Legacy of Succession (Dark Sovereignty Book 1) Read online

  “Are you going to tell me that my father wants me?”

  “He’s been shouting obscenities and then your name since the sun rose. He says I’m to inform him the minute you return home.” I rub a hand over my unshaven chin and groan.

  “I better go and find him before he has an aneurysm.”

  “It would be wise, My Lord.”

  Reginald coughs.

  “What is it?” I ask, knowing the sudden frog in his throat means he wants to voice his opinion on something.

  “May I speak without consequence?” He bows his head.

  “Don’t you usually around me?” I chuckle and grab my head when it hurts.

  “Only when I know you need a bit of fatherly advice.”

  “Go ahead.”

  “Don’t fight your father on this. You can’t stop what’s about to happen. It’s bigger than anything you know. It’s the future of your name and of what governs us.”

  “Why does it have to be, though?” I sit back in the chair and place my head in my hands. My mahogany hair hasn’t been brushed and has a definite recently fucked look.

  “History, Nicholas. It’s too ingrained in your family to change. To try now would destroy everything. You’re implicit in the crimes of the generations past. Blood stains your hands — it can never be cleaned off.”

  I know that the old man, who’s been within my household since I can remember, is right. I have no choice, and I nod acceptance.

  “To my death, I go.” I get back to my feet and leave him to clear up my empty plate while I search for the man who holds my future in his hands. No sooner do I think of the devil than he appears in front of me, from his office.

  “Nicholas, finally. Where have you been?” He stares at me from behind dead eyes. No emotion belies the torture that he’s, likely, about to commit.

  “My apologies, Your Grace.” I’ve never once called him Father. I was taught at an early age with a wooden cane that he would demand his title, even from his son. “I was enjoying the celebrations for my birthday. I knew it would be the last one I can enjoy as a free man — they may have gone on longer than I’d anticipated.”

  “You mean that you were sticking your cock in as many women as possible.” He raises an eyebrow, which makes me feel like a ten-year-old boy about to get the cane again for stealing a sweet. I’m not, though, I’m a grown man of twenty-nine and should be able to make my own decisions.

  “Only two women. My friends shared the other ones.”

  “You're disgusting,” he scoffs.

  “Don’t tell me you didn’t do the same when you were younger, or indeed that you wouldn’t do it still, given half the chance.” I go to walk away. I’ve had enough of this. I need a shit, shave, and shower before a long sleep.

  “The difference is I do it with decorum and restraint. I don’t risk my male parts being posted all over social media with full commentary on how good I am in bed.”

  “That was one time.” I stop and turn back to face him with my fists clenched.

  “And it cost me a good million to silence the little bitch. We have a reputation to maintain, and you’re going to throw it all away.” My father stands up to my anger, but I’m so livid I’m not about to back down and act sensibly.

  “No, we can’t damage your reputation as the leader of your little secret society, can we?”

  “Jesus, Nicholas, will you grow up?”

  “Why? What's the point?”

  “Because by your next birthday, you’ll be married, the Duke of Oakfield, and the leader of my, ‘little secret society’, as you put it. This isn’t a bad thing I’m asking you to do. I’ve left you alone, to do as you please with your life, since you turned eighteen. That’s eleven years of fun. Do you not find it monotonous? All I’m asking is that you start to take on some responsibility.” My father lowers his voice from one full of disappointment and anguish to one I vaguely remember. The one that holds compassion and fondness in it. “You're my son, my heir. I want what’s best for you, and I know this is it.”

  “But why this way?” I state.

  “It’s the rules. Our forefathers signed the documents governing how we must prove that we’re worthy of the title. It’s not possible to change them.”

  “It’s possible to change anything if you put your mind to it.”

  “Not this, Nicholas. There’s too much at stake. Oakfield Hall for one.”

  “This is our ancestors’ home since before the time of the society,” I protest. “They surely can’t take it.”

