Title: To Defend a Damaged Duke
Series: Regency Rossingley, Book Two
Author: Fearne Hill
Publisher: NineStar Press
Release Date: 06/17/2025
Heat Level: 3 – Some Sex
Pairing: Male/Male
Length: 76700
Genre: Historical Romance, historical romance, gay, UK, aristocracy, rich man/poor man, second chance romance, hurt-comfort, humorous, slow burn, reunited, opposites attract, scoundrels, brothel owner, horses, horse racing, scheming ingenues
Add to Goodreads
Description
Benedict Fitzsimmons, the reclusive fourteenth Duke of Ashington, nurses a secret desire for his own sex he’d much prefer nobody ever found out about. Indeed, having only ever given in to his urges as a youth—and with disastrous consequences—he never imagined they would. Preferring the company of his racehorses to people, Benedict spends most of his time working on estate matters, longing for a lost love he can never have.
When an anonymous letter threatening to expose Benedict lands in his lap, he’s shocked to the core. He doesn’t have any enemies; why would anyone want to destroy him? Terrified, and with his family’s impeccable reputation at stake, Benedict joins forces with loyal friend, the Earl of Rossingley, to track down the culprit.
Risen from poverty and with a sordid past he’d rather forget, Tommy Squire has a mind dedicated to growing his business ventures and a heart shaped from stone. When the man who once broke it in a life-changing betrayal requests Tommy’s help to avoid a scandal, he finds himself embroiled in a daring scheme to bring down a blackmailer. As their plot unfolds, Tommy realises it’s more than his former lover he’s endeavouring to protect, it’s his battered heart.
This second book in the Rossingley Regency romance series turns to friends of the fourteenth earl of Rossingley, Lando Duchamps-Avery, who once again has a hand in the shenanigans set in London’s wealthy Ton society. This book can be read as a standalone.
To Defend a Damaged Duke
Fearne Hill © 2025
All Rights Reserved
Over the years, a tiny thread of a voice—largely ignored—often hinted to Tommy that, one day, his lordling might cross his path. Back when he earned a crust treading the boards at Drury Lane, face paint so thick and voice so disguised even his own mother would have had a hard time recognising him, he used to peer up into the box seats. Heart in his throat, he’d hope, dread, hope, dread—emotions tumbling from one to the other—that he might spy that dark, handsome head amongst the crowds.
He never did. And as time shifted forward, as Tommy himself shifted forward, he eventually ceased peeking around every corner or searching every smart carriage. His clever mind sought out other pastimes instead, all-encompassing endeavours of the fortune-making variety. These days, if he strolled through Vauxhall and his lordling by happenstance rode alongside, he might not notice at all. In fact, if one didn’t know Tommy well, as his businesses expanded and his heart grew even stonier, one might assume he’d forgotten the striking youth altogether.
Tonight, a few feet below Tommy’s head, that boy he’d once loved with every fibre of his being sipped Tommy’s brandy in the company of his brothers. Exchanging pleasantries with one and disagreeing with the other. And he was a duke, no less. A blessed, bleeding bugger of a damned duke.
Tommy paced his small library, unsure whether to gulp down the goblet of pricey liqueur making his belly curdle or hurl it at the wall. His knees trembled, and his impeccably starched collar felt damp against his neck. He felt muddled, torn between his hatred for the duke and a horrid, sick yearning to see him up close. Fear whispered in his ear too; he was lightheaded with it. Though fearful of what? Ashington was no more likely to expose Thomas L’Esquire for what he used to be than Tommy would expose him. They would both be ruined.
“Mickey is on his way up with His Grace,” announced Sidney from the doorway.
Tommy acknowledged this with a brisk nod, not trusting his voice.
“Do you want me to stay and look pretty? You aren’t quite yourself tonight, Tommy. I can show ’im around if you want to put your feet up.”
“No, Sidney. Thank you.” He wiped away the moisture gathered on his upper lip. On shaky legs, he returned to the seat behind his desk and picked up his quill pen. “Go back downstairs. I’m…I’m quite all right. Tired, is all.”
It was unusual to request a duke pay a call on a commoner. Invariably, Muhammed visited the mountain, not the other way around. And even when a duke did deign to climb two sets of stairs at the beckoning of an arrogant upstart, most arrogant upstarts would rise from their seat and proffer a humble bow.
The lack of any such ceremony might have accounted for the duke’s grave expression as a visibly awed Mickey announced his arrival. Or perhaps he was always pale and unsmiling. Nonetheless, Tommy could not have clambered to his feet even if he wanted to.
“His Grace, the Duke of Ashington, sir,” Mickey stammered and promptly scarpered.
Once upon a time, when he still believed in the magic of Covent Garden showmen, Tommy saw this man’s silhouette in the shape of the clouds. Felt the trace of his fingertips in raindrops hurrying down a sheet of glass, heard his deep, needy sighs over the bustle of a crowded street.
As their eyes met, Tommy’s grey and cold, the other’s a warm, deep brown, his prepared speech suffocated in his throat.
“We’re already acquainted,” he said shortly. “Good evening, Your Grace.”
Watching each stage of the duke’s horrified comprehension would have been almost amusing if Tommy hadn’t been equally overcome. Because, dammit, everything Tommy once found incomparable about his young raven’s beauty still haunted him. The flawless skin stretched tight over high, noble cheekbones as pale as the winter storm raging outside his window. That blasted hair, of course, thick, sooty waves of it still curled over his forehead. Tommy remembered how they dampened and the tenderness with which he’d brushed them back. His red lips, full and sensual, now covered by a large hand as the dumbstruck duke staggered away from him. The fine black hairs dusting the back of that hand, how they’d tickled against Tommy’s chin whenever he’d pressed soft kisses against each of the knuckles.
