Sins of a Wicked Duke (14 page)

His hand trailed down, fingers skimming her spine until he came to her derrière. She squeaked into his mouth as he squeezed one cheek, positioning her against him so that his erection ground into her. Garbed in trousers, she felt the hard shape of him perfectly. To her shame, she reveled in it. Sighing into his mouth, she sank against him. Growling, he pulled her even closer.

It appeared Dominic—suddenly she could not think of him by any other name—was taking this to its obvious conclusion. Believing her the tart from earlier, she might soon find herself without her long-guarded virtue. A fact that did not send up the flag of warning it should have. Instead she only melted deeper into his hard length, a small voice whispering,Why not?

The pulsing ridge of his manhood prodded at the juncture of her thighs and a deep, clenching ache started there. His hand flexed on her bottom, the imprint a brand that would forever remain there. This, she knew. Long after she scrimped and saved to settle in her long-sought home—a place that was hers and hers alone—she would remember his hand, his touch.Him.

His kisses were drugging, deep sensuous pulls from her lips, as if he were drinking life-saving nectar and could not get enough. No wonder women dropped at his feet. A man who kissed like this—inebriated no less—was a danger to the female population. A woman could think herself special,loved , when a man kissed like that.

Her hand smoothed over his bristly cheek in a feverish hold as their mouths fused together. The scratch of his jaw chafed her tender palm. He dragged her higher and the broad hand on her bottom slid lower, caressing…dipping between her legs from behind and exerting the most sinful pressure against her core. She gasped at the sinful caress. No man had touched her so intimately before. So wickedly. Any man who tried would have suffered pain at her hands.

Through the fabric of her trousers, his fingers unerringly found her cleft, rubbing up and down in languid strokes that grew deeper with every pass. Her belly twisted. She widened her legs, seating herself against his hand. Her breaths grew faster, rushing from her lips in noisy pants as he worked his fingers over her. Slow, then fast. Hard, then gentle. She clutched a fistful of his hair, whispered pleas falling from her lips.

The tension in her belly coiled higher, tighter, a serpent ready to strike. Moisture gushed between her legs and she shuddered, crying out into his mouth.

He broke their kiss then, whispering soft words as his lips dragged a burning trail along her jaw and neck. She jerked her head to the side to give him more of her throat…and felt her wig tilt slightly askew.

Slapping one hand over her head to keep it in position, she cried out as his teeth scraped the hammering pulse at her neck.This was insanity! And yet she could not move, could not part from him, could not stop from experiencing him as awoman . As she never would when he had his wits about him.

He bit down where her neck and shoulder met, his tongue following, laving the tender flesh. She blinked, gasping as though emerging from a deep pool of water. In a move so sudden it left her dizzy, he flipped her on her back. For once she felt small, feminine and petite as he loomed over her and settled his large body between her parted legs.

Her gaze roved over the ceiling’s flickering shadows, seeing nothing, seeing everything as his hand closed over her breast. She cried out and arched into that palm, her own hand flying to his head, her fingers delving in the silky dark strands. She could not stop no matter how many voices in her head called her a fool.

He parted her jacket and slid it off her shoulders as if every woman he caressed wore men’s attire. Brandy must have addled his wits entirely. With a vicious yank, he pulled her shirt free of her trousers. His fingers grazed her soft belly, her ribs, inching ever higher.

What are you doing? He’s your employer! He doesn’t know it’s you. He thinks he’s having his way with one of his tarts.

She moaned. Fire ignited along her flesh where he touched. When he reached the fabric she bound around her breasts, she tore her mouth from his with a frenzied hiss. Enough! She must stop him. He would certainly notice having to unwrap binding from her breasts.

Squeezing her hands between them, she shoved. “No!”

He swayed above her for a moment, and she shoved again. Harder. He fell back on the bed. Hopping to her feet, she stared down at him, trembling from head to toe.

Mumbling, he rolled onto his side, peering up at her through heavy-lidded eyes. “Where you going?” he slurred, blinking in her direction with a thankfully unfocused gaze. “Come here, you.” Rising, he attempted to steady himself on an elbow and grab her hand.

