Prince Louis William of Enshire was notorious for his indiscretions, a man who seemed to court scandal as easily as he courted women. His marriage to Princess Victoria, arranged by his father to secure alliances and bolster the royal legacy, held no charm for him; indeed, he scarcely endured her presence. The union was little more than a duty he discharged with reluctance, an irksome bond that tethered him but did not restrain his vices.

Every hem within Enshire’s borders seemed to have been lifted by his hand at least once, a testament to his roguish appetite. Responsibility was meant to temper him, yet he spurned it with an air of defiance. In those reckless encounters, he found the vitality that eluded him in courtly duties and noble expectations.

Once more, he lay amidst the scented sheets of the kingdom’s finest brothel, enmeshed with the woman who had become his most persistent indulgence. Nights with her were a fiery reprieve from the staid embrace of his marriage bed, and he clung to her with an almost feral hunger, returning to her time and again, intoxicated by her allure.

“You have a wife, Your Highness,” she murmured, her voice a sultry whisper as she traced idle patterns across his chest.

“And what of it?” Louis replied, lighting a cigar with languid confidence, his gaze fixed on the ceiling as he took a deep drag. “Most men have wives—and lovers, besides. She cannot stir me as you do, my darling.”