The Taming of the Duke

  She cried out against his chest, and a surge of pride took his mind off his own problems. To wit, was he going to sleep with Imogen before wedlock?

  He eased her down, and didn’t have to worry about whether she’d take a good look at his face because those eyes were closed now, and she looked as if she were just trying to get a good breath.

  “First time?” he asked, kissing her shoulder. This was fun, but he was feeling like a man who hadn’t been inside a woman in years. Not that it would have made any difference, because he wasn’t stupid enough to think that there was any other woman in the world for him.

  She woke up nicely. Her hands were in his hair now, pulling him down to her. But she hadn’t answered, so he said it again, “Was that your first time?” Then he started kissing down the line of her collarbone, heading to the next step.

  “For goodness sake,” she said, sounding like she was about to laugh, “of course it wasn’t, you dunce. Now come here.”

  And just like that, before Rafe could even wrap his mind around the fact that Draven apparently had had a trick or two up his sleeve, she had him rolled on his back and all that luscious black hair was stroking his body like fire…or maybe it was a sweet tongue.

  He tried to pull her up, but she pushed him down and what she was doing felt so good…

  “What are you doing?”

  “I’m tasting you,” she said. “Like all those other bold women you’ve been with. And Gabriel…You taste good.”

  He should tell her that bold women were usually only so bold, and that this particular sort of generosity was usually paid for, but he couldn’t find the words, and she was saying breathy little things that were enormously flattering, and all of which he saved up so that he could work out a very nice comparison of himself and Maitland later.

  At the moment, she’d trailed her mouth all the way below his belly, and she wasn’t showing any signs of revulsion, but playing with him instead, so much that his hips were coming off the bed, and he was trying hard to remember that he was a man who never, ever lost control. Even when drinking. Why he’d been drunk as a wheelbarrow and still kept plowing ahead until the woman he was with found satisfaction. He’d never embarrassed himself—

  But perhaps there are women who are more potent than whiskey.

  It’s a powerful lesson, one designed to put a man like the Duke of Holbrook in his place.

  Because Imogen was playing with him, touching him, and then all of a sudden a warm, wet mouth came on him. And it wasn’t some lady of night, but Imogen…touching him, looking at him with those beautiful eyes, touching him, her hair wild and her eyes wilder, and—

  There are some women who are more powerful than whiskey, more potent than wine, who take a man’s self-control and shred it to the winds.

  28

  In Which Delicate Decisions to Do With Class are Made

  Loretta arrived in the evening at the back door of Holbrook Court, because that’s where the hackney driver left her. It was a big house, bigger than a house had the right to be, and Loretta had to say that she didn’t like the way there was nothing on either side. It looked naked, really, without other houses up against its walls.

  She left her trunk where it was in the dust and walked up to the back step. Even the door was a great deal grander than anything Jack Hawes and his daughter had ever walked through before. She had a moment’s qualm when it swung open and a footman stood there, dressed in a fancy costume with some braid, as fine as the captain’s uniform that Blackbeard wore in that play written by a lady, the one she acted in last year.

  But then she remembered that she was an actress, and all an actress ever needed was a role. Pretty Patsy would do. Pretty Patsy was the village maid who married a footman in The Loving Thief. It was a deplorably old-fashioned play, but a useful little role. She smiled up at the footman with Pretty Patsy’s dimples. “Good evening. I’m here to see the Duke of Holbrook.”

  His eyebrows shot up so fast it was a wonder they stayed on his face. “Oh, so you wish to see the duke, do you?” he said. “And where are you from, then?”

  Loretta wasn’t worried anymore. “I’m nothing more than a maid from Larding,” she said, dimpling at him and only just stopping herself from uttering Patsy’s next line: “If you’ll excuse me from begging your pardon.”

  He frowned again, and said, “Oh, that’s what it’s all about, is it? Follow me, miss.”

  Loretta sighed. Of course, the country was full of people who hadn’t seen a play in a long time, perhaps even in months. But given that the The Loving Thief played for eighteen weeks—Loretta saw it fourteen times herself—she could have expected he would catch a line from it.

  A moment later she found herself before a sturdy-looking individual who looked precisely like Harry Keysar when he was decked out as the butler of Buckingham Palace, and sure enough, that was precisely what this man was. Mr. Brinkley, butler of Holbrook Court.

  It took a while to get everything straightened out, as the footman had formed the opinion that she had come to take the place of one of the upstairs maids, who had apparently left in disgrace after stealing two silver spoons, but finally Loretta made it known that she was a guest of the duke.

  Then Mr. Brinkley said that he’d heard something of an actress coming to help with the play and went to ask what to do with her.

