed to see his doctor post-haste. There wasn’t a moment to lose, for there was certainly something wrong with him. And the name of this disease was Darcy de Wolfe.

* * *

Darcy, accompanied by her friend Lady Oliver had enjoyed their evening so far at the Earl and Countess of Glenn’s first official ball since being married at the end of last season. Darcy had always been fond of Sara and was delighted she’d made a love match with Lord Glenn, who’d always been kind and amiable to others.

One person Darcy didn’t particularly wish to see was unfortunately across the room, although tonight he seemed a little out of sorts.

She studied him as he spoke to the hosts and the countess’ brother, the Marquess of Aaron. The duke held a tumbler of what looked to be brandy, and the notion he would consume such a beverage gave her pause.

“I can see who you’re looking at and I can also see the clock within your mind ticking over as to why he’s drinking,” Fran said.

“Do you think it’s whisky he’s drinking?” Darcy had to admit, to see him throwing it back and asking for a refill left her positively mute.

“It is a little odd, to say the least. Maybe he’s trying to be more like his peers, although I doubt that would be the case. Everyone knows how much he detests gambling, drunkenness, and inappropriate behaviour.”

Hmm. Darcy watched him for a little while longer before a throng of beaux bowed before her during the next few hours and she was swept away into waltzing, cotillions, and all thoughts of the duke were forgotten.

That was until some hours later she walked out onto the terrace to find the Duke of Athelby bent over the balustrade and groaning.

“Athelby can I be of assistance? You do not look very well, your grace.”

“I’m mortified to say that you’ve come across me Lady de Wolfe in a state of inebriation. What a hypocrite you must think me.”

Darcy smiled and even though she was certainly thinking it, she wouldn’t tease him on the fact right now. He really did see quite ill. “It’s actually a relief to see you such. I had thought for some time that you weren’t human.”

He barked out a laugh and then groaned. “I’m human I promise you.” His words were slurred, and the duke looked anything but ducal right at this moment.

“I know you think I’m a pompous fool. A man who thinks too highly of himself.”

Darcy met his gaze. “I won’t lie to you since we were friends as children, but yes, I do think that sometimes. But I also wonder why. You never used to be like that Cameron.”

The use of his given name wasn’t missed by him, even in his foxed condition. Surprisingly he took her hand, idly playing with her fingers. “If anyone saw me now they’d think I was my brother. The drunken fool who couldn’t hold his liquor.”

“You don’t talk of Marcus very often. And you do yourself a discredit, your grace. You’re nothing like your brother.”

He sighed, running a hand through his hair. “I fear that with only the smallest coaxing I could turn into him. And where would that leave the title, my home, and tenants who rely on me.”

“You are foxed, that will not make you your brother. And anyway,” she said, placing her hand over his that continued to clasp hers. “What was so wrong with being like your sibling. I vaguely remember him, but the times we did meet I never thought him an ogre.”

“He was my brother, and I loved him, but I refuse to follow him into an early grave.” Cameron groaned and turning toward the gardens retched all over Lady Glenn’s roses.

He waved her away, but instead of leaving, Darcy pulled out of his coat pocket his white handkerchief and handed it to him.

The duke took it, wiping his mouth, before groaning and dropping his head to sit on the stone balustrade.

“When I’m better I will kill the Marquess. Aaron stated it was merely a new punch that Lady Glenn’s cook had created. I will not forgive the man his duplicity.”

Darcy rubbed along his graces’ shoulders and ignored the fact that beneath her hand was a very firm, muscular man, more so than she’d thought. She pushed the thought aside of what he’d look like without his shirt and instead said, “I shall fetch you some water. I will be right back.” After hearing of his fears of turning out like his brother, Darcy couldn’t help but feel for the man. In his quest to be the perfect duke, he’d become a man who never relaxed, no longer knew how to live even in moderation.

She did as she promised and within a few minutes returned to where she had left his grace, only to find him missing.

“I am here,” he said, the slurred voice sounding from behind her.

Darcy looked about and went and sat next to him in the small alcove that was situated between two windows. The rooms were not lit, and not in use this evening, so they were kept hidden. Probably a fortunate thing considering his grace was not very well and should anyone catch him in such a state, the gossip that would befall him would not be easy for the man to take.

Such a stickler for proper manners, he could not bear to be seen as anything other than what he preached. And after tonight, she understood a little as to why that was. His grandmother had tried to tell her in her way, but it wasn’t until Cameron explained that Darcy understood him better.

“Drink this, but only in sips. It should make you feel better.”

He took the glass and did as she bade, not saying a word, merely sat there like a lost little boy. Although he didn’t look like a boy at all, in fact, the disarray Darcy now saw him in, his untied cravat, messy hair that was no longer suitably combed, and slightly blood shot eyes made him look wild, untamed, and nothing like she’d ever seen him before.

In fact, the duke in this unkempt state was exceptionally handsome.

“Please do not tell anyone of my state. I know we’re not friends, but please, if you can do this one thing for me I’ll be forever grateful.”

Darcy turned her attention toward the garden, seemingly thinking over his grace’s question, though she knew she would never tell of his shame. She might be a woman who enjoyed parties, dancing and revelry, but she was not a snitch or gossiper. And she could never make fun of a man who’d had a cruel joke played upon him.

She turned to look at him and a shiver stole over her when she found him staring at her. In this dark alcove, his grace seemed predatory, nothing like he normally was. It left her a little unsure and wary. Maybe it was she who’d had too much wine this evening.

“I will not tell a soul, ever. You have my word.”

His grace sighed and leaned back against the house. “I feel dreadful. Is this normal? If so, I wonder why so many people indulge in such pastimes.”

“You were drinking quite a few glasses, your grace and in quick succession. It is no wonder that you do not feel well.” Darcy stood, holding out her hand to him. He took it and stood.

“Walk to the front of the house, and I shall have your carriage called at the same time as mine. Return home, keep drinking water and get some sleep. You may have a megrim tomorrow, but you should start to feel better by the afternoon.”

The duke took her hand, bending over it and kissing her gloved fingers lightly. “Thank you, Darcy.”

It wasn’t often he used her name, in fact, she couldn’t remember the last time. Maybe when they were thrown together unwillingly as children, either way, again a shiver of awareness flowed through her, and she stepped back to break whatever absurdness was taking over her body.

“You’re welcome, but go. Wait in the shadows and you will see your carriage soon enough. And may I suggest in future not to listen to Lord Aaron. You know how much he loves to have a laugh at others’ expense.”

“I do, and he will have his comeuppance if it’s the last thing I do to his lordship.”

Darcy smiled and left, doing what she promised. While waiting for her own carriage, she watched as his grace came from beside the house and stepped up into his vehicle. Again, she was reminded of how tall his grace was, his athletic form that she’d not noticed on him up until tonight.

She sighed, wrapped her cloak tighter about her, stepped down the three steps and climbed up into her own carriage, calling out the address for Sir Richard Walton’s card party that she’d also been invited to. With her good deed done for this evening, it was still early, and more fun was to be had. And maybe, just maybe luck would be on her side tonight and she would win a few hands instead of always donating her funds to others’ deep pockets.