The Wicked Duke

P
RAISE FOR THE NOVELS O
F
M
ADELINE
H
UNTER

“Hunter combines desire with mystery and sensuality with adventure, bringing readers the kind of romance that makes their hearts soar. Here, she pits a sexy hero against an independent spinster, mixes in a mystery, humor, and wonderful banter, and gifts readers with a keeper.”

—
RT Book Reviews

“Hunter's effortlessly elegant writing exudes a wicked sense of wit; her characterization is superbly subtle, and the sexual chemistry she cooks up between her deliciously independent heroine and delightfully sexy hero is pure passion.”

—
Booklist
(starred review)

“Excellent . . . The romance and suspense are balanced perfectly.”

—
Publishers Weekly

“There are some writers who are born to write . . . Stellar.”

—Examiner.com

“Smooth, sexy, and sophisticated.”

—
Kirkus Reviews

“Passions blaze in this complex story that pairs another marvelously singular couple . . . to the delight of all concerned.”

—
Library Journal

“Ms. Hunter certainly proves her reputation.”

—Smexy Books

“Action, adventure, humor, and lots of delicious dialogue.”

—Romance Junkies

“An intriguing read that pulled you in from the first few pages.”

—Joyfully
Reviewed

RAVISHING IN RED

PROVOCATIVE IN PEARLS

SINFUL IN SATIN

DANGEROUS IN DIAMONDS

THE SURRENDER OF MISS FAIRBOURNE

THE CONQUEST OF LADY CASSANDRA

THE COUNTERFEIT MISTRESS

HIS WICKED REPUTATION

TALL, DARK, AND WICKED

THE WICKED DUKE

Specials

AN INTERRUPTED
TAPESTRY

An imprint of Penguin Random House LLC

375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014

THE WICKED DUKE

A Jove Book / published by arrangement with the author

Copyright © 2016 by Madeline Hunter.

Excerpt from
The Surrender of Miss Fairbourne
by Madeline Hunter copyright © 2012 by Madeline Hunter.

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eBook ISBN: 9780698156609

PUBLISHING HISTORY

Jove mass-market edition / June 2016

Cover photography by Claudio Marinesco.

Cover design by Rita Frangie.

Cover photo: HEVER CASTLE AND GARDENS © IR Stone/Shutterstock.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

T
he whole world rocked. That was the first thought Lance had while wakefulness slowly came to him—that the whole damned planet bounced through the universe. The violent movement gave him a head fit to burst. Holding on created an exhaustion so deep he yearned to return to blissful oblivion. Only he could not, because of that damned movement.

A bit more consciousness emerged. It was not the whole world. Only his bed. In the next second, an awareness of pleasure slammed into him.
What the hell—?

He forced one eye open. Skin. Breasts. Plump thighs. Long tendrils of blond hair.

A woman sat astride his hips. She had made use of his morning erection. Since he had neither initiated this,
nor agreed to it, it was the closest thing to a woman forcing her pleasure on him he had ever experienced.

Who the hell was she? He closed his eyes, and enjoyed the ride, as it were. His pained, befogged brain tried to remember where he was and how he had gotten here. The last thing he remembered with clarity was tearing off from Merrywood Manor on his horse two days after Christmas, as soon as he sent his brothers and their wives back to London. Something in him had snapped as those carriages rolled away, and he had ridden hard for miles, full of anger at his impossible situation, until near night he entered a town right across the border to Herefordshire.

The woman groaned. She bounced harder. If he'd had the strength to take over, he would, so maybe his head would not thud like this. He might even stop her, because this did not feel nearly as good as it should.

She must have noticed him stirring. She bent forward, even as she continued her thumps against his hips. She kissed him. She tasted of beer.

She straightened again.
Beer.
Now he knew who she was. There had been a tavern, and a young woman delivering beer. He had flirted, because, aside from lots of drinking, that was what he was there for.

She finished with a loud groan. His own climax was more of a whimper.

She did not move. She giggled, and bent to kiss his chest while she caressed it. “Poor thing. All these bruises. Fought like a tiger, you did. Three against one ain't fair, but you held your own, didn't you?”

Each kiss sent a little jab into his head. Bruises. No wonder he felt thrashed. Only he could not remember a single moment of it. All the same his pride stupidly glowed at hearing he had held his own.

Her mouth pressed his lower chest. Then another pressure came, on a spot on his shoulder. His mind pondered that. It felt as though—

“For a man who took all those blows, he did not disappoint.” The voice that spoke those words sounded deeper than the blonde. Older.

One half of his brain snapped alert. It painfully sorted through the last five minutes. He opened his eyes to see just what was what. The blonde smiled up at him from where her chin rested on his torso. Another smile beamed at him from his shoulder.

There were two of them.

He took in his surroundings. The walls showed the half-timbering and rough plaster common to ancient inns. The bed would barely fit two, let alone three. Yet here they all were.

He paid attention to his body. Oh, yes, lots of blows. That was clear now. He stretched his right hand. The knuckles did not want to straighten completely. Damnation, it must have been one hell of a fight.

The blonde reached down and caressed him. She grinned. “I think, if I am not mistaken, that you are ready again.” She began that lowering descent of kisses.

“No.” His voice sounded strangled. His face hurt. He raised his hand and felt it, gingerly. The aches said that but for his beard, he probably looked half dead.

“No?” the older voice asked, teasing. “Such a gentleman he is, Joan. Not that you'd have known it two hours ago. I've not seen the likes of it, Jamie.”

Jamie? He had used a fictitious name. Shrewd. It would not do for the Duke of Aylesbury to be here, with two women. Not when he was supposed to be living the most boring, tedious, and disheartening life imagined, to prove how very good he could be. If on occasion he went up to London or rode to Herefordshire to pretend for a few hours, or a few days, that his life had not become so insufferable, he could be excused.

He sat, which meant both women had to move. He gestured for the blonde to get out of the way, so he could swing his legs off the side of the bed. He reached for his clothes.

“Ladies, I need to leave. I thank you for your company.”

Peals of laughter greeted that. “Oh, no, sir we thank
you
,” the older woman said. “Pity no one will believe us when we tell about it.”

“Such a gentleman he is too. Did you hear that?
Ladies, I thank you for your company
.” The blonde sighed. “You must promise to come back.”

He might, if he had any idea where he was. Since he didn't, he just smiled. Which hurt his face. “How much do I owe you?”

The older woman tucked her head against his neck while she pressed against his back with her breasts. “You already paid all you owe. We did not mind all those extras. Did we, Joan?”

“Not at all. It was a magnificent night.”

It was deucedly annoying to be the only one who did not know what the hell they referred to. When a man was magnificent, he wanted to savor the memory, damn it.

He began pulling on his clothes. Still they did not leave. He ignored them, and the bruises, and his cramped hand, and the way the top of his head carried a leaden weight.

Finally dressed, he bowed and left them giggling. He found his way down some stairs and into a blinding December sun and abrasively crisp cold air. Both made him groan.

From all evidence, he had enjoyed quite a night. A good fight, a good drunken party, and a good rut—that was just what he wanted when he went looking for trouble. Normally a night like this could sustain him for a month or so.

It irritated the hell out of him that he could not remember any of it. Not a single thing.