Between the Devil and Desire (10 page)

“I'm not desperate, Duchess. Yes, I'm greedy. Yes, I want to die smothered in gold coins. Yes”—he held up his hand so she could see the horrid brand—“I have stolen in the past. But I've found a man can gain more wealth through legitimate means, and he never has to look over his shoulder while doing it. And perhaps your husband's choice of guardian was as simple as that. If you need someone to guard the coffers, you want someone who doesn't
need
what the coffers hold.”

Abruptly he pushed back and started walking toward the door.

“Do you truly think that's the reason he chose you?” she called out after him.

He stopped and faced her. “No. I just know that's the reason he
didn't
choose Briarwood.”

“Your assumption only works if Lovingdon placed as high a regard on money as you do.”

“In the end, Duchess, the only thing anyone cares about is money.”

Watching him leave with a confident swagger, she fought to squelch the tremors that his nearness had wrought. For one insane moment, she'd thought he was going to lower those fascinating lips to hers.

For one shameful moment, she'd hoped he would.

 

“What the devil was Lovingdon thinking?”

Rupert Stanford watched as his cousin agitatedly paced his library. As he was prone to do, Edmund had arrived without announcement or invitation. He had the unfortunate habit of releasing flying spittle when speaking with such forcefulness. Rupert did wish Edmund would sit so his maid-of-all-work would have more success at cleaning things up when his cousin left. Rupert had an aversion to filth.

“Jack Dodger, you say?”

Edmund came to an abrupt halt. “Yes, Jack Dodger.
The
Jack Dodger.”

“I'm not familiar with him.”

“How can you not be? He owns a gambling establishment, Dodger's Drawing Room. He refers to it as an exclusive gentlemen's club, but everyone knows what goes on inside.”

Rupert sipped his brandy, fighting off the urge to go wash his hands. The presence of his cousin always made him feel as though he needed a good scrubbing. “Gambling is not my vice. I've never been there.”

“Now
I
might never be able to go back. He's canceling my credit, blast him, simply because I let my temper get the better of me. How else was I to react, I ask you? I couldn't let the insult go unanswered. He insinuated we'd kill the boy to acquire the titles.”

“It's not the titles you want.”

“No, dammit.” Edmund finally dropped into a chair. “I was depending on Lovingdon appointing me to serve as guardian, to oversee…” His voice trailed off as though he was reluctant to admit what he coveted.

“His finances,” Rupert finished for him. “So some of his wealth could miraculously, perhaps accidentally, become yours.”

Edmund glared at him. They might have nothing in common, might possess different addictions, but they knew each other well. Or at least
Rupert
knew Edmund as well as any man, but he'd taken great care to ensure Edmund didn't know everything about him. Edmund enjoyed living above his station. Rupert preferred living below it.

“I'd not have stolen from him—merely borrowed,” Edmund said glumly.

“You've been playing that game for so long, I think you've forgotten that to borrow means you must return it at some point.”

Edmund tossed back his brandy in a single gulp. What a waste of fine liquor—on several levels.

“How old is Henry now?” Rupert asked, maintaining an air of boredom. “I've not kept in touch with the family.”

“Five. And you didn't even bother to attend the funeral. That seemed rather odd, even from you.”

“I fear I was not Lovingdon's favorite cousin. That honor fell to you.”

“Which is the very reason I thought he'd appoint me guardian. What was Lovingdon thinking?” he re
peated. “Jack Dodger is likely to have the lad working in his establishment.”

“When he's older? I can't see that happening.”

“Because you're blind, man. You live in this little world of yours and don't look beyond it. The man employs lads to take care of things for him. They gather our chips or fetch us a drink. Then he has his boot-boys. I've heard he has a pair of boots for every day of the week and has a lad for each pair.”

“That seems a strange thing to do—to have that many boys around. Doesn't seem natural.”

“There's nothing natural about Jack Dodger, I tell you. But now that I think on it, he does seem to have a peculiar interest in boys. Of course, this isn't the sort of thing you talk to a lady about. I suppose I should have a word with the solicitor.”

“Have you evidence that Dodger has wronged any of these lads?”