She stepped sideways, easily avoiding his reach.

He fell back. With a groan, his eyes drifted shut.

With one hand pressed against her pounding heart, she watched him closely, her heart aching nearly as much as her body. He rolled his head side to side, lips moving, words a bare whisper. She inched forward a shuffling step, then another, trying to make out his words. When they came to her at last, each word punctuated with a broken breath, her heart pounded even harder beneath her palm.

“Don’t go. Don’t leave me.”

Senselessly, she felt like crawling back in bed with him and folding his great big body in her arms. He sounded like such a forlorn little boy. Utterly lost. She gave her head a hard shake. Why should he sound so forlorn? He was a bloody duke, born with every advantage. He didn’t know hunger. Or the sting of a strap on his back. He knew only wealth and power and how to abuse those beneath him. She ignored the fact that the latter did not ring quite true. That he in fact had treated her with more care and thought than any of her previous employers.

Stumbling, she raced from the room, fairly certain he was too inebriated to give chase…and too inebriated to realize he just kissed his valet. Hopefully, tomorrow he would not remember anything at all.

Shutting the door behind her, she cursed its lack of a bolt. Heart hammering, she fell against its length, taking comfort in the barrier as she waited, listening for the tread of his footsteps on the other side, sighing in relief when they never came.

She wrenched the scratchy wig off her head with a trembling hand and dragged her fingers through her short locks. Her hand slid down her cheek, coming to rest on the thundering pulse at her neck…where his mouth had bit, then kissed her with such heat that her knees grew weak. Her skin still felt moist there, warm beneath her fingers. A mark she would forever wear, foreverfeel . Even after she left these walls. Something, she decided in that moment, that she must do. As soon as possible. Before he learned the truth.

And before she came to forget all the reasons she couldn’t care for him, and embraced the fact that she already did.

At the click of the door, Dominic jerked upright. The room spun. He inhaled, the faint odor of cinnamon filling his nostrils. And vanilla.And…warm bread? Glowing eyes flashed before him. A sense of longing seized him.

Moaning, he fell back on the bed, arms stretched wide at his sides. Emptiness, desolation swept over him. His arms moved, searching, seeking…finding nothing. No one.

He moaned again, the sound fading as he slipped toward sleep, his hand flexing in the bed at his side, still searching. A single, erratic thought tripped through his befuddled mind.

Someone was supposed to be here.

Dominic woke slowly, wincing at the dull throb in the center of his forehead. Perhaps he had imbibed more than customary. A consequence, no doubt, of yesterday’s unsettling conversation with his valet.Bloody hell.

Frank’s remarks had struck a nerve. Astounding as it seemed, the boy’s disapproval rankled, bothering him all day until he found himself out with Hunt, joining him at Fatima’s Parlor of Delights, one of the raunchiest bordellos in Town. Together they had tossed down glass after glass of brandy as they surveyed the array of women the madam paraded before them.

Inhaling through his nose, he stretched his arms out at his sides, fingers extending, reaching for the one thing he remembered from the night before. The woman.

At least he recalled beginning the night with her.Ending the night was a bit fuzzy. He recalled warm female skin. A wide, sweet-tasting mouth, incredibly soft beneath his. He didn’t know lips could taste that soft. A slow smile curved his mouth. No matter. Headache or no, he was up for a repeat performance.

Those kisses had been spiced rum on his tongue, her response ardent and honest in its passion. Completely unexpected from any woman Hunt would recommend. And he had recommended her, known her intimately, he claimed. Perhaps Hunt did not realize what a jewel hid beneath the painted face and brazen gown—explaining why he would give her over so easily and with a pithy recommendation. He and Hunt might not have seen each other in the years he lived abroad, but he well recalled the friendly rivalry that existed between them. Years hadn’t erased it.

