The Devil In Disguise (13 page)

Unfortunately, she only quickened her pace, lifting her narrow skirts and taking the stairs as quickly as she could. He followed, reaching the top floor in time to see her disappear through a large oak doorway. He surveyed the empty, silent hall, making sure there was no one about, then let himself into the room, closing the door and locking it quietly.

It was a storage room of sorts, tables and chairs filling nearly the entire space. Lady Lucinda stood across the room, looking out the window at the dark night.

“Lady Lucinda,” he began, walking slowly toward her, his movements muffled by a worn carpet.

She turned to look at him, anger practically rising in visible waves off her body. “I do not wish to speak with you,” she said succinctly.

Will pulled a flask from the inner pocket of his coat and took a drink. “Bloody hell,” he growled, coming to stand next to her.

“How dare you use such words in my presence,” she began, eyeing the flask. “And you know very well that spirits are not allowed here.”

“And you must know that Lady Swindon means nothing to me. If I wanted her back I would have taken her weeks ago.”

Lady Lucinda pressed a hand against the cold windowpane. “She is brash. And bold. She would think nothing of doing this,” she ground out, reaching for Will’s flask and taking a long drink.

“Lady Swindon is everything I am not,” she finished, her voice cracking, the words husky from the brandy.

“Precisely,” Will answered, reaching unsuccessfully for the flask. “My time with Lady Swindon came to an end the moment she married. An end, Lucinda, and of my own doing.”

She took another long drink, the burn of the alcohol reflected in her pained expression. “But you were lovers—”

“Lady Lucinda,” he interrupted, reaching out again. “This is not who you are.”

“Perhaps not now, but I could learn.”

Will closed the gap between them. “Do not make such ridiculous statements—”

“If you’ll only be patient, I am confident—”

He reached out and cradled her face in his hands. “Lady Lucinda, do not say such things. Hell, don’t even think …” He paused, collecting his temper. “You are everything a man could ever want and more.”

She covered his hands with her own and looked up into his eyes. “Show me.”

Lucinda did not know if it was the effects of the brandy or simply her heart winning out over her head, but she needed the duke in a way that she’d never felt before.

Happening upon him with Lady Swindon in the alcove had been torture, rage and jealousy filling her entire being until she’d had to run away or risk making a fool of herself.

“Lady Lucinda,” he said, his voice low and husky.

She gently urged him closer. It did not matter that she knew little of what she was doing. Nor did she weigh the consequences that would surely come with such a bold move. Lucinda abandoned all that she knew of what she
should
do, and instead let her heart lead her astray.

She went up on tiptoe to reach him and pressed her lips against his, pouring all of the torrent of emotion she was feeling into the embrace.

His body tensed, muscles going hard with seemingly iron control as he hesitated, pulling his mouth from hers and looking deep into her eyes. “You do not want this,” he ground out, his breathing labored.

“You’re wrong.” She rested her cheek on his, her lips nearly touching his ear. “I want this. But more importantly, I want you.”

“You do not know what you ask of me,” he growled, his hold on her arms tightening.

“Please.”

He took her mouth with such seductive force Lucinda nearly wept. His tongue sought out hers, leaving her breathless with anticipation. She was barely aware he released her arms, but then his hands moved to her waist, rough caresses causing fresh sparks of need to ignite in her veins.

She ran her hand through his hair, stopping at the nape to entwine a lock between her fingers. She squeezed her eyes shut, a pleasurable sense of dizziness pushing her toward something that both thrilled and terrified her.

His mouth left hers and his lips trailed a slow assault down her neck, kisses so sweet yet so seductive Lucinda thought they would surely drive her mad. She was vaguely aware that he walked her backwards before urging her gently to the floor and onto the soft, thick pile of a Persian carpet.

She opened her eyes and watched as his head bent toward her, sighing as his mouth moved over her throat, then lower, to the slope of her breasts above the gown. He tugged the bodice lower. He sucked at first, then licked the shape of her entire breast before moving on to the other one.

“Yes,” she urgently whispered, every inch of exposed skin screaming for his attention. “More.”