Edmund held his tongue, but Rupert could see all the calculations going through his little mind. Edmund tended to bully people. Rupert's strength rested in persuasion. He possessed the devil's own tongue.

“I'd be careful of starting a rumor you cannot prove,” he warned softly.

Edmund leaned forward. “Ah, but you see, there's the beauty. Perhaps I can't prove it, but then he can't disprove it. And in the court of rumors, who is going to be believed? A titled gentleman or a purveyor of sin?”

H
e'd wanted to take possession of her mouth with a fierceness that astounded him. Leaning over her in the parlor, Jack had momentarily forgotten why he'd gotten up and gone over to her to begin with. Briarwood had completely slipped his mind, and all he'd been able to do was absorb her fragrance, lose himself in the gold of her eyes, ponder what it would take to make her rapid breaths come more quickly, and anticipate knowing the taste of her when he ravaged her mouth. But acting on his desires would have given her expectations he wasn't prepared to meet. He suspected the prim and proper duchess was not a woman who dallied with a man she had an aversion to marrying.

So he'd delivered his conclusions and walked away.

But she'd haunted him for the remainder of the afternoon while he sat in the library and met with the different men who were responsible for overseeing various properties: entailed and not. They handed over their books with grim expressions. He assured each that his services would be retained unless Jack discovered flaws in the recordkeeping.

By the time the evening shadows crept into the room, his head ached, his neck and shoulders were stiff, and his stomach was grumbling. He was anticipating opening his finest bottle of claret and sitting down to a well-prepared meal. If breakfast had been any indication, the duke had hired an excellent cook.

The door opened and Brittles walked in on his irritatingly silent feet. “Dinner is served, sir.”

“Excellent.”

He followed the butler to what he assumed was the family dining room. When they arrived, Jack discovered two footmen standing at the ready, but the table set for only one. He didn't like to admit the disappointment that slammed into him with the realization he'd be dining alone. “Isn't the duchess eating?”

“She's dining with the young duke in the nursery, sir.”

“I see.” He took his seat, watched as wine was poured and a dish was set before him. He took a sip of his wine. “Does the young duke always dine at this time of night?”

“No, sir,” Brittles said, standing nearby. “He usually dines earlier.”

The duchess had no doubt wanted to make certain she was otherwise occupied during Jack's dinner hour. Jack was growing weary of these games. He stood up, grabbed his wineglass and bottle, and headed for the doorway.

“Is dinner not to your satisfaction, sir?”

“It's fine,” Jack called back. The company, however, was not. He stumbled to a stop. Company? When had he ever required company during his meals? Then again,
when was the last time he'd eaten at a table? He usually took his meals at his desk. A slab of meat, a potato, enough to stave off the hunger while he plotted ways to increase his revenue. But he couldn't return to the table now without looking like a madman. Besides, he and the duchess needed to discuss a few things. Might as well do it in the nursery.

He took the stairs two at a time. The wine sloshed over the rim of the glass. He stopped momentarily to drain the contents, then continued up. He strode down the hallway and opened the door to the day nursery.

Everyone gaped as though Satan had unexpectedly arrived. Jack had always relished his tarnished reputation, but suddenly it was becoming quite bothersome.

“I didn't realize we were dining upstairs,” he said laconically. “I would have been here sooner.”

The young duke sat at the head of the table, his mother beside him. His nanny, who gave Jack a coquettish smile, sat at the other end.

“We're
dining here,” the duchess said. “You're not. Your dinner is being served in the dining room.”

“It seemed a bit rude to deny you my company,” he said as he took a seat at the table more suited to children than adults. His knees knocked up against it. He poured more wine into his glass, then looked at the nanny. “Be a good girl and fetch me a plate.”

She stood up and curtsied. “Of course, sir, with pleasure.”

She left him with the impression she'd be agreeable to far more than that if he required it. But he had no
interest in her or any woman who expected more than coins from him.

Once the chicken and vegetables were set before him, he dug in with relish. “There are some matters we need to discuss.”

“Must we discuss them here and now?” the duchess asked.

