Duke of Scandal (Moonlight Square, Book 1) Read online

  As if he was.

  Poor tots. Some examples you’ve got for parents. With a frown, he pulled the high-stepping pair of bays hitched to his flashy curricle to a halt before the quaint pastoral cottage he had bought for his wee daughter, Annabelle, to grow up in.

  The little stinker was as cute as a whole jar full of buttons and had him wrapped around her wee finger, but as he set the brake, he doubted that his daughter’s sheer adorability would matter much to Miss Carvel.

  Felicity could flirt with him all she liked—God knew he had enjoyed it. Craved more of it with every fiber of his being. But she had no real idea what she was getting into with him and all the untidy baggage of his life as a notorious rakehell.

  In truth, Jason wasn’t even sure what was happening between them—or if anything should—but he was fairly confident she’d back out fast if she knew about his babies.

  Her brother knew. Hell, Pete was Simon’s godfather, and his awareness of Jason’s little by-blows was part of the reason his friend did not want him courting Felicity.

  “It would be different if you ever meant to change,” Pete had confided to him in slurred tones one night when they had been out drinking. “But let’s be honest, man. Simon and Annie are probably just the first of many.”

  Jason had been annoyed at this charge. “I could change if I felt like it,” he had slurred back at his friend.

  Pete had laughed. “You don’t want to!”

  “I don’t even know why you’re saying this to me. Godssakes, man, I have no designs on your sister.”

  “Just saying she might have designs on you. She worships the ground you walk on, mate.”

  He had snorted. “Felicity’s just a schoolgirl with a little infatuation. It’ll pass.” Uncomfortable with the conversation, he had shouted to the barkeep over the pub’s noise to fetch them another round.

  After that, Jason had made a hobby out of staying away from Felicity out of respect for her brother, and from the simple fact that he did not really believe his own claim that he could change.

  People didn’t change, much. Or if they did, it was usually for the worse. But even if he could somehow mend his wicked ways, there still remained the fact that matters of the heart baffled him.

  He had plenty of experience with sex, but love, on the other hand, bewildered him—a fact he masked, as a rule, with cynicism and scorn. In reality, he was terrified of ever opening his heart and letting himself be vulnerable, for what if his love was not returned?

  Wouldn’t that be poetic justice for a scoundrel, after all? And what then? How would he react to not getting his way when he always got everything he wanted? He was not sure he wanted to learn that degree of truth about himself. But so it was with love.

  His money couldn’t buy it. His power couldn’t enforce it. His title could not procure it for him. Love was a gift freely given or it was nothing at all. And that meant if he let himself need it, he could end up totally helpless to seize the thing on which he knew his very survival could come to depend.

  And if he were denied the one he wanted, why, then he would probably have a temper tantrum of epic proportions.

  Just like his little boy.

  Was he prepared to let Felicity reduce him to that? To what he had once been? A crazed child howling in fury at the top of his lungs for the comforting embrace of someone who wasn’t coming, who simply wasn’t interested, and forgot about him the minute the front door closed once again.

  Out of sight, out of mind.

  His parents had been too busy hating each other and escaping each other to bother loving him. He was naught but a reminder to them both of their mutual distaste, and neither of them had ever really claimed him.

  The only true family he had ever known was when he’d found a brother in Pete.

  With a grim set to his mouth, he went and knocked dutifully on the cottage door, only to learn that Annabelle was sleeping. He immediately cursed himself for managing to come right at his daughter’s naptime. Helen, Annie’s nurse, offered with obvious reluctance to wake the girl up, but Jason shook his head. Not even he was that much of a selfish boor. He had learned by now that the midday nap was vital for a tot. If he threw Annie off her schedule, she’d be fussy all day.

  “I’ll come back later,” he whispered. “How’s she doing, anyway?”

  They chatted for a minute in low tones on his little daughter’s progress.

  “She hasn’t climbed out of her crib again in the middle of the night, has she?” he asked.

