Page 5 of Nothing Compares to the Duke
Reckless affairs earned him constant mention in scandal rags and at least two breach of promise suits. Ridiculous luck at the gaming tables caused some to claim he cheated at play. But most of all he was known for the nightly revels he hosted. Parties so wild there had been injuries, infamies, and drunken brawls leading to fisticuffs and more than a few illegal duels.
For years, infamy had sustained him. He’d loved the endless parties. The attention of beautiful women. The envy of other men. Laughter filling his ears because he’d put on the best celebration his guests ever attended. He excelled at very little, but amusement he did well. That and giving pleasure. Giving people an excuse to have fun. Filling his nights with so much frivolity that he could push away thoughts of the duties he’d have to face when daylight came.
Of late those responsibilities were piling so high no amount of revelry could keep them at bay, but he was damned well determined to try. Now that he’d inherited a dukedom, he was compelled to make each party grander than the last.
He’d always been as willful as he was wayward, but what he could no longer deny was how tired it all made him.
This was the fourth party in as many nights with very little sleep in between. His eyes were dry as dust, his throat burned, and there were far too many hours left to go until this soiree died down. The circus theme had been a grand success, but now guests were inebriated and eager for more daring feats from the performers he’d hired.
“Throw another!” a drunk lordling shouted for the second time from the back of the room.
The muscles of Rhys’s arms and neck were stiff, tautened by tension, but when he shifted, the lady flipping a knife in front of him shook her head.
“Stay still, darling.” Jess, one of the music hall performers he’d hired as entertainment, winked at him. “Wouldn’t want to mar that pretty face of yours.”
“You wouldn’t dare. You’re too fond of my face just as it is.”
“Handsome man, you are. Can’t deny it.” She returned a knowing smile, one full of promises he considered holding her to later in the evening.
Party guests laughed at their repartee and gathered close to watch her toss another blade. Hosting a party in a private room at Lyon’s Gentlemen’s Club hadseemeda good way to celebrate his latest investment triumph. The Duke’s Den had given him an opportunity to expand the wealth he inherited from his father even further via investments in England’s brightest entrepreneurs. But now that he was bleary-eyed, his patience for standing against an unforgivingwooden board and hoping Jess’s aim was as good as she claimed was waning.
“Above his head!” a gentleman called out.
“Between his legs,” his pretty redheaded companion said with a mischievous grin.
“I shall land this blade near the opposite ear.” Jess narrowed her eyes and drew back her arm to throw the next knife.
A nobleman’s buxom paramour gasped.
Rhys held very still and reminded himself once more that fortune was ever on his side.
Jess loosed the knife and it came at him so fast, he only heard the thwack as it struck the board. Then a pinpoint of pain bloomed at the side of his head. Rhys winced. Jess covered her mouth with her hands, eyes widening.
Reaching up, he swiped at a trickle of blood at the edge of his ear.
“Just a scratch,” he told her, and then louder for the guests leaning close, whispering worriedly. “A tiny knick. No harm done.”
“Lucky that,” one man shouted.
“No man is as charmed as the Duke of Claremont,” a brunette said, her eyes wide.
“Another!” Lord Southwell called out. “Let’s see if his luck can hold.”
Jess looked unsteady as she drew the final knife from the belt she wore. Her hand shook when she lifted the implement. Rather than aim and toss theblade, she held his gaze and offered the tiniest shake of her head.
“Go on,” another man urged.
Rhys was on the cusp of calling it off. Jess’s mouth quivered, her facade of confidence faltering.
“Claremont, may we have a word before this young woman impales you?”
Rhys recognized the voice. Aidan Iverson had been invited to the party, but Rhys had given up on him attending. He was happy to see his friend, if only because it meant freeing himself from further target practice.
Though now that Iverson was here, he didn’t look at all festive. And he wasn’t alone. Nick, Duke of Tremayne, stood beside him. Both of Rhys’s partners in co-ownership of Lyon’s lingered on the threshold of the crowded room, their faces a grim contrast to the evening’s gaiety.
“Please, everyone, carry on.” Rhys gestured toward the quartet of violinists in the corner of the room and stepped down from the platform. “Time for music and dancing.”
He cast a look at Tremayne and Iverson. They definitely wouldn’t be dancing. Their gazes were so serious that he dreaded whatever news they’d come to deliver.