  “It was written into the founding documents that all this can be taken from us. The money was needed when it fell into disrepair before your four times great-grandfather came into his inheritance. He was a brave man who was prepared to risk everything for the sake of protecting the name and estates. You can’t let him down.”

  This founding document has been the bane of my life ever since I heard about it, for the first time, at the age of ten. That was when I found out how much my life was mapped out for me. My four times great grandfather needed funds to live. It was around the time that the cost of living went through the roof for the elite, and it became increasingly difficult for them to afford to run a stately home, like the one we now live in. It became even harder for them to pay their way at lavish court functions, which were a pre-requisite for those having a title such as Duke, whether it was a royal title or not. It was necessary to make an appearance, and if the King wanted money then it had to be given to him. Drugs, prostitution, high levels of alcohol consumption, it was all rife then. The elite had to be seen to be partaking. Along with some of the other title holders in the country, my ancestor formed a pact. They’d work together to be able to live the lifestyles they wanted, but in return they had to give up something. My ancestor was designated the leader as he was the highest ranked and also a close confidant of the King. It was decided that should he forfeit his position then Oakfield Hall and any other assets, owned by the Cavendish family, would be sold and distributed between the remaining members of the society. A pretty big forfeiture, considering that in addition he had no say on when or to whom he got married! Because every eldest son on his thirtieth birthday, going down in perpetuity, takes over the title and leadership of the society, on the proviso that he is married. I guess that the position means power and a casting vote in the way the organization’s run, but to me, it just takes away my free will.

  “Nicholas!” my father shouts at me, and I realize that I’d disappeared into a dream world. “Are you listening to a word I’m saying?”

  “Sorry, Your Grace.”

  “You’ve been training for this your entire life. You’ve known it was coming. Think of the power you’ll wield, this time next year. You'll be responsible for the business behind the scenes.”

  “I’m not entirely sure that’s something to be proud of.” I roll my eyes.

  “It is if it keeps a roof over our heads.”

  “Theft, murder, god knows what else.” My father’s face reddens as I speak, partly through anger, I think, but also through the embarrassment of knowing that he has the life he leads because of the hardship he puts others through. Actually, no, scrap that. It’s all anger because my father doesn’t think about anyone else but himself.

  “I sometimes wonder what I did to raise such an ungrateful child. Hear me out, Nicholas, enough arguing. You'll shut that intolerable mouth of yours until you can learn to use it for something that’s actually important. You'll go to your quarters, and you’ll make yourself presentable rather than looking like you have just crawled off the street or out of a barrel of wine. If you don’t, you won’t like the consequences that I’ll be forced to bring down on you.” He’s seething. The whites of his eyes are showing as he stands face to face with me. My father’s a strong man. He may be sixty, but he keeps himself healthy. “The ladies are on their way, and you'll be ready to meet them. You'll show them what it means to be in Oakfield Hall, and you’ll embrace your birthright because if you
don’t then I’ll make the decisions for you. I’ll make you sit back and watch, while I do your duty!”

  My stomach turns — I wish I’d not drunk so much last night. I knew this was coming today, and I knew what I’d have to do. I don’t want to marry. I want to fuck my way around England, but my father’s right: I have a duty to my family name and my future. Last night was the end of my old life, and today is the first of my new one. I'll embrace the monster that I must become.

  CHAPTER THREE

  VICTORIA

  I stare up at the imposing mansion on the outskirts of London. I thought I lived in a big house, but this place must be more imposing than Buckingham Palace. You can tell that part of it dates back to Tudor times, but the majority of the brickwork and style is gothic in nature, and thus from the Victorian era. I bet these walls can tell a few stories, and I’d love to hear them.

  “Hurry up, Victoria,” my father calls. I scamper quickly to his side, and we enter together through the grand arch of the welcoming chamber.

  “Sorry, Father, I was just admiring the house. Who lives here?”

  “The Duke of Oakfield,” he replies curtly.