  “Oh, no, sir. I think she learned her lesson after she bumped her head.”

  Helen reported that Annie’s growing insistence on doing things herself continued apace, no matter if the simple tasks, such as washing her hands or putting on her shoes took three times longer without adult assistance. Jason grinned to hear of his daughter’s independent spirit. Of course, on a louder note, the two-year-old still resorted to angry shrieks of frustration when she found she did not yet have enough words to communicate her wishes. At other times, she made up new words entirely, mystifying everyone around her, the little charmer. Jason shook his head fondly, glad to hear that all was well.

  “She keeps me on m’feet, that one,” Helen said with a fond chuckle.

  “Thanks for all you do for her.” He slipped the woman a few pounds as a token of his appreciation. She looked her surprise. The vail was quite unexpected, since she was already quite well compensated. “You know to contact me if you ever have any problems with the babe, or her mother, yes?”

  “Yes, Your Grace. And thank you very much, sir!”

  He smiled and took leave of her with a nod, still feeling guilty that he did not even know his own daughter’s daily naptime.

  It had him feeling like a failure even before he arrived to visit the little barbarian, his son.

  In the second, cozy, whitewashed cottage a mile away, all was in neat and tidy order, just like the first. Bright blooms burgeoned in the flowerboxes, and delicious smells floated from the kitchen in the back.

  The housekeeper let him in with a wreath of rosy smiles. Hat in one hand, the expected tithe of a toy in the other, he stepped into the parlor and waited for his son to be dragged in to see him.

  Simon soon marched in, his dark mahogany hair smoothed to the side and his wee cravat straightened, steered by Nurse Jane’s hand planted on his shoulder; the four-year-old glared at him, this large, unwanted intruder who had dared interrupt his playtime yet again.

  Jason, for his part, couldn’t help smiling in spite of the boy’s scowl. “Hullo, son.”

  Nurse Jane gave him a nudge. “Be polite to your father.”

  “Sir,” Simon answered with a begrudging little bow.

  “Come and sit with me.” Jason headed for the sofa. “Tell me what you have been doing since I saw you last.”

  Simon neither came near nor answered. He stuck his finger in his mouth and looked up at his nurse.

  “Why don’t you tell him the joke you told me the other day about the numbers?” Jane urged.

  “I forget it,” Simon mumbled around his finger.

  Jane bent down and whispered something in his ear, then the boy grinned.

  “Why was six afraid of seven?” Simon blurted out.

  This was good, Jason thought. “Hmm. I have no idea. Why?”

  “Because seven…ate…nine.”

  Jason laughed. “Ah, that’s a good one.”

  Simon looked exceedingly pleased with himself.

  “Sounds like you’ve been working on your numbers as well as your jokes. What about your letters?” Jason ventured after a moment.

  “Oh, he’s been getting very good at his penmanship, Your Grace,” Jane offered. “Would you like to see?”

  “Please.”

  The nurse reached into her pocket and pulled out a folded piece of paper on which Simon had written his name. She handed it to Jason.

  “Well, this is very good!” he said, his heart clenching at the backward letters S and N
in Simon’s autograph.

  He’d get there.

  “I can tell you must be working hard on this,” he added.

  The boy eyed him skeptically, then glanced around Jason’s feet, searching for the expected toy.

  Jason had placed it on top of the cabinet by the wall, knowing what would happen as soon as he gave it to him. He’d run off with it and that would be that.

  “It’s a nice day out,” Jason said. “Would you like to go play ball in the garden?”

  For some reason, the invitation seemed to annoy the child. “I already did, with Nurse Jane! You weren’t here,” he said reproachfully. “Where’s my toy?”

  “Simon!” Jane scolded.

  “I don’t want to!” he sassed her.

  “That’s no way to talk to your father. Apologize at once!”

  “It’s all right,” Jason mumbled. “I can see he is annoyed with me.”

  As usual.

  “We don’t have to play ball if you don’t want to, lad. I’m sure we can find something else interesting to do.”

