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cloak of detachment. Let the world think his heart was made of stone. It mattered not to him.
    He picked up the half-empty decanter and walked back to the window. The sun was starting to set, afternoon shadows lengthening. He tipped the decanter to fill his empty glass and poured the liquid with hands that trembled almost uncontrollably. It had been a long time since past regrets waged an attack with such a vengeance.
    The faces of both his young wives flashed before him. They’d both been tender and sweet in their own ways, as different as night from day, yet the same. They’d both been robbed of a lifetime of gaiety and laughter. A lifetime he’d stolen from them.
    No. He would never marry again. Having a child was risk enough to any woman. Having
his
child was a death sentence. How could he condemn another woman to the same fate?
    He took the bottle and his glass and sat down heavily in the large mahogany-colored wing chair. He propped his elbows on the padded leather arms and held the glass carefully in his hands, then rested his chin on his steepled fingers while his mind shifted to memories long buried. To the two beautiful, perfectly formed babes he’d cradled in his arms before laying them with their mothers for eternity.

    Vincent sat in his chair and watched out the window as the sky turned darker. A footman set fire to the logs when the room took on a chill, and Carver replaced the empty whiskey decanter with a new one. He’d had more to drink than was usual for him. Far more than he was used to—something he never allowed himself to do. But he wasn’t drunk. Just…numb.
    With a sad smile, he admitted that tonight he did not care. That just this once, he would allow himself to wallow in a mire of self-pity.
    He lifted the decanter he’d set on the floor and tipped more of the liquid into his glass. He took another sip of the whiskey and lowered his arm.
    “Did Your Grace wish for his carriage tonight?” Carver asked from the open doorway.
    Vincent expelled a weary sigh. “What function am I supposed to be attending, Carver?”
    “It’s Thursday, Your Grace.”
    He dropped his head back against the cushion of the chair and smiled.
    Thursday.
    “Yes, Carver. Have my carriage sent round.”
    Vincent set the glass on a nearby table and rose.
    He was never in his life so glad for a Thursday.

Chapter 4

    R aeborn stepped out of his carriage and maneuvered the walk and the five steps to the exclusive brothel he’d visited every Thursday night since his second wife’s death. His legs felt strangely relaxed from the excessive liquor he’d already consumed. He couldn’t remember ever losing such control except for the week after he’d buried his first wife. And another week after he’d buried his second. They were the only two weeks of self-pity he’d allowed himself before he stepped back into the ducal role he’d been born to live.
    Tonight, his cousin and heir was responsible for his lapse of self-control. Bloody hell, but the boy had a lot to learn. If something happened to him tonight and Kevin became the next Duke of Raeborn, everything would be lost. The wastrel didn’t have the slightest idea of the responsibility that would be placed on his shoulders. He didn’t have the vaguest notion of the demands that would be thrust on his time. Vincent’s blood ran cold just thinking about it.
    He looked at the stylish London town house that was his usual Thursday night destination. Yes, he needed to behere. Needed this release more tonight than he had for a long, long time.
    He needed to be able to bury himself deep inside a soft feminine body and slake his passion until he could forget all he’d lost—all he would never have. He needed to visit the place where he was least likely to leave a woman pregnant.
    This was why he’d never taken a mistress. Not every woman who gave her body to a man in exchange for clothes and jewels and a fine house knew how to prevent a man’s seed from taking root.