He saw the flicker of indecision in the other man’s eyes.
Victory roared in his blood.
“Count me in,” Crestwood crowed. “What about you, Dashlane?”
Dashlane took a sip of his drink. “Why not? I could use a change of pace. Craven?”
The third man frowned. “I suppose.”
Raithe didn’t care if Craven attended or not. In fact, he’d prefer he didn’t but the three were often together making Craven a necessary evil. “Rathmore?”
“I’ll think on it,” Rathmore shrugged, staring at the far wall.
“I’ll attend,” another voice called from the corner. Raithe turned, his jaw clenching when he’d seen who spoke. His Grace, the Duke of Danesbury sat, partially obscured by shadow. The man was rarely seen out, his face having been scarred on one side from some accident or another. Raithe’s eyes widened to see the man here on such a busy night. “Your Grace?” he asked. Strictly speaking the man was not invited but as a duke, he’d be difficult to refuse.
“I’ve heard of your parties, Balstead. I’ll come if you’ll have me.”
Raithe swore softly under his breath. This was not one of the carefully chosen men. He didn’t know what sort of man Danesbury was and didn’t wish to find out. “Of course, Your Grace.”
Raithe sat back in his chair. He had five men after all. Not the five he’d originally set out to invite but still… that ought to give Cassandra some choices…
Chapter One
Chase, better known as the Duke of Rathmore, stared out the window of his carriage, watching the darkening sky with a narrow-eyed glare. The clouds suited his mood. One might argue that he should be happy. He was on his way to a summer house party that was likely to be the event of the season.
At least for lords with power, money, and a proclivity for fun. And by fun, he meant drinking, gambling, and sex, likely in that order.
The Baron of Balstead, was known among most men to be a deviant. He liked lavish parties with high-powered men and lowly women. Chase had been invited before. But somehow, Balstead had managed to convince him to attend this time. As an unmarried duke who regularly showed up in the clubs, gaming hells, and even a few high-end brothels, he was exactly the sort that Balstead would want to attend. This was just the first time that Chase had ever accepted.
He wasn’t sure why he’d decided to go this time. Perhaps it was the nagging feeling that had set in of late that something more meaningful was missing from his life. He’d become duke at the tender age of sixteen when his parents had died while crossing the English Channel during a storm. When he’d recovered from his grief, he’d set about enjoying all the benefits of being a young duke. But that had been ten years prior and the things he’d enjoyed had lost their shine.
And so, he’d decided the only answer was to search out even more ruckus fun in the form of Balstead’s party. If he were honest, however, he wasn’t certain the idea sat right in his mind. And so, he’d set out two days later than he’d planned. And he’d taken his time surveying several properties on the trip. And now, it looked as though he’d be delayed again as a fat plop of rain landed on the roof of his carriage.
Perhaps, he shouldn’t go at all. The road he travelled followed along the coast, giving him scenic views of the ocean beyond. At least that’s what some people would think of water. Right now, it was a dark, ominous grey that looked, to him, like a death trap.
He slapped his hand against his knee as more rain began to fall. He wasn’t going forward or turning back tonight. Rapping on the carriage wall, he called to his driver. “Is there somewhere we can stop for the night?”
“Aye, Yer Grace,” the driver called back. “We can keep travelling along this road and get to a little village called Seabridge Gate. It’s quaint and quiet but it’s our best bet for a night’s reprieve from the storm.”
“Sounds good,” he called back, settling into his seat, the knot in his chest unfurling a bit. At least for today, the decision had been made not to go on. But that feeling of relief only lasted for a bit as the rain pummeled the carriage, the wind driving the water near sideways.
Another five minutes passed as Chase watched the ocean, the waves growing large and furious as they beat against the shore but soon the rain dulled even the view of the ocean’s anger.
“Yer Grace,” his driver hollered over the beating wind. “I see a home up ahead. Should we stop and seek shelter?”
He grimaced. The notion of asking a complete stranger for help filled him with dread. Who knew what he would find? “How much longer until we reach the village?”
“I don’t rightly reckon,” the driver answered. “But we’re getting near soaked out here.”
Chase sighed. “You’re right. Let’s stop.” His valet and footman were also in attendance and while the footman was used to such conditions, his valet, Mr. Wendel, was not. Besides, no man should be out in a storm like this.
The carriage pulled up the drive, long and sweeping, rising up a hill. Not only would they be safe from the wrath of the ocean, they’d likely have excellent views. Soon, a stately manor house appeared and in moments, staff flooded out the doors to greet the unexpected guests.
Stepping down from the carriage, he followed a well-trained butler into a large entry. A portly but jovial fellow dressed in an immaculate evening coat swept down the stairs. “Welcome,” he called as if Chase were an expected guest. “Welcome to Highland Manor. I am the Honorable Thomas Moorish. Whom do I have the honor of addressing?”
Chase gave a slight bow of his head, putting on his best dukely façade. “The Duke of Rathmore, at your service.”
The man’s eyes widened. “Your