  Simon didn’t answer. Having stuck the dagger of his indifference into his father’s heart, he had taken cover on the couch and was hiding his head under a throw pillow, watching Jason from underneath it.

  Feeling increasingly inept, Jason cast about for anything that might impress his son. “I know! I could take you out for a drive in my curricle. I’ll make the horses run fast…”

  Simon perked up at this, lifting the pillow off his head with guarded interest, but Nurse Jane winced and shook her head.

  “Er, sir…? I’m very sorry, Your Grace, but an open carriage really isn’t safe for a small child. It would be too easy for him to fall out.”

  “Aw, Nurse Jane!” Simon whined.

  Even Jason wanted to argue, but when he thought of the sleek, open chassis of his favorite driving vehicle, he realized she was right. The flashy vehicle was a gentleman’s toy, meant for adults. With nothing to restrain him, the tot would probably tumble off the seat and under the wheels if they hit a bump.

  “Of course,” Jason mumbled, feeling more and more like the worst parent on earth by the second.

  Nurse Jane gave him a sympathetic frown, as if to say that at least she could see he was trying.

  “But I want to go!” Simon insisted.

  “Nurse Jane’s right, son. It’s not safe. I’m sorry I suggested it. When you’re bigger, I promise you we’ll go. I might even let you drive it.”

  “But I am big! Mama says I’m the man of the house now.”

  “No, you’re not. You’re just a little boy,” Jason said impatiently. “Now, stop whining! I am your father and you will listen to me whether you like it or not. The answer is no.”

  Simon pressed his lips shut abruptly, unaccustomed to being reprimanded in such a firm tone. He blinked, staring back at Jason with brown eyes so like his own.

  And then his lower lip started trembling.

  “Oh no, you don’t…”

  Brilliant, he scolded himself acidly. You’re here ten minutes and already you make the boy cry. What a wonderful father!

  “I brought you something. Want to see?” Feeling rather desperate, he rose to get the present. “Close your eyes.”

  The prospect of the expected gift halted Simon’s tears before they started.

  He must’ve learned that trick from his mother, Jason thought. “Go on, close ’em.”

  When Simon had done so, Jason reached up and took the toy off the cabinet and hid it behind his back. “Now open them. Which hand?”

  Simon actually smiled. He rolled off the couch and came over to him with a finger tugging shyly at his mouth. The hip-high boy leaned to the right and the left, trying to see behind Jason’s back, but Jason moved away with a grin, preventing him, and trying with all his might to show the son who considered him little more than a stranger that he wasn’t all that bad.

  “Hey!” Giggling, Simon kept trying to get it, and Jason kept eluding him.

  “What’s wrong? Can’t you find it?” he teased.

  He did not want this small, sweet moment to end, for he knew from experience what would happen as soon as Simon got his hands on the gift.

  Sure enough, when the boy finally seized the wooden pull toy in the shape of a horse, he snatched it out of Jason’s hands and ran off without so much as a thank-you.

  “You’re welcome!” he called after him, but his son pounded off, clutching the offering.

  Simon slammed the door to his bedchamber, either to play with the toy by himself or merely to toss the latest trinket onto the pile with all the other useless baubles and amusements that were, in truth, no substitute for what the child really craved.

  “I’ll go get him,” Nurse Jane said in distress.

  “It’s all right,” Jason said, crestfallen. “I’d say that was one of our better visits, actually. At least this time he didn’t kick me. Let’s not spoil it.”

  He made sure Jane had everything the boy required these days, asked where his mother was, and learned that Chloe had trundled off to Brighton on the arm of Lord Hayworth, of all people.

  Jason nearly choked at this news, but apparently, the rich, drunken, older marquess had finally found the perfect way to get back at his cheating wife for her many affairs. His taking up with a voluptuous young actress was sure to annoy even the infamous Lady Hayworth, and perhaps give her pause in her endless pursuit of younger men.

