The Duke's Holiday Read Online Free PDF Page A
Author: Maggie Fenton
least Marlowe was,
with his rumpled clothes, slight paunch, shaggy black mane, and permanent state
of intoxication. Sherbrook was a bit harder to categorize. He was always
smartly enough turned out…
All right, so Sherbrook was a bit of a man-milliner, as
evidenced by his current attire. He was at the moment wearing a pink waistcoat
embroidered with silver thread and a matching coat cut to his elegant form like
a second skin, Brussels lace spilling out of the sleeves. All of his fingers
were encircled with bejeweled rings, and not one, not two, but … five? watch fobs and gold chains
criss-crossed his abdomen. He wore the encrustation of lace and gold and jewels
with a lackadaisical elegance no other English gentleman had yet matched,
though they had tried.
And he always managed to convey the impression from his
dashed off cravat and carefully mussed hair of having tumbled out of bed. The
ladies were mad for Sherbrook.
Less so for Marlowe, who had the ruddy complexion and
slightly bloated abdomen of a dedicated sot. He cared nothing for his wardrobe,
and would as soon – and often did – go out in public in his
dressing gown and a pair of sandals he had acquired on a trip to Greece, his
toes hanging out for the entire world to see. Marlowe prized comfort above all
else.
But it was universally agreed by both sexes that the
gentlemen in question were the worst libertines in England. Worse than Byron
and his cronies, who were mere featherweights in comparison. The pair of them
had failed out of Cambridge, and after a Particular Incident involving
Sherbrook’s contemptible uncle and Marlowe’s fist (which was referenced among
the three friends as a deed better left unexplained), the pair, with Montford’s
help, promptly bought commissions in the army, and gambled, wenched, and
brawled their way through Spain and Portugal.
After they were simultaneously injured at Badajoz and
decamped to London as War Heroes, no gaming hell, racetrack, brothel, or any
other den of iniquity had been spared their attentions. They only occasionally
set their unwilling Hessians in respectable venues, having been dragged there
by Montford or Marlowe’s long-suffering sister, the Countess of Brinderley.
Despite their reputations, Marlowe and Sherbrook were
beloved by the ton , which didn’t
surprise Montford, since he knew they were the source of society’s juiciest
gossip. Marlowe was sought after for his genial, slightly inebriated good humor
and his instinctive knowledge of horseflesh. And the ladies collectively
swooned at Sherbrook’s feet, as he was regarded as the Singlemost Beautiful Man
in London.
This was according to the Times .
That same publication had often wondered over Montford’s
unerring association with the two rogues, as His Grace was – also
according to the Times – a
Pillar of Moral and Sartorial Rectitude and a Creature Not Quite Flesh and
Blood. Montford was equally baffled over his friendship, but it had been the
case that ever since their days at Harrow, he, Sherbrook, and Marlowe had been
inseparable. He supposed he was cast rather in the role of older brother,
extricating the two of them from various scrapes, urging caution at the gaming
tables and exhorting them to please, for
the love of God, make sure the wench is clean before you stick it there . That sort of thing.
When he’d migrated to London after Cambridge ( he had not flunked out), Marlowe and
Sherbrook had greeted him with open arms, and had urged him to “cut a dash”
with them. Which meant gaming, wenching, and racing his way through the Season.
But while his best friends had become the Worst Libertines in London, somehow
he had not qualified for such a lofty sobriquet.
After all, someone had to keep a level head in order to rescue Marlowe and Sherbrook from the
worst of their excesses, scare off whoever it was spoiling for a fight with
them, and carry them to their beds when they lost the ability to stand.
Montford was Montford, and
with his rumpled clothes, slight paunch, shaggy black mane, and permanent state
of intoxication. Sherbrook was a bit harder to categorize. He was always
smartly enough turned out…
All right, so Sherbrook was a bit of a man-milliner, as
evidenced by his current attire. He was at the moment wearing a pink waistcoat
embroidered with silver thread and a matching coat cut to his elegant form like
a second skin, Brussels lace spilling out of the sleeves. All of his fingers
were encircled with bejeweled rings, and not one, not two, but … five? watch fobs and gold chains
criss-crossed his abdomen. He wore the encrustation of lace and gold and jewels
with a lackadaisical elegance no other English gentleman had yet matched,
though they had tried.
And he always managed to convey the impression from his
dashed off cravat and carefully mussed hair of having tumbled out of bed. The
ladies were mad for Sherbrook.
Less so for Marlowe, who had the ruddy complexion and
slightly bloated abdomen of a dedicated sot. He cared nothing for his wardrobe,
and would as soon – and often did – go out in public in his
dressing gown and a pair of sandals he had acquired on a trip to Greece, his
toes hanging out for the entire world to see. Marlowe prized comfort above all
else.
But it was universally agreed by both sexes that the
gentlemen in question were the worst libertines in England. Worse than Byron
and his cronies, who were mere featherweights in comparison. The pair of them
had failed out of Cambridge, and after a Particular Incident involving
Sherbrook’s contemptible uncle and Marlowe’s fist (which was referenced among
the three friends as a deed better left unexplained), the pair, with Montford’s
help, promptly bought commissions in the army, and gambled, wenched, and
brawled their way through Spain and Portugal.
After they were simultaneously injured at Badajoz and
decamped to London as War Heroes, no gaming hell, racetrack, brothel, or any
other den of iniquity had been spared their attentions. They only occasionally
set their unwilling Hessians in respectable venues, having been dragged there
by Montford or Marlowe’s long-suffering sister, the Countess of Brinderley.
Despite their reputations, Marlowe and Sherbrook were
beloved by the ton , which didn’t
surprise Montford, since he knew they were the source of society’s juiciest
gossip. Marlowe was sought after for his genial, slightly inebriated good humor
and his instinctive knowledge of horseflesh. And the ladies collectively
swooned at Sherbrook’s feet, as he was regarded as the Singlemost Beautiful Man
in London.
This was according to the Times .
That same publication had often wondered over Montford’s
unerring association with the two rogues, as His Grace was – also
according to the Times – a
Pillar of Moral and Sartorial Rectitude and a Creature Not Quite Flesh and
Blood. Montford was equally baffled over his friendship, but it had been the
case that ever since their days at Harrow, he, Sherbrook, and Marlowe had been
inseparable. He supposed he was cast rather in the role of older brother,
extricating the two of them from various scrapes, urging caution at the gaming
tables and exhorting them to please, for
the love of God, make sure the wench is clean before you stick it there . That sort of thing.
When he’d migrated to London after Cambridge ( he had not flunked out), Marlowe and
Sherbrook had greeted him with open arms, and had urged him to “cut a dash”
with them. Which meant gaming, wenching, and racing his way through the Season.
But while his best friends had become the Worst Libertines in London, somehow
he had not qualified for such a lofty sobriquet.
After all, someone had to keep a level head in order to rescue Marlowe and Sherbrook from the
worst of their excesses, scare off whoever it was spoiling for a fight with
them, and carry them to their beds when they lost the ability to stand.
Montford was Montford, and