  I scan my memory for details on who that is. I’ve heard that name before — I’m sure of it. Yes, he’s the patron of my favorite art museum in London. I’m even more excited for my debut into society because I wonder if he has artwork in his home, which I can study.

  The heavy oak doors are opened for us, and we’re shown into a room with several other girls wearing the same linen dress as I am. I smile at one of them, but she just raises an eyebrow at me and walks off after a man who must be her father. Fine, I’ll avoid her then. My coat and my father’s are taken. He's presented with a glass of Champagne. I’m offered one but respectively decline. I want to make sure I remember every moment of what’s about to happen.

  “Father.” He turns to me, when I address him, and takes a sip of his drink.

  “Yes.”

  “Are we to attend a banquet?” I look around the room at the paintings on the wall while I speak.

  “There'll be food later.”

  “Will gentlemen be attending?”

  “Just one.”

  “Just one?” I repeat and face him.

  “The Duke’s son, Earl Lullington.”

  “Oh.”

  The conversation stops, and my father nods to another man as he walks near.

  “My Lord Linton.”

  “Mayfield.”

  “Is Lady Joanna ready?” my father asks.

  “She's with my wife trying to tame her unruly hair.”

  “I’m blessed, Victoria has straight hair even if it's as red as a cherry. It must be the Irish blood in Cecilia.” I take hold of my hair, which is neatly tied back in a French plait. The end of the braid comes down to my waist. When hanging loose, my hair reaches the middle of my back. I’ve always loved it long, and the color I find unique. I’m not ginger but a natural dark red. Nobody knows where it came from even if my father blames my mother’s ancestry.

  “I guess I should blame the Celtic blood for Joanna’s curly hair, then. It’s as wild as one of the bare-chested brutes who used to run wild over our lands,” Lord Linton replies with a chuckle. His attention is taken when a girl the same age as me hurries up to him and bows her head low, so he can see the top of it.

  “Is this alright Father,” she asks.

  He inspects it. Her hair looks fine to me, but then, I don’t see why we all need to be dressed the same and so plainly. I don’t wear a lot of makeup usually, but I do like mascara and a spot of lipstick. I had all of that scrubbed of my face before I left. This isn’t exactly the debut into society I'd dreamed of. I expected lavish gowns, and an evening full of dancing with handsome men. The sort of thing that comes straight from the pages of Pride and Prejudice. Instead, I’ve got no make-up, no underwear, and a dress that looks like a white bin liner. I pray to god that I don’t get it wet because everything will be on display if I do. I can’t let a fashion disaster get me down. I’m out of the house — ok, there are not as many people as I expected, but there are still people to talk to.

  Joanna’s father gives her his seal of approval, and she turns to face me.

  “Hello, I’m Lady Joanna Nethercutt,” she smiles.

  “Victoria Hamilton,” I respond.

  “The Honorable,” my father adds. I never use the title that precedes my name. My father is a Viscount — as his daughter, I am not entitled to use ‘Lady’ only ‘The Honorable’. What’s the point? I’m not pretentious. Well having said that, if it were Duchess or Countess, then I’d probably use it.

  “Are you excited?” I ask.

  “Excited?” She narrows her eyes at me.

  “Yes, for your debut.”

  “We should take our places,” my father interrupts and pulls me away toward the front of the room.

  “That was rude,” I exclaim and look back to Joanna with an apologetic nod.

  “You don’t need to make small talk and get yourself all flustered. You need to remember your manners and behave.” He raises his voice but not so much that anyone else in the room can hear him.

  “Sorry, Father.” I look down at the ground and wish it would swallow me up. Why do I have a feeling that this evening isn’t going to be as much fun as I was hoping for?

  My father pulls out his phone and starts to scroll through his emails. I’m dismissed from any further conversation. I take another look around the room that we’re in. It’s some sort of banqueting hall. Swords, armor, and stags’ horns adorn the wood-paneled walls. Any space that isn’t wooden is painted cream. There are three paintings on the wall, and I take a step closer to get a better look at them. My father tuts, but I ignore him.

