Page 26 of Five Ways to Bed a Duke

Chapter Eight

Richard was familiar with addictions. He had seen several members of the ton being swallowed by the lure of the bottle, squandering several pounds for the sweet oblivion it offered. For the perpetual quiet and peace that they swore could only be found at the bottom of the bottle.

Well, there was no easier way to destroy a body than a life of constant inebriation, forever lost to the real world, where lucid thoughts existed.

They believed it solved their problems, at least while the buzz lasted, but it soon faded. And when reality sank in, it was even worse, so they chased after more bottles, spending fortunes to attain that oblivion, continuing a vicious cycle that usually ended in their families’ ruin and their inevitable deaths.

He knew men, intelligent good men, who had so many good qualities, but these virtues fell short in the face of their one vice: gambling. He had witnessed whole estates change owners at theflip of a card and a whole family fortune lost in a single game. He had seen several young men becoming fortune hunters, attending balls for the sole purpose of nabbing an heiress to restore the fortunes that were lost at the whims of a gambling addict.

The one addiction he was always amused by and was immune to was… women. As far as he was concerned, women were beautiful creatures, and he could never say he did not appreciate their charms, but that was just it—he appreciated their charms, sampled them, and chased pleasure with them. But no matter the level of ecstasy he enjoyed in their arms, they had never inspired any genuine feelings in him. He appreciated them, but he did not obsess over them.

He always found it mildly amusing when he heard the odd man wax poetic about some lady he had recently met or, on rare occasions, when he had the misfortune of having to be in close contact with some besotted fool who was convinced that his wife was Venus made flesh. He shook his head, assuring himself that he could never fall prey to such an excessive display of emotions.

Because while women were beautiful creatures, they could also be capricious to such an extent that he was sure even the devil would gladly take notes from them. He should know, as he had witnessed firsthand what capriciousness can do to a woman. His mother being a prime example.

His earliest memories of her were that of a shapely woman with perfectly coiffed blonde hair who sometimes visited the nursery, ruffled his hair and gave him a bright smile that convinced himshe could only be an angel. When she smiled at him, she praised him for how handsome he was.

Over time, he came to crave her angelic presence. Sometimes she’d come and instruct the maids to dress him in formal attire. Then, taking his hand, they’d walk together, him craning his little neck to keep looking at her angelic face. But even as she held his hand, she smiled while staring off into the distance.

His little heart always longed for his mother’s smiles, but he only received one when they got to the drawing room filled with noble women so heavily perfumed that it irritated his throat. But he dared not cough or sneeze because it’d make the smile on her face disappear. So he endured the heavy perfumes while her friends oohed and aahed about his handsomeness and how he would make a perfect duke in the future.

And so it continued for at least the first six years of his life. Somehow he always looked forward to when her friends visited and he got to spend time with her—or whatever time was left after the party.

But as he got older and lost that chubby baby looks the ladies gushed about, her visits became less frequent. Until one evening when he was wandering the gardens, singing a tune that he had heard from his nanny.

He didn’t really understand the words, since they were in Gaelic. His nanny was Scottish, and he had pleaded with her to teach him the language or at least explain the words to him. But she had refused, evading his maneuvers with a sad smile. But healways sang the tune when he was alone because it was calming, as it had been his lullaby for years.

On that evening, however, his singing was interrupted by a rustling in the flowers, and he paused.

“Who is there?” he asked, trying to sound fearless while he quaked in his boots.

He was pleasantly surprised when his mother stepped out from behind the hedges. His lips curled into a smile. He had missed her.

“Mama,” he said, running to her hug her waist.

He had grown taller, so his head only reached her abdomen. He had been too excited to notice that she did not hug him back.

However, he felt a tug on the back of his small coat—his cue to let go. He dropped his arms reluctantly.

“Were you the one singing just now?” she asked in a hopeful tone.

For some time, Richard was confused, but he quickly recovered.

“Yes… Yes, Mama,” he stuttered.

At his response, he saw her face break out into a smile that he had not seen in quite a long time. He had always known his mother was a beautiful woman, but at that point, he simply basked in her radiance, and he felt satisfaction for being the cause of her joy.

Over several months, that satisfaction became almost buried underneath the classes he had to take. His mother declared to anyone who cared to listen that her son was a music prodigy and proceeded to hire the best music teachers to refine his singing skills and teach him how to play the pianoforte.

He had endured those lessons, and when he tended to the back of his fingers, which had suffered the rap of his instructor’s ruler when he hit a wrong note, he reminded himself that it was all for the sake of his beautiful mother, who had an angelic smile.

Within a few months, he was on his way to becoming a budding musician, holding mini-concerts for his mother’s friends. While it was such hard work to prepare for those performances, he looked forward to them because she always praised him right after, declaring him her treasure.

His father had always spent the day with him fishing and riding, and he tried to explain away many of his mother’s absences, but even at such a young age, Richard could feel the strain in their relationship. They had a frosty relationship that even a blind man could have perceived from a mile away.

He had inadvertently eavesdropped on their conversations, but that was not really his fault, since his mother’s voice was raisedto such a pitch that it could carry all the way to Mayfair. Her shouting was only interspersed by his father’s quieter voice trying to reason with her.

All their arguments ended the same way, with his mother storming out and taking a carriage to some unknown destination, until the row they had on his eighth birthday, which had ended with his mother moving her affairs out of the bedroom she shared with his father amidst his pleas for understanding.

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