Duke of Decadence (Lords of Scandal 9)

“Thank you,” she said, nodding as she saw Eliza waiting by the door.

Bash walked them to the end of the hall and opened a door into an alley. Several carriages sat there but the one he led them to was beautifully carved and highly polished, inlaid with bits of what must be gold. Even in the dark, it flashed with opulence.

“My driver will see you home.”

“Of course, I will, Your Grace,” the driver answered.

Her eyes widened. Your Grace? Who exactly was Bash?

Bash watched the carriage roll away, half wishing he’d climbed in and escorted the ladies home.

But he knew it was an awful idea.

He had literally been unable to keep his hands off of Isabella. After pivoting around, he headed back inside. He didn’t return to the private game room where his friends still sat. Instead, he made his way to the small private office that was just big enough to hold a desk and a few chairs.

He’d bought this club for the same reason he’d made several major decisions in his life. To thwart his father. He fisted his hands.

Not that his father was even alive to know what a disappointment his son had become. The Devil Duke had died six years prior. And that’s when Bash’s entire life had changed.

He’d been an angry, belligerent young man, one who’d been beaten down by his father’s constant disappointment and abuse. In fact, in that time, he’d boxed nearly every day as an outlet for that rage.

But with his father’s passing, he’d let the anger go. Instead, he’d taken on a carefree attitude that his father would have despised. Bash didn’t take anyone or anything seriously. Ever.

He sat in his chair, pushing back and propping his feet on the desk in a forced display of relaxing. He needed to get his head back into that space.

The one where he pretended nothing mattered. In that mindset, he was the exact opposite man from his father. Anger couldn’t touch him because he didn’t care about anything.

And he ensured he never became the Devil Duke.

Instead, he was the Duke of Decadence. He ran a hand through his hair once again. It was a habit. Not only did it relax him but it gave him that carefree, windswept appearance. But it didn’t work this time.

He was just as tense, and he was certain every line in his face was taut with strain.

A knock sounded on his office door. “Go away,” he called in answer. He needed to be alone with his thoughts.

Because he was fairly convinced he’d never wanted a woman more than he wanted Isabella. But with his wanting came…caring. And there was nothing carefree about worrying.

An image of her rose in his thoughts. Lush, full lips, chocolate brown eyes, little adorable nose. And, of course, the gentle curves of her body, completely outlined by her man’s clothing.

She’d been tall. Damn, she’d almost reached his chin. He’d been intimately aware of how she’d fit against him. Which was perfectly.

Another knock.

“I said go away,” he nearly shouted, banging a fist on the table.

“What’s wrong with you?” It wasn’t Menace, Infamy, or Blasphemy but his brother, Mason, the Earl of Baxter. He was a more silent partner in their club.

“Nothing,” Bash said, dropping his feet. “I’m in a mood. Come in.”

Baxter opened the door and stepped into the room. “You’re never in a mood. That’s your whole thing.”

“I know,” Bash replied when he realized that Menace was behind Mason. “You.” He pointed at Menace. “Can get out. I don’t want you in here.”

Menace held up his hands. “I’m very sorry that I attempted to touch her hair. It shan’t happen again, Your Grace.”

Mason quirked a brow. “Her hair? Whose hair? What’s happened?”

Menace came into the room despite the directive not to and plopped down in one of the two free chairs. “A lady gambler came in dressed as a man and cleaned the house out. Not only is she beautiful, but she can keep an entire deck of cards in her head at once.”