He thought hard for a moment, trying to recall her name. No use. Whatever her name, she was unique. Enough so to be the first thing on his mind when he awoke. The last woman to linger on his mind had been Fallon O’Rourke. A canvas depicting her hung in the next room even now…an elusive image he had tried to perfect these last weeks. She was little more than glowing eyes and shadowed features, but the hair he almost had right. A sunset of reds, golds, and browns. He had it close. But not quite.

Determined to reacquaint himself with his night’s bedmate, he turned his head, a greeting ready on his lips. Something naughty and charming, certain to entice the female to linger the day away with him and alleviate his ennui.

Yet his fantasy was dashed in an instant. White space stared back at him. Sitting up, he scanned the bed around him, seeing nothing save the rumpled sheets and counterpane. A quick survey of the room heightened his displeasure. No one.

Had she made off with the silver, too? For some reason, no cavalier remarks sprang to his mind at the notion. If this one had used him only to rob him he would care. Damn it all.

Swinging his legs over the bed’s edge, he ignored the sudden lancing pain in his temples and bellowed, “Frank!”

Moments passed before the adjoining door opened. Frank stepped inside his chamber with careful steps, his expression coolly neutral. Remarkable that. Usually disapproval was writ all over the lad’s bloody face…from the thinning of his lips, to the quivering of his nostrils.

He supposed he was fated for valets that only ever scorned him. Dominic cursed loud enough for Frank to hear.

Face pale beneath his ridiculous gray wig, the valet set his chin at a stubborn angle. Clasping his hands behind his back, he stopped a good distance from the bed and murmured, “Yes, Your Grace?”

“Where’s the girl?”

“Girl, Your Grace?”

“Yes, the girl.”

Frank blinked slowly, extraordinarily reticent for him. This was not the same man who so baldly declared his disapproval of Dominic’s lifestyle yesterday.

“It’s not a trick question,” he snapped.

Frank’s lips parted, but still he said nothing. Merely looked at Dominic with his far too intelligent gaze.

“Bloody hell, don’t act as if you don’t know.” He snorted. Servants knew everything. A valet especially would know all the activities of the gentleman he served. Frank would be no exception. From the start, Dominic had marked him a sharp lad, always a watcher, observing everything intently. Nothing escaped his detection.

“Know what, sir?” the valet asked. At this particular moment, he seemed more dense than sharp.

“Bloody hell.” Cringing at the sudden pain spiking his forehead, he pressed fingers to his head, rubbing in small circles.

“Are you unwell, my lord? Can I fetch you something?” Frank moved to the door again, one hand stretching out for the latch. “Mrs. Davies’s tonic perhaps?”

His lip curled at the mere suggestion. The thought of Mrs. Davies’s blood-curdling tonic made his stomach heave.

“No. I don’t want a bloody tonic. I wanther ,” he hissed, feeling like a child denied his favorite toy—and not giving a damn. Not with the memory of dark eyes and a mouth so hot it melted him from the inside out. “What you can do is fetch me the woman from last night.”

“The w—”

His swift glance silenced Frank from echoing his words yet again.

Clearing his throat, his valet began again, “Of what woman do you speak, Your Grace?”

“Last night. The girl from last night.”

“Ah. You mean Lord Hunt and his guests.”

“Yes,” he snapped, slicing a hand through the air. “Where are they?”

Frank’s lanky frame straightened a bit, and a bit of color returned to his cheeks. The familiar spark entered his eyes as he announced, “I sent them home.”

“You sent them home?”

“Indeed. You were unconscious. I did not think you would mind…”

“Clearly, I did. Ido .”

Frank cocked a reddish-brown brow, murmuring drolly, “You were snoring. And drooling as I recall.” The latter he added with a fair amount of satisfaction. “I did not think you in any shape to entertain.”

He scowled at Frank, suspicion settling heavily in his gut. Dominic stepped forward, wondering what it was about that cocked brow, that droll tone that got under his skin. In short, what was it about this lad that aggravated him? And yet…he was not inclined to dismiss him. Most baffling. “Allow me to explain that your duties do not go so far as to rush off my guests. Understand?”