Duke of Decadence (Lords of Scandal 9)

In some ridiculous series of events, he had inherited the Milton title, which should have gone to his third cousin, Lord Henry James Marks. Then his second cousin, the Honorable Steven Winthrop. His older brother, Mr. William Amesbury would have been better but no. For some odd reason fate had placed the title in his hands. Loaded to the gills with debt, he’d been given the title and all the responsibility of turning the blasted marquisate around.

Laughable, really because of all the men who might have inherited it before him, he was the absolute worst choice. He drank, gambled, and generally skirted through life barely keeping himself out of trouble. Well, serious trouble anyhow.

His mother had gone into fits when she’d realized that he’d become the marquess. And her parting words to him on her deathbed, try not to bring the family any more shame.

He let out a long breath, shaking his head.

Three girls nearby giggled as they snapped their fans over their mouths and made eyes at him above the fluttering instruments. It was February. How could they be hot enough to fan with such vigor?

He looked away again, not bothering to even feign interest in the debutantes.

It wasn’t that he didn’t like women, he liked them very much. Short ones, tall ones, curvy ones, brash ladies who swore like sailors, and exotic beauties, and every day hard drinking women who liked a quick laugh and a bit of fun with an even quicker tumble. He’d even dallied with a few ladies of society. Widows were a personal favorite of his.

If there was one type he didn’t go for, it was the giggling, covered in lace, fan waving, marrying type.

More precisely, he didn’t mind the giggles or the lace…just the marriage part.

He let out another long breath. The very idea of tying himself to one woman left him cold deep inside. He’d been meant for life of fun, leisure, and debauchery. It’s all he’d ever been good at. Ask anyone in his family. They’d agree.

But he found himself drowning in ledgers, crop counts, and…marriage prospects.

The Den of Sins had actually helped reduce the mountain of debt he’d inherited. But he had two crumbling estates with villages that had largely been abandoned and fields that had ceased producing.

He’d attempted to think of other ways to right the title, but the only real asset he had to leverage at this point was….well…his looks.

Dylan had been born handsome. A fact he’d utilized to its fullest advantage for most of his life and one he’d use again now to repair the title and prove to his family that he was capable of doing something no one else had done in the past few generations. Be a successful marquess.

He scrubbed a hand through his hair and heard one of the ladies sigh. Longingly.

He should ask one of them to dance.

But dread churned in his stomach. He couldn’t do it.

Still, he’d have to introduce himself to one of the taffeta confections at some point. If for no other reason than he needed to discern which of these women had the largest dowry and would make for the best candidate to become a marchioness.

To a sham marquess.

Neither reared for the duty nor holding the necessary dignity for the position, he was sure to disappoint.

He looked back at the girls, picked the one with the most lace and ribbons in her hair and winked. It was the only metric he could think to choose one of them over the others.

He knew this was not how most titled lords went about courting. There were introductions and pretty words and formal dances and blah blah blah. But he didn’t have the time or energy for such pleasantries.

The sooner he wed and repaired his finances, the sooner he could go back to his old life of drinking and gaming hells. Where he was comfortable. Where he excelled.

And it turned out that debutantes and working women had a great deal in common because all three ladies blushed and giggled, and the fans moved even faster.

Perhaps courting wouldn’t be as awful as he’d imagined.

“Good evening, my lord.” An older woman stepped in front of the three young ladies and gave him a smile, coquettish and obvious as she dipped into a curtsy. “I am Lady Price, and these are my daughters, Lady Judith, Lady Penelope and Lady…” he ceased listening.

Each of the girls dipped into a matching curtsy to their mother as they lowered their fans. Judith’s bow was awkward, Penelope’s teeth were horse-like, and whatever her name was… just no.

But he stood there making polite conversation for what seemed like hours before another matron introduced herself and her daughters and then another and another.

Each more painful than the last.

Finally, not able to stand another moment, he slipped from the crowd that had developed around him and started toward the terrace. He needed air or a carriage to whisk him from this party to the nearest gentlemen’s club or, better yet, the Den of Sins. Where men unabashedly participated in cursing and drinking and womanizing.