Sins of a Wicked Duke by Sophie Jordan

description, but how else could he explain the constant thoughts of her that besieged him? Unfortunate that he would never see her again.
    His grandfather’s voice dragged his thoughts from Fallon O’Rourke. “I raised you to be God-fearing.”
    Fear. Yes, the man before him had taught him a great deal about fear. In ways he could never forget. He recalled the heavy tread of Mrs. Pearce’s approaching steps in the nursery. The stinging fall of a cane on his back. The burn of a white-hot poker against the palm of his hand. Cold, endless nights spent on his knees on the hard chapel floor, stomach cramping from days of fasting. Mrs. Pearce had been larger than life itself. Dominic’s world. The world his grandfather had seen fit to assign him.
    And his world had been misery.
    His heart was a cold stone in his chest as he stared at the only family left to him, the man that had given that woman power over him. “I would rather serve the devil than serveyour God.”
    “Blasphemy!”
    Dominic smiled harshly, perversely pleased to provoke him. “I suppose Mrs. Pearce didn’t beat and starve the devil out of me as a lad.”
    His grandfather raked him with a withering stare where he reclined on the bed. His hands flexed on the brass head of the cane.
    A long moment passed before the old man turned and walked from the room, the thump of his cane gradually fading.
    Falling back on the bed, Dominic felt like a pugilist having won a scrap. Why, then, did he not feel more triumphant?
     

Chapter 9
    Fallon paused amid lighting the hall sconces, watching as the valet stomped down the corridor, muttering indecipherably. As he neared, she saw that his face burned an unattractive shade of red.
    She didn’t need to hear him to guess at his words—more recriminations against his employer. Every time he entered the kitchens, it was to express his outrage over the duke behaving in an incorrigible fashion. She recalled Mr. Adams’s insistence that serving the duke was a privilege. Apparently Diddlesworth did not ascribe to the notion.
    It had not taken her long to learn the older gentleman who called earlier was Rupert Collins, a former vicar and the duke’s grandfather. Unbelievable as it seemed, the demon duke descended from an esteemed member of the church. Nor had it taken long to learn of the duke’s descent into a bottle of Madeira immediately following the visit.
    Later, the duke had stepped out, only to return hours later, bleeding and bruised from a brawl he had started at one of his clubs. At least that was the rumor circulating the household. Recalling the wicked behavior she had observed thus far, she suspected it was to be believed.
    Diddlesworth’s eyes alighted on her. His scowl deepened. “What are you looking at?”
    Fallon turned her attention to the next sconce. Diddlesworth stopped at her side. “Here, lad. Make yourself useful.” He thrust a tray at Fallon, which she fumbled to grasp. “Take this downstairs and return with some brandy.”
    “Brandy,” she echoed, quite sure she had just heard, among his mutterings, him calling the duke a bloody sot.
    “Yes, brandy.” He rolled his eyes. “His Grace wants to drink himself into a stupor, so snap to it, boy.”
    Fallon turned, stopping when the door to the master bedchamber swung open. Frozen, she and Diddlesworth both gawked as the duke emerged, dressed in black evening attire. He held himself erect, his carriage proud. Absurd considering his swollen eye and bloodied lip. He gave no indication that he was even aware of his injury. Nor that he had spent the day overimbibing.
    Diddlesworth rushed forward, grasping the duke’s elbow. “Your Grace, let me assist you back to your room.”
    The duke shook off the other man’s hand, replying in such a level voice that Fallon wondered if the prissy valet had not perhaps exaggerated his inebriated condition. “If you want to do something for me, Diddledeedee, I recommend you have a carriage brought around.”
    As