Chapter One
Hells bells, Dylan hated these sorts of parties.
Loathed them, actually.
To be honest, he didn’t like anything that involved society or the ton.
Awkward, considering he was a marquess.
Dylan Amesbury, Marquess of Milton, leaned against the wall with his arms crossed as he watched a sea of dancers sway back and forth in front of him, his face set in an annoyed frown.
He much preferred to spend his time at his secret gaming hell, the Den of Sins, or at his boxing club, or to be absolutely clear, having his fingernails ripped off one by one.
He wasn’t meant for this sort of life, never had been. A fact his family was often fond of reminding him.
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 death bed were, “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, exotic beauties, and everyday 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.