  One is a Rembrandt and another a Caravaggio. I’d read about them being bought by a private collector for millions. Wow, the Cavendish family must be loaded if they can afford these. My attention is drawn to the third. I can’t place the artist at first, I take a step even closer.

  “Victoria,” my father admonishes me, but I ignore him again because I can see the signature. Van Gogh’s Poppy Flowers. I smirk, knowing that the original of this painting was stolen in two thousand and ten. This must be a fake. I take another quick look at the Rembrandt and Caravaggio. Nothing distinguishes them as fakes at this distance, but given the Van Gogh must be then I’m sure the others are too. The residents of Oakfield Hall aren’t as affluent as they like to portray. I stand back and smile, knowingly. It’s then that I feel the heat of eyes burning into me.

  I turn towards the source of this overwhelming sense of being observed and find a gentleman staring at me. He's tall, about six foot three, and wears a three-piece suit with a crisp white open-necked shirt. His brown hair is long but brushed and neatly gelled in place. His eyes are a cerulean blue like the sky, but a shade darker. He's looking directly at me. My heart flutters, and my breath quickens. I’ve not seen many men, due to a life spent in relative solitude, but I know instantly that this man screams sex, and by the way he’s looking at me, I’m the next delicacy on his menu. I can feel my cheeks heat and want to look away, but I can’t. He's captured me in his spell and taken my breath away. He winks and directs his attention back to an older gentleman at his side. They have a similar look about each other, I surmise they must be father and son.

  “Victoria, come here,” my father orders, and I snap to attention this time. A gong rings out in the room, and the older gentleman steps up onto a makeshift stage. I hadn’t noticed before, as I was too interested in the walls, but a fire pit sits on the staging. I can’t help but think that a little odd.

  “Welcome everyone,” the man speaks. “Are we all ready to begin?”

  The crowd murmurs a resounding ‘yes’, and I wait for the music to start.

  “For those who don’t know me, I’m the Duke of Oakfield and the leader of this society. We're here today to continue traditions our forbearers have handed down to us, for generations.” He steps toward
the fire pit and pulls out a metal rod. A couple of the men in the room cheer. I look at my father, but he pales and refuses to meet my eyes. “Bring the first one up.”

  Two men jump down from the stage and take one of the girls by the arms. She screams, “No”, but is manhandled onto the stage with little effort. I can feel a heated gaze on me again, and I look to the man who was watching me before. He's watching me again. He smiles — though this time it isn’t the sweet one from before but an arrogant one. He steps forward and takes the rod from his father and, without hesitating, brands the screaming girl with a sickening sizzle of burning flesh. I stumble backward, trying to catch my breath, but my father grabs me and causes the world that I know to collapse when he says,

  “Your turn.”

  CHAPTER FOUR

  NICHOLAS

  My father holds up the arm of the girl who has just been branded. I know her, from the files I’ve been given about each of them, as Daphne Knight. She's the daughter of a member of the House of Lords. She sobs with the pain, that she must be experiencing, from where the society’s crest is forever branded onto her porcelain flesh. I should feel regret, for what I’ve just done, but I know that I had no choice. I can't show weakness in front of these people who, this time next year, I’ll govern. Another girl is brought forward. This one isn’t dragged. She comes willingly to her fate. Elizabeth Sandford, a Lord Bishop’s daughter, no less. Judging by the fact that she’s pushing her lips together in a sexy pout, she's looking forward to what’s about to happen. She pulls the material of her dress up and reveals a toned and tanned thigh. She’s definitely been preparing. She pulls it a little too high and exposes the edge of a bare pussy. I ignore the blatant flirting and brand her. She whimpers but doesn't break down like the first girl. She has spirit — I like it. I bet she would fuck like a dog in heat.