He took a bite of chicken, chewed thoughtfully. “By discussing matters now, I make the most use of my time. I eat while getting business taken care of.”

“I fear any discourse with you will greatly upset my digestion.”

“And you think I care about your digestion?”

“Truly, I think you care about nothing save yourself.”

“I'll give you ten minutes.”

“Ten minutes?”

“To eat without conversation. Then your digestion be damned.”

“You are completely barbaric.”

“Nine minutes.”

She released a little growl and glared at him. He supposed he might need to take care in the future that she didn't poison his food. He was pushing her, and devil take him, he couldn't determine why.

“D-did it hurt?”

Jack shifted his attention to the boy, who was staring at his hand, no doubt the discolored skin on the inside of his thumb. It was quite hideous but Jack had always viewed being branded a thief as a badge of honor. His past had made him the man he was. He wasn't ashamed of it. “Like the very devil.”

The boy's eyes widened. They were the same golden hue as his mother's. His light-colored hair, from what Jack remembered of Lovingdon, he'd taken from his father.

Suddenly Jack did feel ashamed of his past, for reasons he couldn't fathom. “But it was a long time ago.”

The boy dropped his gaze to his plate, then hesitantly peered up at Jack.

“What is it, lad?”

“H-have you been to the Cr-crystal P-palace?”

“I haven't. Have you?”

The boy shook his head, his eyes those of a beaten puppy, then he looked at his mother.

“Henry, I'm sorry, darling, but as I've explained, we can't go.”

“Why can't you?” Jack asked.

“I'm a widow in mourning. I can't go out and about.”

“You seem to when it suits you. You went out this afternoon.”

“Very discreetly, to visit my sister-in-law, who is also a widow. I wasn't gallivanting about.”

“Let his nanny take him.”

She arched a brow. “We can't have it both ways. Either there are dangers or there are not. Besides, Henry is in mourning as well. It wouldn't be appropriate.”

“You like to follow the rules.”

“Whether or not I like to is beside the point. I have certain expectations regarding behavior and I meet them.”

“So if my expectations were that you'd behave badly, then you'd do all in your power to meet them?”

“Don't be silly. One doesn't strive to behave badly.” She sighed. “I see no reason to prolong your presence at our dinner. What did you wish to discuss?”

“My bedchamber.”

If she'd been eating, he had a feeling she would have choked. She came to her feet in a rush of black crepe that he was surprised didn't tip over the table, or at the very least, her chair. “May I see you in the hallway?”

“If you insist.”

“I do.”

In what he was coming to recognize as her self-righteous stride, she made her way around the table and headed for the door. He shifted around and watched her. He wondered what all she wore beneath those skirts. The ladies he'd been intimate with wore very little—when a man paid for services he didn't want to be bothered with having to work to get to what he'd paid for. He had a feeling bedding the duchess would be a great deal of bother—but a journey that might be well worth the trouble.

She stopped at the door and looked over her shoulder. “Mr. Dodger.”

“Oh, right.” He came to his feet, sauntered to the door, and opened it for her.

She stepped through and spun around to face him before he'd closed the door fully behind him.

“Discussing your bedchamber is hardly appropriate in front of a five-year-old, impressionable boy,” she said.

“Does he not realize I sleep in a bedchamber?”

He actually heard the gnashing of her teeth. Her temper was so easily pricked. What sport Feagan's lads would have had with her.

“I assumed your sleeping arrangements were not what you wished to discuss, but rather mine, from last night,” she said.

Leaning back against the wall, he crossed his arms over his chest and wondered what she found so offensive about bedchambers, what debauchery might have occurred in hers. “Actually, I wanted to discuss your husband's wardrobe. I need his clothes removed. Give them to the servants. I believe that's the usual practice, isn't it? Oh, and just so you know, I have the sort of memory that can remember the smallest of details. Be certain it's only the clothes that are removed.”

“There are some personal items, some things a father might pass on to his son.”

“If they're listed in your son's ledger, you have leave to take them.”

“You can't possibly think Lovingdon listed every single item he possessed? Or that he truly meant for you to have everything within this residence. There are letters I wrote him, mementos I gave him. They mean nothing to you.”

