The Lure of a Rake (The Heart of a Duke #9)(8)

Now, his father dangled a not unfamiliar threat over Cedric’s proverbial head. He swirled the contents of his glass and stared into the burgundy depths. The rub of it was…he’d no doubt his father would ultimately make good on his promise and cut him off if he were to fail the Falcot line.

His lips hardened into a tight line. Yet, Cedric would sooner lob off his right arm and left hand than enter into a union for the purpose of propagating the world with legitimate issue bearing his tainted blood. For all the ways in which he had been a selfish bastard through the years, he was not the complete one Society believed him to be. He’d not destroy a wife and ruin a child the way he had been at his parents’ hands. For ultimately, blood let, and blood will tell, and every other cliché statement made about the power of blood.

Cedric, however, did not require those cleverly written words to indicate what he’d learned long, long ago. He was his father’s son. And as such, he would never fill the world with miserable bastards like himself.

A knock sounded and he looked up blankly. Thrusting aside the memories of long ago, he called out, “Enter.”

Avis opened the door and the introduction died on his lips as he took in the crystal mess littering the floor. “The Earl of Montfort to see you, my lord.”

Daniel Winterbourne, the Earl of Montfort, his only friend, another miserable blighter who possessed a dark soul, scowled. From the hard glint in his brown eyes to the notoriously shocking reputation, the earl matched Cedric in his world of wariness and cynicism. “Montfort,” he greeted as the other man entered the room.

Montfort stalked over to the sideboard and then paused. He eyed Cedric’s jacket and gaping shirt, and then the mess left in the duke’s wake. “I see you’ve had company.” A sardonic smile formed on the man’s lips. “Next time you’re with an inventive whore, tell the lady to spare the brandy. Not even a whore should come between a man and his good spirits.” With a chuckle, the earl swiped a bottle of whiskey. He poured two glasses and then with one outstretched, made his way over to the seat opposite Cedric.

Cedric waved off the offering and set down his still full drink. The lure of spirits had, of late, lost their potent dulling of thought and emotion.

His friend waggled his eyebrows. “More for me then,” he lifted both in salute and with a grip on both glasses, proceeded to drink.

“Well?” Cedric drawled, sitting back in his seat.

Montfort froze, the glass midway to his mouth. “Well?”

Cedric lifted an eyebrow. “So what is the reason for your visit?” After all, life and time had long proven that no one did anything without specific reason or personal benefit; and that included those one considered friends.

The earl flashed him a hurt stare. “I am offended, chap. Can’t a friend simply pay a visit to…” At the pointed look shot his way, a chuckle rumbled past the other man’s lips. “There is wagering going on at Forbidden Pleasures.”

The more scandalous of the gaming hells, it was a place frequented by lechers, scoundrels, and rakes. All were men bent on their personal gratifications in a place devoid of even the fa?ade of politeness or decency. As such, it had proven the perfect place for a man of Cedric’s ilk.

When he remained silent, a sound of annoyance escaped Montfort and he put one snifter down. “Bloody hell, man, would you have me say it? The wagering is about you and your intentions for this evening.”

“Oh?” Cedric hooked his ankle across the opposite knee. Having known the other man since they’d been boys at Eton, he well knew Montfort was not beyond coming here to influence the wagering he no doubt had steep funds in. The earl was also desperate. He’d inherited a mountainous debt from the previous earl. His circumstances had not been improved by Montfort’s own excessive wagering and, even more, excessive losing.

“Your clubs or the duke’s ball.” The earl took a long swallow of his drink. “I, of course, wagered on the former.”

They’d be wrong on both scores. Cedric didn’t have a bloody intention of attending either this evening. “I haven’t decided,” he said noncommittally.

The other man choked on his drink. “Yes, no doubt,” he said with droll humor after he’d finished his sip. “I am certain the first place you’ll care to be is at that miserable bastard’s polite affair.” He spoke as one who knew Cedric; who knew the lifelong loathing he’d carried for his sire. He knew the only places Cedric had ever truly been comfortable were those dens of sin, where he felt less alone in the evil in his blood.

Finishing off his first whiskey, Montfort promptly consumed the other in a long, slow swallow. He grimaced and then set his empty glass aside. “Shall we?” he asked, climbing to his feet.

Neither was the earl above trying to influence the wager, it would seem. Then, Cedric had long ago ceased being shocked by a person’s depravity and weakness. “Perhaps, I will join you later,” he said.

Despite the low he’d sunk to in life, he’d not enter the living looking like he’d been roused from the streets of London.

A grin formed on the other man’s lips, which Cedric wagered had not a jot to do with his actual promise of company. “Splendid,” Montfort said and thumped him on the back as he passed.

After he’d gone and Cedric was, at last, alone, he gathered his black jacket and shrugged into it. When had joining his clubs bore the same appeal as spending an evening amidst polite Society? Forbidden Pleasures and the other hells he’d frequented over the years had been the few places he’d felt he belonged, with other like people—equally emotionless and jaded. He’d studiously avoided those polite balls and soirees. Somewhere along the way, there’d become a tedium to both.