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
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.
Excerpt
To Defend a Damaged Duke
Fearne Hill © 2025
All Rights Reserved
London, 1813
At the back of the fruit and veg market in Convent Garden, a showman scraped a living. Every Tuesday and Friday, for more years than Tommy Squire had been alive. Same patch, same old rickety stall, same old rickety routine. Same anticlimactic finale. Declaring himself the world’s greatest magician, he’d hold aloft a playing card, purse his wrinkled, whiskery lips, and pretend to blow the spots off it. Tommy had watched him fumble the cards up his sleeve hundreds of times; seen him drop them on occasion too. And yet, on his mother’s grave, even as he wriggled a grubby knave down from his elbow to his wrist, the old sot still swore it was magic.
Tommy was reminded of that showman whenever the lordling’s black eyes, like two jet pearls, fluttered closed. Usually, the memory came seconds after the lordling’s throat made a helpless little whine, speaking its own language, directly into Tommy heart. It heralded the shortest sliver of time before he spilled into Tommy’s mouth and then pressed his lips against Tommy’s, tasting himself on them. Whispering sweet nonsense.
Those were the times Tommy remembered that old showman and his frayed cards, and it was only years later he understood what he meant. The daft sod had spun the story to himself so many times, believing in the magic of it, he ended up fooling himself.
*
“Our young lordling’s here, Tommy. Waiting in the best room.” Ma Duggan’s expression soured, matching the sallow hue of her downturned sneer. “Taken off upstairs already to get hisself ready. He’s asked for you.”
Fancying himself as a bit of an actor—he had to be in this business if he wanted paying right—Tommy pretended not to notice young Dickie flouncing out of the parlour. Nor Sidney’s jealous sulk. After all, who could blame them? The handsome lordling had caught everyone’s eye.
“I’ll be there when I’ve finished me tea. Won’t hurt him to wait a minute or two.”
Tommy could control his face, keep it blank. And his voice flat. But the mad thumping in his chest? Not a chance. No more than he could prevent the spirited rush of joy to his head, nor the twitching of his prick. Not when his beloved raven-haired beauty impatiently paced six feet above his head.
He carried up a jug of ale, not pausing to check himself in the glass hung at the bottom of the stairs. He didn’t need to; Tommy’s pretty looks hadn’t waned since he examined them last. Dress him in a corset and stays, and Sidney declared he could work alongside the girls in the bawdy house on the corner. He scratched at the door, thrice, his pulse hammering.
“Tommy. At last. I was growing quite weak with want.”
Already, the lordling had removed his hat and coat, all the better for Tommy to admire his raven locks curling over his stiff collar. Unfastening his cravat with an urgent flourish, he was as eager as Tommy, more so, if the swelling in his breeches was any measure. They were of an age, the raven and Tommy—Tommy eighteen years young to the raven’s seventeen. Yet both so sure.
“My lord.” In the demure fashion he’d perfected, Tommy bobbed his head. The lordling blushed with delight. He relieved Tommy of the laden tray, and his plump mouth twisted into a smile. His hooded eyes, dark as night, latched onto Tommy’s.
“Afterwards with this, Tommy. My…my need for you can wait no longer.”
The best room wasn’t much to crow about. Nothing but a slender bed with a mean pillow, worn sheets, and a wooden chair upon which his handsome raven had tossed his coat. Around a water pitcher, his paying guest’s silk cravat lay unfurled like a banner. Tommy’s threadbare neckcloth joined it.
“Then you must have at me, my lord.” Behind his ribs, his soft heart trembled. “I am yours.”
In pulled up undershirts and pushed down breeches, they tussled on the bed. A pair of kittens let loose in the sunshine. Tommy kissed his raven on the mouth, the only madge he’d ever kissed, but then none of the other madges tasted so sweet. Or returned his kisses with such unmatched desire.
“Tommy,” the lordling groaned as Tommy’s hand found his heavy cock. Already, his smooth fingers gripped Tommy’s more modest member with a familiarity borne of a summer of snatched rendezvous in this simple, private chamber. “Want you,” he sighed, his promise slipping over Tommy like satin. “Forever.”
