Waking up next to two scantily clad blondes in his king-sized bed was a familiar occurrence for Lord Robert Stark. But waking up next to two blondes when his mother was angrily marching up the stairs to his room was far from familiar. In fact, it was an occurrence he wished would never happen. He had learnt of this petrifying news when a letter fell from the pneumatic tube at the top of his mural-modelled ceiling.

It read;

Lord Stark, I'm afraid to inform you that your mother is climbing up your stairs. She doesn't seem too happy.

P.S; She has her parasol with her.

Bloody hell, not the parasol. Jumping out of his bed like it was hot iron, he turned to face the blondes who were fast asleep. In normal situations, he would pause and admire the way the sun caught their blonde curls. But now, he wanted to toss them out of his window.

"Wake up!" he shout-whispered. He knew that wasn't a thing but bloody nuts he did it!

The two women barely managed to open their eyes, yawning like they hadn't eaten in centuries. He didn't have time for mouth openings right now! He would have time for that later in the night.

"My mother is here! You have to go!"

Their eyes shot wide. That was enough to make them spring out of the bed. Lady Penelope Stark wasn't a woman to mess with. Especially when she had her parasol with her. What was she doing this early in his house anyway?

The two naked women scurried around the bedroom, picking up their undergarments, their shakables shaking. It was a beautiful sight to behold. But His Lordship knew if he didn't dispose of them soon, the only beautiful sight he would be-holding is his swollen head. His mother's parasol did wonders.

His blonde hair was a flash of gold as he sped to a brown wardrobe at the corner. He beckoned on the bewildered ladies to come closer, blue eyes widening in urgency. A parasol hit to the head wasn't going to be his breakfast for today.

"Hurry." He could swear he noticed the eyes of the women checking out the wonderful sight between his legs. It was then he realized that he wasn't wearing anything too.

Shite!

Look what you did to yourself.

Just, shut up.

Arguing with an inner mind was the least of his problems now. That parasol was the most of his problems. Putting the two ladies in the wardrobe, he dragged down the lever next to it. Screams erupted in his room almost deafening him. They must've thought they were entering a normal wardrobe.

Sadly, they were far from the truth. That wardrobe was an invention of his that he used to dispose of women he slept with the night before. It was useful in situations like this. Where the wardrobe lead to, he wouldn't want to think about. All the Marquess knew was that he received death threats from the women the next day. Wherever he sent them to must've been hell on earth.

Now left alone in his room, he rushed over to the real wardrobe; the one that had actual clothes. Donning a white shirt and black trousers, he walked over to his golden double door, his jaw as sharp as his facial features. His mother's angry stomps echoing down his hallway were evident now.

Any second now.

Three.

Two.

O-Tarnation!

The wings of the door flung open, a parasol coming first. "Robert!"

He did a sweet smile, dimples puncturing his stubbled cheeks. " Mother."

Standing at the entrance was the Duchess of Starklington, blue eyes flashing dangerously. The sunlight from his windows cast upon her pink gown, the emeralds gleaming opulently. But Lord Robert's eyes were fixed on the parasol she pointed angrily at him. He was six foot one; really tall for men during his time and looked down at his mother as she stared up at him in fury.

"You," she growled, blonde hair dramatically surrounded by a feral aura. What made her this mad?

"Yes, mother." He elevated a brow. "Is there anything wrong with me?"

He could think of a thousand things. Particularly the fact that he had slept with more women than the entire husbands of London. Yes, it was definitely a problem. An addictive one.

"Read this." She tossed a newspaper he didn't notice earlier since all his concentration was on her parasol.

Confused with why a newspaper would make her angry, he opened the sheet. The bloody headline made his jaw drop;

Gerrard Finley denies the possibility of Lord Robert Stark making a moon lamp.

That bastard! This was the bloody Times! He knew Gerrard would do anything to ruin his upcoming work since they were business rivals. But this time was different, Gerrard owned one of the two biggest gas-lamp companies in London while his Lordship owned the other. If his moon lamp came into the market, it would ruin business for the knobhead since Robert's invention would use clean energy. Besides, who wouldn't want to use a lamp powered by the moon?

"I can't believe he would stoop this low."

"Read further."

He continued, but read it aloud this time, "Gerrard Finley believes a man who brings multiple women to his bedroom would be incapable of making such a masterpiece. The moon lamp is an impossibility and Robert Stark would never be able to make it." He clenched his jaw, "That blobfish!"

His mother grabbed the newspaper from his hands and pointed her parasol at him. "Robert."

"Mother."

She came closer, His Lordship taking a step back. "You see what your lifestyle has caused? You'll ruin your father's reputation!"

There they went again. It was always about his father's reputation. That was why his father spent more time throwing balls and social events rather than showing Robert the affection he craved when he was a child. What wouldn't he give to be loved by his father? He was sure that would bring him true happiness.

When he successfully made the moon lamp, maybe-just maybe, he could finally get his father to notice how good of a son he was and show the Duke what he had missed out on during his childhood. Robert had a respectable relationship with his mother. Though she was a tad bit distant from him and was more focused on training his sister to be a proper lady.

To put it in simple terms, the moon lamp was the only way Robert could stand a chance at building a relationship with his father. He knew if he made a masterpiece that excellent, his father would have no choice but see the truth; that Robert was good enough.

And Robert's fear of not being loved would be vanquished.

"Mother, we could talk over this with tea," he suggested, avoiding his mother's poking parasol.

"There would be no such thing." She raised her pointed nose in defiance. "I am too pissed off for tea right now, Robert."

"What about breakfast?"

"It's still the same thing."

He narrowed his eyes. "Not really."

"Robert!"

Her sharp commanding voice brought him back to the reason she was here. It wasn't for bloody tea. It was for something else. Surely it wasn't about the news. His mother already knew what he was and had gotten tired of cautioning him.

"All these are happening because you're not yet married."

He knew where this was going. Fiddlesticks! Dear, God in heaven. He was his only hope.

"I'm not sure, mother."

She brought her parasol so close he fell onto his bed, trying to avoid its dark gleaming tip, "Your father and I would host a ball this weekend. All the fine ladies in London would be invited and you shall have to choose one of them."

"Can I pick all?"

Her burning gaze told him otherwise.

"How about three?"

"No." She headed to the door. "And you must be present. You know what happens when you disobey me."

"A parasol to the head," he recited, rolling his eyes.

"Good."

She marched out, his doors slamming shut. Collapsing on his bed, he ran a hand through his golden locks. His daily routine had changed and not because of the ball—why would he be angry when hundreds of women would be there?—but because of that bootlicker, Gerrard Finley.

However, Robert was already a step ahead of him. He had sent some treasure hunters to Africa to get the last piece he needed to complete his moon lamp. Once he had it, Gerrard wouldn't dare show his face in public again. All Robert had to do was make sure nothing ruined his chances of making the moon lamp. And the first step was to deal with Gerrard Finley.

Sighing, Robert walked over to a black study desk and wrote a letter to his butler;

Mr Griffith, ready my carriage and inform Mr Howard that I shall meet with him before my office building in an hour. Let him know that we have a rival to visit.

"This means war, Gerrard." Robert put the letter inside the pneumatic tube and sent it.