Page 7 of My Dearest Duke

But not his body.

He’d taken a vow of celibacy after the buxom beauty Odriana Janssen’s duplicity in Belgium, mere days before the Battle of Waterloo. She’d been a spy, passing tidbits of seemingly inconsequential information along to her superiors. Information she gathered from her numerous lovers, including him.

Kingston would never know how she got word to her contact that night that Gabriel was delivering the missive or how she guessed it was to Colonel Pountney. Kingston hadn’t revealed that particular detail—only that he was able to meet with her, at her request—for a half-hour dalliance because Gabriel was doing him a favor by delivering a letter.

Except, Kingston supposed, Odriana might easily have sent word with a servant. And perhaps she’d been told to report anything at all at that critical juncture.

I was a bloody imbecile.

His lust had cost him much. Too much.

Scrubbing a hand over his forehead, he tried unsuccessfully to erase the tormenting memory.

He had little enough self-respect left as it was.

Except in his beloved siblings’ eyes, he was a hero.

A bloody, bloody hero.

The army had also declared him one.

“Unmitigated bravery and selfless sacrifice in the face of imminent death.”

What a colossal load of horse shite.

Kingston was no hero.

Not by any stretch of the imagination or truth.

He should have died that night, not Gabriel Becket.

It didn’t matter that he’d been severely burned trying to rescue Gabriel and the other soldiers. Yes, he’d managed to save the lives of four men by repeatedly reentering the burning building after the explosion. But he hadn’t been able to save Gabriel—his dearest friend since childhood.

That irrefutable truth and his own self-loathing, would torment Kingston every day for the rest of his life.

He didn’t even know how Gabriel’s mother and sister had learned of his death or how they fared afterward. A memory flashed inside his mind, Vanessa’s white-blonde hair billowing about her shoulders and her unusual amber-brown eyes twinkling with pleasure as she ran toward Gabriel, her arms outstretched.

Kingston had played the poltroon and hadn’t called upon Vanessa and Mrs. Elligon once he’d left the hospital. Shame pummeled him equally for his cowardice and guilt.

How could he face them?

Answer their questions?

See the tears in their eyes?

Explain that it should have been him who died that day, but he’d been too eager to bed the lusty Belgian beauty?

His friends, sitting around the slightly wobbly table, exchanged dubious glances at his sardonic toast but remained silent. None lifted their glasses with him, not that Kingston blamed them.

Pain and remorse cleaved his chest, lancing his heart and conscience—a double-edged sword of guilt and self-castigation.

Would the dark emotions haunt him for the rest of his life?

Why shouldn’t they?

“I must bid you farewell,” he said. “I don’t wish to keep Mrs. Dorrian-Lane waiting. In truth, I’m astounded she agreed to my request to meet with her to discuss the possibility of utilizing her matchmaking services.”

With a hefty sigh and another wry grin for the sake of his solemn friends, he pushed away from the table. Straightening his newly acquired royal blue coat—tailored for this very occasion—he hid a grimace. It wouldn’t do to arrive in his out-of-fashion togs. He must make an excellent impression for his plan to succeed.

After all, at present, he had nothing to offer. Everything hinged on his future inheritance. It was rather like teetering on the edge of a cliff.

“Yes. I’ve heard Mrs. Dorrian-Lane generally reserves her services for the most unsuitable of ladies.” Looking contemplative, Stanford Bancroft, Duke of Asherford, bussed a hand over his jaw. “Those who cannot manage a respectable match on their own.”

Another bitter grin tipped up one side of Kingston’s mouth. “I’d say that describes me to perfection. Wouldn’t you?”