His hands stroked down the length of her, over the inward curve of waist and the outer curve of hip and thigh. She shivered beneath the pleasure of clever hands before he reached the hem of her pale blue evening gown and slowly pushed it up, first to her knees, and then her thighs, stopping just below her waist. He lifted away from her, just far enough to take in the sight of her, and his eyes hazed with desire. His gaze seared her skin and her heart beat faster.

Desperate for release, she caught his hand in hers and kissed the palm. She took one finger in her mouth, sucking lightly at first, then harder, the salty taste of his skin surely the most intoxicating flavor she’d ever encountered.

“Bloody hell,” he growled.

Lucinda opened her eyes at the sound, seeing the duke pull at his neckcloth and rip it from around his neck. He pulled his finger from her mouth, caressing first her top lip, then the bottom before tracing a path between her breasts and down to her belly and beyond, coming to rest just below her corset.

He towered over her, supporting himself on his knees while one hand reached for her breasts, gently tugging at a nipple then releasing, drawing a circular pattern in and out, heightening the desire.

The sensations pulsing through Lucinda’s body and mind surged in waves, higher and higher, the unfamiliar pleasure coursing through her veins nearly impossible to contain.

She felt the sudden brush of cooler air between her thighs. The duke placed his finger where only moments before her chemise had been, rubbing gently, the exquisite friction coaxing Lucinda to new heights.

Somewhere in her mind reason screamed for her to stop, but she could not. She wanted this—wanted him—more than she’d ever wanted anything before in her life.

“Please,” she sobbed, looking into the duke’s eyes.

His fingers quickened their pace, driving Lucinda’s tension higher, and bent to kiss her mouth, the flick of his tongue stirring the sudden explosion of Lucinda’s entire being.

Pleasure radiated from the juncture of her thighs outward, pulsing through her body. The sensation seemed to build on itself, wave after wave of intense emotion assaulting her anew.

She threw her arms around him pulling him down on top of her. Stars burst before her heavy lids as she kissed him with every last ounce of energy she had within her, moaning under the pulsating pleasure.

Long moments later, he dragged his mouth from hers, dropping his head to rest below her breasts. “What have I done?” he asked, the low timbre of his voice vibrating against Lucinda’s sated body.

“Nothing that I did not ask for,” Lucinda responded, slowly sitting up and urging him to do the same. “I needed something in a way I’d never experienced …” she began, hesitating in an attempt to find the right words. “I needed you, and I will not, cannot, apologize for it. Neither should you, unless you—”

Lucinda stopped, doubt suddenly filling her. Had he only taken pity on her? Obliged her out of lust and some twisted sense of duty rather than any real feeling for her?

“Do not, for a moment, think I do not want you, Lady Lucinda.”

Lucinda couldn’t think beyond this moment, the ramifications of what had just transpired too numerous and earthshaking to entertain. When at last his lips left hers, she rested her head on his shoulder and sighed contentedly. “In that case, I do believe it’s time you called me Lucinda.”

Nearly eighteen hours had passed, but Will could still smell her on his skin, taste the salt of her sweat in his mouth, hear her panting in his ear.

She’d caught him off guard, the need so achingly apparent in her eyes that even Iron Will could not say no. He could take some relief in the fact that he’d left her maidenhead intact. “Cold comfort,” he growled, rolling the cue ball with such force that it crashed into the remaining balls, sending them careening across the baize surface to bounce off the sides of the billiard table.

Will stalked to the sideboard near the fireplace in Clairemont Hall. He hastily poured two fingers of brandy into a cut-crystal glass and tossed half of it down, returning the decanter to the silver tray before dropping into the leather chair angled next to the hearth.

“Christ,” he whispered, nearly unable to believe his reaction to her. He’d wanted to bury himself so deeply inside of her that their mingled cries could be heard in heaven itself.

But more than that, his own need for connection matched hers, his heart and soul echoing what he saw in her eyes.

He stood abruptly and savagely threw the crystal glass into the fireplace. A thousand tiny shards rained down over the flickering flames, pinging against brick and stone.