“True, but they mean something to you. Therefore they have value.” He saw her temper flare, and before she could object, he said, “Consider their worth. We'll negotiate. Meanwhile, I'm going to my club, but I intend to take up official residence here tomorrow.”

Her eyes widened slightly. “You're not planning to inhabit the bedchamber next to mine.”

“It is the master bedchamber, is it not? And I am the master.”

“I shall move myself to another room.”

“Why go to the bother? I've told you I'll not seek out
your bed. Although I have no objections to your coming to mine. Is that what you fear? That with me so near you'll be unable to resist my charms?”

“I have no fear of you and find you not at all charming. Besides, I would never lie with a man to whom I was not married, and I'd certainly never marry you.”

He shoved himself away from the wall. To her credit she stood her ground. “You think your tart tongue will hold me at bay, when all it does is cause me to wonder how it would feel against my skin.”

Her lips parted slightly as a deep flush crept up her cheeks. The hell of it was, he'd meant the words to disarm her, but somehow they'd managed to undo him as well. He imagined her tongue gliding over his chest—

Before he lost control of the situation, of himself, he turned abruptly to walk away, then stopped and looked back, fighting to keep the sudden inexplicable tremors from his voice. “By the by, I prefer not to dine alone, so do be kind enough to join me for meals. Bring your son if you like.”

With a jerk, she snapped from her haze. “It's proper for children to eat in the nursery.”

“Have you not yet learned I don't give a fig about what is proper?”

“Have you not yet learned I do?”

He supposed she deserved a small victory. “Have it your way. We'll compromise. I'll have one meal with my ward: breakfast or dinner, you choose.”

“Are you not listening? He shouldn't have any meals with you.”

“Then how am I to educate him?”

“You hire tutors.”

“They can't teach him what I know.”

“I'm not certain he needs to learn what you know.”

“One meal, Duchess. My word is final.” He spun on his heel before she could voice another protest. She voiced it anyway, in the form of a screech and quite possibly a foot stomp, maybe even two. He didn't know why he was so insistent that they join him for a meal. Perhaps because when he'd walked in, they'd been smiling, and the smiles had disappeared with his entry.

The boy had eyed him warily, and Jack didn't like that level of distrust in a child. Something had caused it, and he didn't think it was anything he'd done. Maybe because this morning he'd promised the lad a dog and had yet to deliver it. He didn't have a clue where to find one. On the streets he supposed. He'd have to give it some thought. But not tonight. Tonight he had more pressing matters to deal with.

 

Olivia was unable to sleep. She couldn't quite rid herself of the image of her tongue playing over Jack Dodger's skin. How exactly would it feel—would it taste?

Although she was alone in her bed, alone in her room, she still felt self-conscious when she brought her hand up and licked the back of it. She did not think he would be so silky or taste so pure.

Would he lick her in return? She imagined that he would. That he would start at the tip of her toes and slowly slip along her flesh, perhaps stopping to detour around to the back of her knees, before journeying along the insides of her thighs—

She flung back the covers, desperate to relieve the heat.

But her thoughts wouldn't be cooled. She envisioned him at her hip, taking a leisurely sojourn toward her breasts. She clamped her hands over them as though that was all she needed to stop this maddening fantasy, but in her mind he merely gave her his devil-may-care smile and pushed her hands aside. His tongue circled and tormented until he finally nipped at her shoulder. But he wouldn't stop there. He tasted her throat, and having his fill of one side of her, he began the journey downward to experience the other.

Gasping, she sat up. Oh, God. She squeezed her legs together in an effort to quench the lovely ache throbbing between her thighs. She wanted to reach her hand down…Lord help her. She didn't know what she wanted. She was trembling with desire such as she'd never known.

It was Jack Dodger's fault. Speaking to her of intimate things. Making her crave an illicit touch. Just once for sweet release.

She scrambled out of bed, stumbled and almost fell, her knees were so weak. Righting herself, taking deep, gasping breaths, she glared at the door that led into the dressing room. Through it was the path to the master bedchamber, the room that held the bed where Jack Dodger would now sleep. He would remove his clothes…he would be so near.