Page 6 of My Dearest Duke

It wasn’t wise, imbibing so much, but he needed numbed faculties for what he was about to do.

A shout of laughter, followed by a throaty feminine giggle, hinted the evening’s entertainment at The Sword and Shield was taking a turn in another, predictable direction.

He spared an acrid glance in the direction of the stairs where a couple, arms wrapped around each other’s waists, ascended the risers. The man bent and placed a kiss on the woman’s exposed shoulder, and she gave another throaty laugh.

At one time, Kingston had been no different than that young, randy buck. A callow, cocksure rogue, seeking his pleasures where he might while his siblings struggled to put food on the table and keep a fire in the hearth.

You didn’t know that.

Nevertheless, self-loathing eviscerated him.

“Barclay?” Wainthorpe’s query brought Kingston back to himself.

He slowly raised his tired gaze to meet his friend’s concerned eyes.

Yes, Wainthorpe and the others would loan him funds without hesitation and without interest too. Several had offered as much, and Kingston declined each and every one. He would accept no favors ever again, most especially from those he cared about.

The last favor he’d asked had cost his best friend his life and left Kingston maimed.

Scarred. Emotionally crippled.

A hollow, bitter shell of the man he used to be.

Oh, his clothing hid his mutilated flesh, but it was the memories that tormented him. That refused to heal.

Gabriel’s agonizing screams…

No, I shan’t think of it.

He couldn't, or he’d curl into a fetal position and wail like an inconsolable infant.

Future dukes didn’t display such weaknesses. Didn’t reveal how fragile they truly were—barely keeping a firm grip on their sanity. And only doing so because his sisters and brothers needed him.

He was all they had.

He must succeed.

So, Kingston lifted his glass in a salute and skewed his mouth into a self-deprecating grin.

“To finding a suitable bride,” he quipped with false jollity.

All he asked was that whoever the woman was, she would have a good heart and treat his sisters and brothers with kindness and affection. Oh, and she must have an obscenely generous dowry, of course.

Which he intended to repay as soon as he inherited his ducal fortune.

He could only pray the old duke would cock up his toes and feed the fires of hell soon. And pray to God that he not squander his wealth away in the meanwhile. The fact that Kingston not only had to depend on that depraved sod for his inheritance but also that he gambled his future on it made him want to vomit.

Or maybe that was the whisky.

Still, repay his future duchess he would, for Kingston would be no lady’s fancy man. No woman would ever hold any degree of control over him again. Women—as he’d learned in the most brutal betrayal—were never to be trusted. Blinding smiles, full, pouty mouths, sensual sighs, and supple bodies all hid venomous hearts.

Kingston didn’t give ten curses that marriages were arranged for wealth and position every day amongst the haut ton. It was bad enough he was practically prostituting himself to gain an heiress.

Practically?

That was exactly what he was doing.

Selling himself, his pride—his dignity—for money.