“This cannot be.” He turned toward the door, halting abruptly to drop to his knees.
This cannot be!

Desperate for something, anything, to release his anger upon, he roughly took up a nearby billiard cue and snapped it in half, flinging both pieces to crash against the wall. He sat back on his haunches and covered his face with his hands, the dawning recognition of such unfamiliar emotions washing over him anew.

What was happening to him?

Love, you giant damned fool. Love
, he thought, unable to even speak the words out loud.

He raked his hands through his hair before standing. “And danger.” Dangerous for him for so many reasons. But worse, dangerous for Lucinda.

Will could not be the man she wanted, that was certain. His faults could fill a thousand books. His father had been right about one thing: Will could never be what a duke should be.

But more than that, he could not be the agent he must be with such feelings hammering away at his heart.

Or could he? Will propped himself against the billiard table and looked deep into the fire. Perhaps it was those very feelings that made him the perfect man for the job. After all, what other man would have a more vital reason for keeping her safe than he?

He gripped the edge of the table with both hands, his knuckles turning white from the effort. This was madness. Lunacy. He’d steeled himself from such involvement countless times before, flirtations and physical encounters serving to fill the void that years of emptiness had created.

And when it hadn’t been enough? Will had found comfort in the Young Corinthians, the endless hours of intelligence work numbing him beyond the ability to feel.

And yet, somehow, some way, he could not let Lucinda go. With every single detail he discovered, he only yearned to know more of her.

To give in to the madness could be his salvation, a new life, where love filled his soul rather than loathing and rage. But what of his old life? His debt to the Young Corinthians could not be repaid from behind a desk.

He unclenched his grip, leaving the table to walk across the deep red and taupe patterned carpet, stopping in front of the window that looked out on St. James’s Square. He caught his reflection in the glass. Hair mussed, his neckcloth missing, his jaw in desperate need of a shave. And those eyes. “Nearly as dark as the hell from which you came,” his father would say.

“She couldn’t love you, you fool,” he gruffly whispered, looking past his image to the square below. Streetlights were just being lit, the dusk silently settling into the deepening expanse of night.

He’d tortured himself for naught, he realized. A woman such as Lucinda would not, could not, love a man such as he.

A carriage rolled to a slow stop in front of the house, The Clairemont crest barely visible in the waning light. “Bloody hell,” he growled, watching the footman jump down from his perch to open the door. “As if I am in need of further distraction.” His brother, Michael, emerged first, fingering his neckcloth and smoothing back his meticulously groomed hair before offering his hand to the remaining occupant.

A dainty gloved hand appeared, then one slim arm draped in a scarlet wool shawl. Finally the remainder of Will’s mother came into view as she stepped down onto the pavement bricks. Her hair was just as it had always been, though silver locks now glimmered among the ebony tresses visible beneath her bonnet. She’d aged somewhat since he’d last seen her, and yet one could not deny that the duchess was still a striking woman, even at the advanced age of five-and-fifty.

She paused to smooth her skirts, looking up at the house with a mixture of emotions playing across her face.

Will turned away from the window and moved across the room slowly, reluctant to meet his unexpected guests. He knew how difficult it was for his mother to be here; the memories of life with his father were extremely painful ones. But the strain of entertaining his family was more than he cared to take on at the moment.

He met Smithers in the hallway, the man’s dismay punctuated by the grim set of his mouth.

“Your Grace,” Smithers began, stepping in time with Will, “your family—”

Will chuckled, despite Smithers’s obvious discomfort. At least he could always count on him to behave exactly the same, every day. It was oddly comforting to Will and he clapped the man on the back. “My family, yes, I know. Thank you, Smithers—though this can all be left to Peterson, you know.”

“If I may be so bold, the duchess and Lord Michael require special consideration, which is not Peterson’s forte, Your Grace,” he replied, a slight hint of irritation apparent in his tone.

Will laughed out loud this time. “No, Smithers, I suppose it is not.”

The natural order of things put right, Smithers cleared his throat and picked up the pace. “Might I suggest the rose room for your mother and the—”