Page 11 of My Dearest Duke

Kingston reached the end of the street, having been unable to force himself to enter Fortuna for his appointment with the infamous matchmaker. His steps slowed, then stopped altogether.

Choosing to walk rather than ride Tito, his chestnut gelding, had seemed a good choice earlier. He’d needed to work off a degree of tension before his meeting at The Sword and Shield, and a brisk walk was just the thing. But now, he couldn’t kick Tito’s coppery sides and thunder away from Whitechapel as if the very flames of hell lapped at his heels.

He stood there for an interminable moment, head tucked to his chest and shoulders slumped, fighting an inner battle.

Flee or turn around?

He knew what he must do.

Pride and self-respect be hanged.

At last, drawing in a shuddery breath until his lungs ached from the fullness, Kingston swept a slightly tremorous hand over his face.

God, how had he come to this?

Relying upon the infamous Wicked Widow of Whitechapel to arrange a match for him?

Pointing his gaze skyward, he studied the cloud-strewn sky. A few intrepid stars managed to twinkle through the sooty haze that inevitably hovered over London.

Bloody stars.

Daring to shine cheerily amid the perpetual gloom.

Daring to stir Kingston’s hope. That perhaps—just perhaps—this impossibly idiotic, imbecilic thing he was considering might turn out well in the end.

“Merde.”

Merde was a wholly insufficient expletive to describe the raging inferno gyrating within him.

Bloody sodding bollocks.

Sod fate and providence and destiny.

Sod Father, frittering away the family’s modest fortune and Kingston having to marry a stranger for hers. Sod the war and Odriana Janssen’s treachery, and sod the bloody urgent letter he’d given to Gabriel to deliver to Colonel Pountney in his stead.

Kingston squeezed his eyes shut, unable to breathe as white-hot pain slashed him in unrepentant waves. Bile burned his throat, and guilt pumped blood through a heart so badly mangled from grief and recrimination that he wondered how it could still beat.

And sod you, Gabriel, for being such a bloody loyal and unselfish friend. It saw you killed.

Jaw clamped so hard his facial muscles spasmed and the bones might shatter, Kingston spun on his heels. Lengthening his stride, he strode back to Fortuna. Every step threatened to dislodge his teeth and rendered another crack in his already fractured soul.

The whisky he’d consumed earlier seemed to have evaporated, for every thought was needle-sharp. Every movement, a jagged saber twist to his gut.

This was his penance for being a selfish bastard and costing Gabriel his life.

He snorted loudly, startling a pair of scrawny cats creeping along the pavement. With frightened hisses, they tore off in the opposite direction.

A few minutes later, Kingston once more stood before the unassuming building. Filling his lungs with a fortifying, if not precisely refreshing breath, he stepped forward and rapped briskly upon the door before he could change his mind again.

At once, the panel swung open, and an intimidating Goliath of a man stared at him with narrowed, suspicious eyes.

“Kingston Barclay to see Mrs. Dorrian-Lane. She’s expecting me,” Kingston added for good measure. Though the unsmiling brute with deep creases lining his forehead probably already knew that fact.

Kingston would wager there was very little this man didn’t know about the goings-on within the walls of Fortuna.

Suspicion etched deep furrows into the man’s broad face, but he wordlessly moved aside.

Kingston stepped across the threshold, unable to keep from sweeping his curious gaze over the opulent entry. It fairly screeched, “Look at me. See, my magnificence meant to impress you.”