  When he returned, Loretta was cozily seated at the kitchen table with all the kitchen staff gathered around her. “And then the horses smelled all those sheepskins,” she was saying. “All four of the horses threw up their heads and took off running. The driver fell between the horses and the coach…”

  The cook, Mrs. Redfern, gave a great sigh and crossed herself hastily. “Dead, I’ll warrant.”

  “Dead,” Loretta agreed, her curls bobbing. “The coach hit a post. There were two outside and five inside passengers.”

  “All dead?” Mrs. Redfern cried.

  “You weren’t one of them, were you, miss?” cried one of the upstairs maids.

  “No, indeed, or I wouldn’t be here to tell you about it,” Loretta said. “But I saw it happen. There was only one woman on the mail at all, and that was a Miss Pipps.”

  “What happened to her?” the maid cried with fearful pleasure.

  “Well, when they took her out of the carriage, she threw her hand up to her head like this.” Loretta sprang to her feet and threw her hand across her forehead. “Then she sank down to her knees.” Loretta sank, slowly and with trembling emphasis.

  “And then she died, didn’t she?” Mrs. Redfern said. Even Mr. Brinkley, who’d missed the first part of the story, was waiting to hear.

  “She cried to her mother,” Loretta said, looking up at the ceiling. “‘Mama, take me to your breast, Mama.’” The quiver in her voice made Mrs. Redfern suddenly start blinking rapidly.

  “And she was dead,” the footman said.

  “Actually, she lingered twelve hours,” Loretta said, briskly getting to her feet.

  “The good Lord decides these things,” Mrs. Redfern said heavily. “When it’s time to go, it’s time to go.”

  “’Tis I who will decide about your time, if you don’t go about your chores,” Mr. Brinkley told an upstairs maid, who was looking agreeably terrified. “You know that Lady Griselda will be wanting a fresh cup of tea.”

  He sat down at the table. “Now, young lady, we must decide what to do with you. In the old days, that would be the days of the duchess as was, the actors stayed in the house proper, if you follow me.”

  Loretta didn’t, but she nodded anyway.

  “Anyone can tell that you’re a true actress,” Mrs. Redfern put in. She sat down just next to Loretta. “Mr. Brinkley, she doesn’t belong in the house proper. Miss Loretta—if you’ll forgive me taking the liberty—should stay here with us.”

  Loretta nodded.

  “Don’t you have ambitions to stay in the house proper?” Mr. Brinkley said, watching her so closely that he could have been a constable sniffing
out one of her pa’s schemes.

  “If I’m not in the house, do I have to stay over the stables?” Loretta asked.

  Mr. Brinkley snorted. “I should hope not! We have good, clean quarters in the west wing of the house.”

  “If you’re asking do I need a big chamber and someone to bring me my tea, then no, I do not.”

  Mr. Brinkley beamed at her. “Now, and you’re a good girl, aren’t you? I should have known the professor wouldn’t kit us up with one of them actresses like that Mrs. Jordan. He’s a divinity professor, after all.”

  “Who’s Mrs. Jordan?” Mrs. Redfern asked.

  “You do know it, Mrs. Redfern, that you do. She’s the actress that’s had children with the Duke of Clarence.”

  “Oooh, to be sure!”

  “You see,” Mr. Brinkley said, turning to Loretta, “I wasn’t sure whether you was hoping that the Duke of Holbrook would be amenable to that sort of arrangement. I’m by way of the gatekeeper for the duke.”

  “He’s had to be, the duke’s been cup-shot for the past few years,” Mrs. Redfern put in.

  “That’s gossip,” Mr. Brinkley said to the cook. “His Grace doesn’t drink a drop at the moment.”

  “I’ve no wish to have ten children with your drunken duke,” Loretta said. And she meant it.

  “Nay, and I can see in the shake of a lamb’s tail that you’re not that sort of girl,” Mrs. Redfern said comfortably. “I think you’d do better here with us, love, rather than eating at the big table and having to worry about your manners and such. I expect you have a young man wanting your hand once you’re done with this acting business.”

  “His name is Will,” Loretta said, nodding. “We’ve exchanged rosemary.”

  “There, and isn’t that nice that the old customs are being kept up,” Mrs. Redfern said. “Why, Mr. Redfern and I exchanged rosemary not so many years ago ourselves. Perhaps thirty.”

  Loretta thought that sounded like an eternity.

  “I’ll speak to His Grace,” Mr. Brinkley said. “I’m thinking you’re right, Mrs. Redfern. Miss Loretta will do nicely with us. We’ll keep her safe for her Will. One never knows when Lord Mayne will stop by.”

  “Not that the young man’s ever said a rude word to one of my maids,” Mrs. Redfern said comfortably. She had a lot more tolerance for the handsome earl than did Mr. Brinkley.

  Loretta didn’t care where she slept, nor who the Earl of Mayne was. “May I see the theater?” she asked.