That first release, as always, came blessedly fast. A race, a relief, a ritual. And if Tommy let his mind go there, it was an unhappy reminder of his true purpose—to let the raven pay for Tommy’s clever hand, and handsomely too. The prettiest youth in the house must pleasure him as he saw fit. That the lordling only ever asked for the plainest of pleasures, and that he pleasured Tommy in return, that he whispered words of affection and held Tommy in his arms as they dozed awhile afterwards, were transactions they kept to themselves.
“Alas, I have but a few more minutes,” the lordling said, wiping Tommy tenderly. Dropping the cloth to the dusty floor, he scooped him up against his chest. “Mama and Grandmama are conducting the serious business of purchasing hat ribbons at Madame Bellevue’s. I am to join them. Apparently”—and at this, he blessed Tommy with a wicked grin—“I am in dire need of two new cravats.”
Tommy fumbled for the one so hastily discarded earlier and pretended to examine it, rubbing the fine fabric between finger and thumb.
“Goodness, yes. This is so last season,” he drawled in an approximation of the lordling’s own cultured vowels, making the other laugh. A most joyful sound, Tommy wanted to capture it and pin it like a moth.
The lordling caught the length of silk as Tommy tossed it aside. Then, easily, because he was so much bigger than Tommy, he rolled him onto his back. Taking Tommy’s slim wrist above his head, the lordling turned it over and pressed his lips to the thin skin, tracing the fragile tangle of blue veins with his tongue as if a path leading to his wildest dreams.
“You dare mock me, Master Tommy?” His scolding was ruined by an escaping giggle. “Then I shall punish you by tying you to the bed. With last season’s cravat, too; oh, the shame of it.”
Pouting, Tommy fluttered his eyelashes. With his fair curls and eyes the docile blue of a china doll, he was a picture of innocence. “That is no punishment at all, my lord.”
“Don’t be too hasty, Tommy.” The lordling wound a loop of cloth around Tommy’s wrist, playfully pulling it tight. “I haven’t yet outlined my plans for when I have you all tied up and at my mercy.”
Anything. You can do anything.
He kissed Tommy’s mouth. “I shall tease you, relentlessly,” he murmured, his tongue stealing Tommy’s breath. “Starting here.”
With his wrist now secured to the bedstead, Tommy tugged a little, sighing with pleasure as lips ghosted along his jaw. Groaning, the lordling buried his face into Tommy’s neck.
“Why do you always taste so divine, Tommy?”
Tommy rolled his hips, his prick hard for his lover once more. “Perhaps because I was made especially for you.”
The lordling leaned up onto an elbow. Solemnly, he studied Tommy. “I do believe you were.” A flush crept up his neck. They could stare at each other all day and never grow tired of the view.
“You were saying,” Tommy prompted, his need growing. “Something about doting on me until I spend again?”
His raven grinned, showing all his beautiful teeth. “Yes! And I shall make it my life’s work.”
Warm fingertips glided up Tommy’s thigh as the lordling came back to himself. “We shall grow old together, you and I. And I shall pass the years teasing you endlessly. Each morning, I shall touch you like this, everywhere but here.” The tip of his thumb tapped the head of Tommy’s swollen prick. “Until I have you begging for me.” Again, his black eyes lifted to gaze adoringly into Tommy’s. “As, hourly, you have me begging for you.”
Lain over Tommy like a thick blanket, the lordling’s body was supple and smooth. If God chose to take Tommy in that moment, he would thank Him kindly and consider it a life well lived. As they deepened the kiss, the lordling’s hips ground into Tommy’s. One day soon, Tommy decided, he’d suggest more; his empty hole craved it, a topic they had yet to broach. Sometimes, Tommy wondered if his lover even knew that was a thing men like them could do. He would explain it, then take the youth’s innocence as tenderly as if it were his own first time.
Soft lips melded as they lost themselves to love. The lordling rubbed himself against Tommy, his teases forgotten. His eyes shuttered closed, his bottom lip trapped between his teeth, the alabaster skin of his cheeks glistened with heat. He was close; they both were. Slipperiness built between their bodies, and with his one untethered hand, Tommy clasped the lordling’s tight buttock.
“I lov—” the raven began.
And never finished.
Cut off by a holler from below. Rattling Tommy’s soul like a musket blast.
“Raid,” Sidney screeched. “Everyone out! Raid!”
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Meet the Author
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.
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