Page 1 of Duke of Rath

The Seven Dukes of Sin Credo

One:

All desires are natural…no matter how wicked.

1

Rath Hall, March 1814

Blood dripped onto the gravel path, leaving a trail as Dorian Perrin, the Duke of Rath, strode out into another day of torment. His Irish wolfhound, Titan, trotted by his side, their steps rustling in the silence of his ancestral estate. The black outlines of barren trees stretched their thin branches through the mist like claws as cool, damp air sliced through his shirt to his hot, sweaty skin.

Good. He deserved every pain.

Dorian’s torn knuckles on his left hand bled freely, while his right remained gloved, concealing scars that served as a constant reminder of the duel that haunted him—evidence of the most horrific thing he had ever done. He removed the glove only for his boxing sessions, as he had this morning. Twelve years encased in a glove hadn’t done his scarred skin any good.

Titan kept trying to lick the blood off Dorian’s exposed knuckles with his pink tongue. The dog’s wiry gray hair was springy under Dorian’s palm as he absently stroked the wolfhound. One of Titan’s eyes was milky white, the other black and shiny. He reached Dorian’s waist, and his long, sharp teeth made even the footmen wary.

On the cut lawn, a groom held Erebus, Dorian’s massive black Thoroughbred, in place, the stallion snorting and pawing the grass as they waited. Dorian laid his gloved right hand on Erebus’s neck, feeling blood ooze beneath the leather.

“Dorian, dearest,” came a high, feminine voice from behind him, and Dorian turned, swiftly putting his hands behind his back.

Lady Buchanan, his deceased mama’s sister, stood before him with his sister, Chastity.

The dark walls of Rath Hall emerged from the mist behind them—three stories of weathered stone, covered in lichen and moss. Tall pointed paned windows pierced the façade with their leaded glass. Turrets flanked the structure, their spires dissolving into the fog above.

“Aunt,” he said in greeting. “Sister.”

The morning chill stuck needles into his skin, and his forehead felt cold and clammy as his hair, misted from exercise, stuck to it. But that was not nearly enough pain and discomfort to distract the beast within him.

His aunt’s eyes, gray, kind, and intelligent, took him in with concern. “Will you not break your fast with us? I’m only here for the day.”

A lady in her sixties who still preferred dresses with fitted bodices and full skirts—the fashion of the previous era—his aunt had arrived yesterday to stay overnight on her way to London for the opening of the season in a few weeks. Rath Hall was only one hour away from London, an exclusive location that was close enough to enjoy both the country and the city.

Titan sat down by Dorian’s boots and gave an impatient whine.

His sister, Chastity—shockingly brilliant and happily unmarried—was twenty-eight, four years younger than Dorian. She was as dark haired as he, with striking blue eyes shining behind spectacles. Unlike what most ducal sisters would wear, she was dressed in a simple gray gown, her hair in a tight and functional chignon.

“I assumed you would want to take breakfast in your chamber,” he lied. “And Chastity knows I go for a ride every morning.”

He felt blood drip from his hands to fall on the grass behind his feet. Chastity’s gaze slid over his bod, stopped on the crimson drops, then followed their trail from the grass to the gravel path on which she stood.

Her face paled. “Dorian, you’re hurt!” she exclaimed, moving towards him.

He stepped back, bumping into the horse’s side, but Chastity didn’t stop. She flew past the groom, and grasped Dorian’s left hand before he could stop her. She gasped, looking at the bloody splits on his knuckles.

His aunt gasped as well, and he winced. He should have bandaged them. Or ridden away faster.

“What did you do?” Chastity demanded.

He felt his teeth gnashing against each other. “I overdid it with boxing, that’s all. There’s no need to cluck.”

Earlier this morning, he’d driven his fists into the well-worn leather of the punching bag in his training room for hours. Each punch hurt to the bone, the taste of sweat on his upper lip salty, the coppery scent of blood satisfying. The constant pain of his right hand was replaced with a sharper agony, which felt sweet.

His aunt hurried towards him, skirts rustling. “I’m here for only one night, and you’re doing this? Beating yourself into a bloody pulp?”

His hand inside his glove was slippery and hot, pulsating with pain. He was breathing hard, struggling to take enough air into his lungs.

“I did not know you did this,” she continued. “Chastity, were you aware?”