He remembered how that hand had grasped his wrist and tethered him to a bedpost.
“Tommy,” managed the duke at last. “Oh, lord. Tommy.”
“It’s Thomas these days. Mr Thomas L’Esquire. You don’t have the right to address me by my forename. Even though you’re a duke. Wouldn’t you agree, Your Grace?”
“Yes…I…Tomm— I thought you were…I thought you were…”
“Dead?” Tommy supplied. “Imprisoned? Assembling roads under a hot Australian sun, chained to another whore?”
Like a hurled egg, the hateful word splattered between them. The duke’s skin turned even more ashen.
“Sorry to disappoint, Your Grace. But as you can see, I’m alive and well. And thriving.”
“I’m not d-disappointed,” stuttered the duke. “I’m… Good Lord. I’m thrilled obviously, that you are…here and…and well. And—” He swayed a little. “Do you mind awfully if I sit?”
As insubstantial as a house of cards, the duke fell into the spindly chair facing Tommy, his broad frame filling it. It gave an ominous creak. Churlishly, Tommy cared not if it sent the duke crashing to the floor. With a striped pocket square, the man rubbed at his eyes as if clearing his vision, maybe hoping the view might be altered if he did. Then he clutched the thing tightly in his fist.
“They said, people said, that this club is owned by a man who has come from abroad.”
A rumour Tommy had set himself. “To my patrons, the stews are a foreign country.”
“And yet it is owned by you.” The duke shook his head in wonder. “You escaped.”
A thin smile tugged at Tommy’s lips. “Your powers of deduction do you credit, Your Grace. But it was less of an escape, more divine intervention.”
“How…I mean…yes, that is what I mean. I mean how? I read in a newssheet that you had been arrested…names were listed. I…my cravat…”
Even as the duke stuttered and stumbled, that sonorous voice still gripped Tommy’s craw. Deep, rich, and melodic, it was the sort of voice one craved to hear late in the evening, murmuring one’s name from the adjacent pillow. Tommy gulped at his brandy, acid sloshing in his gullet.
“A friend saved me, someone to whom I am forever indebted.” He swirled the drink around in his glass. “Someone not afraid to step up to defend one of his own. Your cravat, sadly, I cannot return to you.”
Tommy was being deliberately cruel and yet couldn’t restrain himself. “Have you ever seen a man pilloried, Your Grace? No? You really should if, perchance, one afternoon, you ever find yourself in Charing Cross and at a loose end. It’s quite the spectacle. Quite the family day out. Even more thrilling if half the men are mere boys. It takes over seventy constables to escort seven defenceless sodomites to the pillory; did you know that? On account of the crowds, you see. They can turn horribly violent, often without warning. I can still rattle off all the names of those in chains, of course. James Cooke, James Amos—we knew him as ‘Sally’. Will Thompson, Dickie Duggan—Ma Duggan ran the place. Sidney Bolton…oh, and yes, a young trussed-up Tommy Squire.”
“Please stop, Tommy.” The duke’s broken plea was barely a whisper. “I’m so sorry. I’m so, so sorry. Just, please. Stop.”
Tommy gave a humourless laugh. “Stop? How funny, Your Grace. Because that’s exactly what I begged to happen too. Except, on that occasion, they didn’t listen, did they? Folks lob all sorts of rubbish at you, you know, when you’re locked in there. Mud, potatoes, offal. To this day, I can’t stomach a turnip. Not too fond of dead cats, either. Nor the scent of stale piss, not only the buckets of it showered at you, but your own, too, because one is trapped there for hours, you understand, and a man has to go eventu—”
“Stop,” the duke shouted hoarsely. He banged a fist on the desk. “I said stop, dammit. Sir, I beg you.”
Nine years or so had passed since Tommy Squire had shed a tear—of sorrow or elation. Except now, they stung hot and sharp at the back of his eyes. His throat closing, he stood abruptly, arms wrapped tight across his chest. Turning his back on his visitor, he stalked towards the window.
Silence spread between them, like spilt milk. The air in the small library settled around them, still and thick. Tommy fancied he could reach out and grasp it.
“What I…how I behaved that afternoon,” began the duke. “It is unforgiveable. You must believe me when I tell you I have lived with my actions every hour of every single day since.”
“Not as well as I,” bit out Tommy.
“That is true. But also believe me when I tell you how gladly my…my soul sings now, finding you so recovered and prospering. What I did to you, what they did to you, a man would not wish on his greatest enemy, and yet…” He gulped audibly. “I allowed it to happen to my…to a person I once held more dearly in my heart than anyone else.”
Tommy clenched his fists. If the duke began making excuses, he’d hit him. Nobility be damned.
But he didn’t, the duke stayed quiet until Tommy felt sufficiently himself again to turn from the window. A person I once held more dearly in my heart than anyone else. How dare he stand in Tommy’s office and say that. With effort, he schooled his features into a mask of cool indifference.
Purchase
NineStar Press | Books2Read
Amazon
Fearne Hill lives deep in the southern British countryside with three untamed sons, varying numbers of hens, a few tortoises, and a beautiful cocker spaniel.
When she is not overseeing her small menagerie, she enjoys writing contemporary romantic fiction. And when she is not doing either of those things, she works as an anesthesiologist.
Website | Facebook | Twitter | Instagram
One lucky winner will receive a $50.00 NineStar Press Gift Code!
