When to Dare a Dishonorable Duke (Romancing the Rake 7)

Rathmore frowned and Raithe realized he should get this conversation moving before the men squabbled. That could come later. “Gentlemen,” he started, clearing his throat. “I’m having a party at the end of next week. You are the premier guests on the list.”

Crestwood slapped the table, his attitude completely changing. “Now we’re getting somewhere.”

Craven continued to grimace, his face a complete mask. “What sort of party?”

“The sort men of your kind would like.” He winked. Raithe had a particular sort of reputation for having parties filled with women and liquor. That wasn’t what this was going to be and so he wouldn’t outwardly promise such delights. It would give him plausible deniability later.

Rathmore dropped his arms to his sides. “Next week? I couldn’t possibly.”

Raithe tried not to frown. The duke, once a notorious rake, had hardly been seen at the gaming hells or at parties of ill repute. Coupled with his comments to Crestwood, that made him the most important candidate of them all.

Hartwell stepped forward. “We’re headed to the coast to check in on some of our properties.”

Excellent. He tightened his grip around his glass. “Then you’ll be close to my home. Surely, you can spend a few days with us.”

Hartwell shook his head. “My sister will be travelling with me. I seriously doubt she is suited to one of your parties.”

Raithe didn’t respond. This gathering would be perfectly appropriate for such a lady, but he wasn’t about to tell them all of that. Besides, Charlie was the last woman he wanted in his house, under his roof, near his bed. “That doesn’t mean Rathmore can’t attend. For a few days at least.” He leaned forward. “Tell me you’re not craving something different.”

He saw the flicker of indecision in the other man’s eyes.

Victory roared in his blood.

“Count me in,” Crestwood cr

owed. “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

Mrs. Cassandra Winterset sat in an overstuffed leather chair near the fire, assessing the flames as they danced in the grate. Outside the clouds rolled overhead, splattering the windows with rain. The perfect backdrop for her mood.

It was summer, and the sun had been shining for nearly a week straight, mocking her inner turmoil with its bright, warm cheeriness. But finally a cold front had rolled in, bathing the house in frigid rain and allowing her to sit in front of a fire and…brood.

She smiled at the word, normally better suited for a man but it fit her today as she reflected on the past four years of her life. Her smile slipped as she rested her chin on one of her palms.

Two and twenty and already a widow. And a penniless one at that.

The flames crackled, spraying a shower of sparks along the grate. She’d married her childhood friend, the Honorable John Williams Winterset, at the tender age of eighteen because he’d needed her, because she cared deeply for him, and because she’d had some romantic notion that this grand gesture made her a better person.

However, she’d failed to consider that marrying an already-ill man would rob her of much of her energy, youth, and vitality. And when John finally succumbed to the illness, she’d be left poor, exhausted, hurt, and devoid of a future for herself.

She shook her head, waving her thoughts away but they returned anyway. Most men of worth did not marry a woman who had no dowry, no inheritance, no proof that she’d provide a child. She’d been married for three years, after all. Most wouldn’t understand that John had been too ill for most of their marriage to participate in such amorous activities. Or perhaps they would, if they listened to her long enough for her to explain it. But many would simply pass her by as they looked at fresh-faced debutantes.