A Shot at the Duke

A Shot at the Duke Karina Heid A Shot at the Duke Copyright© 2023 Karina Heid Rocha All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or used in any manner without the prior written permission of the copyright owner, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review. Names and scenarios in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to actual places and persons, living or dead, is coincidental. Created with Vellum For those who dare Contents 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 21 22 23 24 25 26 27 28 29 30 31 32 33 34 35 Epilogue About me Also by the author 1 Kingdom of Württemberg, 1871 Among the many inconveniences of being shot in the private parts was the need to prove they were still functional. As it turned out, surviving the shot had not been Dietrich’s, the ninth Duke of Württemberg-Winental, greatest challenge: at stake was the recognition that his virility was still intact. Precisely because of the Duke’s vigor was his mother, Duchess Wilhelmine von Württemberg-Winental, in the brothel. She climbed the stairs, trying not to touch anything, cursing Dietrich in a vocabulary that would shock even the fine ladies of the house. Had she had three daughters instead of sons—and one of them had returned from the war with a bullet wound in her privates—the Duchess doubted she would be in a brothel, with her skirts raised, trying to prove her femininity. Wilhelmine rubbed her sore temples. Why did that Trottel1 have to take his pants so often? She cared about her son and still suffered from palpitations when remembering how close he came to death. The problem was that a shot in the middle of the legs (a misfortune now being told in a slightly comical way) could mean the end of the ability to bear children. Medals did not produce heirs; properly working private parts did. Yet another worry had led her here: Dietrich’s aversion (and reaction) to the rumors. The court was being cruel. The gossip was persistent, nasty, and disrespectful. As a result, instead of acting discreetly, Dietrich decided to shock the scandalmongers. Among his new habits, for example, was testing his breeding skills with the prostitutes of the Allemannenstrasse. Because of this nonsense, the Duchess wanted to chop him up as the butchers did with meat in the central market. Wilhelmine arrived at the reserved room with clenched fists. She had spent five days searching for him amidst a social whirlwind. The Kingdom of Württemberg had just been annexed to Prussia, Bismarck was the new Chancellor, and a new constitution emerged along with the new country. Despite that, it was not the merger nor the Chancellor’s belligerence on the day’s topic: it was her son’s shameless behavior. According to the vulgar column of the Württembergisches Blatt, “the Duke appeared to have moved into Stuttgart’s most renowned brothel.” The note ended by pining it: “But to do what?” The Duchess flung open the bedroom door to find her son in a flashy position. Where was that man’s decency? Probably on the floor, along with his clothes. Dietrich's hair was disheveled, and the ridiculous curl that insisted on falling over his forehead was raised in an unrefined position. Nothing in that creature would stay put, and that statement was broad: from sound advice to his private parts. His infamous smirk and ability to melt hearts have always kept him out of trouble, but he went too far this time. His irresponsibility and lack of commitment to ducal duties were about to end. The strategy wasn’t well thought out, but would be well executed. Dietrich wouldn’t know what hit him until it was too late. * * * On the opposite side of the room, Dietrich concluded that the prestigious brothel had seen better days. Not that he could criticize it since he was always there, but the access control to the third-floor accommodations was a fiasco. His mother, for example, shouldn’t be in that room. Not when he was in that position. The generous-breasted prostitute with flushed cheeks on his lap looked as surprised as he was: it wasn’t every day that an aristocratic woman stormed into a brothel, slammed the door, and demanded that the red-haired Fräulein got off her son—all this without raising her voice. Dieter admitted that his mother knew how to impose fear with class. “Bertha,” he smiled at the girl on his legs, “could you excuse us, please?” The woman slowly moved one of her legs, nervously lowering her skirt. It wasn’t just a man’s reputation at stake here; hers could also go down the drain. “How about Little Dieter?” she asked. “Nothing?” The Duke denied it, while his mother growled across the room because of the nickname. Dietrich should have been worrying about buttoning his shirt, but all he could think about was the painful truth he didn’t want to accept: he no longer controlled Little Dieter. Not that Little Dieter was little; he was just weary and scared. Dieter did everything he could to persuade his little friend to go back to work. He had tried selection and repetition of partners, attempts early in the mornings and late at night, sober or drunk, excited and sullen. He tried it with redheads and brunettes, with big and small women, plump and skinny. Nothing. Little Dieter simply refused to perform. “Dietrich!” All it took was the mother’s call for one of the Dieters to get up. The Duchess watched as he rose like a stone wall, almost hitting the low ceiling. Poor Bertha, still in the room, gathered her scattered clothes and slipped away, avoiding his mother’s stare. The Duke didn’t like how the Duchess sized him up, but his mind was elsewhere. It was his fifth failed attempt to rouse Little Dieter in less than three days. What if Little Dieter never got up? What if