  But, damn it, Jason did not want the mother of his son getting caught in the middle of Lord and Lady Hayworth’s disastrous marriage. The boy was already confused enough about couples and families…

  Gritting his teeth, Jason soon walked out, feeling powerless and utterly depressed by the visit.

  His exasperation with Chloe aside, his heart ached for his lonely, angry, disappointed son. Simon surely didn’t understand why his mum was never there, why he wasn’t allowed to live with his father, nor even his baby sister, and he was too young to have the ways of the world explained to him quite yet.

  Even Jason knew it would have given both children a greater sense of family and stability if they could’ve at least lived under the same roof. But their mothers had always been rival courtesans in the demimonde, and would not hear of sharing a house with the enemy.

  They despised each other even more than they both despised him. Moreover, each woman felt that having given the Duke of Netherford a beautiful, healthy child, a nice house of her own was the least she was entitled to.

  Jason couldn’t really argue with that. They always knew how to stifle his protests with tears and reminders that he wasn’t the one who’d had to go through labor, anyway.

  In short, he kept his mouth shut and his coin purse open, and gave his former concubines whatever they bloody well wanted. It was all he really could do, considering that at the end of the day, he had no idea how to be a proper, loving father. Where would he have learned this mysterious art?

  His own father had been as much of a stranger to him as he was to Simon—and Jason had been the legitimate heir!

  Instead, the only pattern he had to follow was the one he had received from his own cold sire—distance and formality—and he hated it. But he somehow couldn’t figure out how to do it differently. How to bridge the gap.

  All he ever felt regarding his by-blows was guilty, and the guilt made him want to stay away.

  Feeling like hell, he decided to comfort himself by paying a call on Felicity.

  Just thinking of her made him feel somewhat better. He wondered what mischief the chit was getting up to today…

  When he arrived at her Mayfair address, he jumped down from his curricle and led the horses into the passage to the mews behind her house. He hitched his team to a post there, out of sight. He didn’t intend to stay long, but he did not wish to cause any undue gossip with his repeated visits.

  After leaving his carriage out of view, he headed toward the front entrance again, but just as he stepped past the corner of her house, he sp
otted a phaeton buzzing down the street toward him.

  On it sat two of her new admirers from the night of the concert. At once, Jason ducked back and pressed himself against the wall until they had driven by.

  The two bachelors continued on around the corner, gawking at her residence as they passed, their intentions clear. They, too, meant to call on her.

  Damn. Jason did not feel like sharing her just now. Scowling in the shadows, he waited until the interlopers had passed before striding quickly to her front door.

  He believed her would-be suitors had merely driven around the corner, circling the house while they worked up their nerve before coming up to knock on the door.

  Idiots.

  He did so with no such compunctions. But while he waited for her butler to answer, he glanced around hurriedly, impatient to be let in before the fools returned.

  Still no one answered. He furrowed his brow, however, for he could hear voices from inside. Then he heard banging. He knocked again, louder this time, and waited only another moment before grasping the handle and letting himself in. He was, after all, an old friend, and suddenly, he was a bit worried by the noise. Was something wrong in there?

  “Hullo?” he called as he stepped into the foyer, taking off his hat. “Anybody home?”

  There was no sign of the servants, but as he shut the door behind him, he could hear a commotion coming from down the hallway. “Miss Carvel?”

  Venturing into the house, he found the parlor all aflutter. The butler and footman were moving furniture back and forth to Felicity’s impatient specifications, while the maid was up on a stepladder banging a nail into the wall.

  Ah, he thought, still rather bemused. At least the hammering explained why nobody had heard him. But he still wasn’t sure what all was going on here. On the center table, furniture catalogs lay open, along with a loop of fabric swatches.

  “No, that’s too far.” Felicity waved the footman and butler to the right. “Go back. No, not too much. There! Now for the cabinet.”

  When the maid stopped tapping the nail into the wall, she hung up a small botanical print beneath the nature sketch of a butterfly’s cocoon.