  “I’ll take you tomorrow morning to meet the young lady who’s in charge of the production. Miss Pythian-Adams, she is, and a very cultivated young lady indeed.”

  Mrs. Redfern leaned in, confidentially. “Her maid’s quite convinced that His Grace will ask for her hand before the month is out.”

  Loretta unwittingly proved herself above reproach when she showed absolutely no interest in this fascinating nugget of information, but instead begged for the history of the theater.

  29

  In Which Various Improprieties Continue

  As Rafe saw it, there were very good reasons for stopping this erotic play. Those reasons all had to do with honor and propriety, and included things like not anticipating one’s wedding date.

  Warring against propriety was a kind of hunger that he’d never experienced before. Imogen was lying beside him, looking pleased with herself, and his personal equipment didn’t even seem to have noticed what had just happened. The only thing pounding in his head—and his groin, which at this moment was practically the same thing—was an insistence that he roll over and acquaint Lady Imogen Maitland with what it felt like to sleep with a man who wasn’t underendowed by nature, as Draven Maitland almost certainly had been.

  Then she opened her eyes and smiled at him, and he forgot for a moment that he didn’t want her to have a good look at his face. She looked a little limp and a lot happy, and the dim golden light from the dying fire was enough to make it clear that Imogen Maitland had the most beautiful female curves that he’d seen in years. Probably in his whole life. They had to be touched, and tasted…

  You have your whole life to do it in, argued his conscience.

  Only once you truly convince her that your skills are such that she should take on a bad bargain, argued back his common sense.

  Common sense won, backed as it was by a hefty dose of pure lust.

  He began an exploration of the plump underside of her breast, an intimate investigation of every inch that almost—but not quite—took all his attention.

  A gentlemen wouldn’t take advantage of his future wife before the vows are spoken, pointed out his conscience.

  I’ll vow anything, the rest of him mumbled, teasing her nipple until she began making little gasps of pleasure. It would be most ungentlemanly to leave a lady in such a condition.

  Imogen’s whole body was damp, her breath shallow, her eyes languorous and unfocused. His lips drifted south. He had his hand there already, playing with her damp, warm flesh, making her jump and roll her hips. She had stopped making little squeaks and was uttering throaty moans.

  He was having a little trouble breathing himself. Who was he fooling? Of course he was going to make love to Imogen. He felt as if he’d been intending to make love to her since the first moment she strolled into his house, all passionate over Draven Maitland, so in love that she didn’t even see him.

  No, that wasn’t true.

  He can’t have been base enough to lust after a woman in love with another man. The very thought made him roll over Imogen and pull her hips toward him.

  She reached up her arms without opening her eyes, so he could lavish just as much time as he wanted kissing her eyes and her nose, her high forehead and her lush mouth.

  And all the while another part of him was stroking her as well, making her gasp, strangled little sounds of pleasure wrenched from her chest until she snapped open her eyes, and said, “If you’re planning to go somewhere, would you mind doing so now?”

  “Tsk, tsk,” he said, grinning down at her. “There’s no point in hurrying these things, is there?”

  He clenched his teeth and stopped himself, withdrawing. She clutched his arms so tightly that he almost winced. Then she arched up, following him, seeking him, needing him.

  And suddenly he realized that those were the words he needed to hear…had to hear. The vow he kept thinking about.

  “Imogen,” he said, between clenched teeth, “do you need me?”

  She followed him again, arching that beautiful lean body in the air, but he stopped halfway and didn’t give it to her. She opened her mouth, panting a little, and said, “What?”

  “What?”

  “What are you doing?”

  “Making love,” he said reasonably. “Is there something wrong with the way I’m doing it?” He went a little deeper and then withdrew again.

  “Yes,” she said tightly.

  “Do you need me to do something different?”

  He managed an insouciant tone, even though every muscle in his body was vibrating like a spring wound too tight. Halfway, and halfway, and she was pushing against him, turning her head against the pillow, trying to catch him.

  “Just tell me this, Imogen,” he said between clenched teeth, “tell me you need me. You need—” His voice died, for her hands had slipped from his shoulders down his back, held onto his ass, and pulled.

  And despite himself, he slipped an inch. A blissful inch, to judge by the low moan she gave.

  “More,” she said. And then: “Please. I beg you.”

  That was a vow. There are limits to what a man can put himself through when there’s only one thought in his mind. So he pressed a kiss on her mouth that was his vow, silent but heartfelt, and then pulled her hips into just the angle he wanted.

  And plunged.

  She didn’t moan this time; she screamed. Her fingers clenched, and he drove forward again, just that half centimeter until their bodies were as joined as possible…and after that, he didn’t have the e
nergy to think about vows or consciences or anything of the nature. He just concentrated on breathing, staying with her, plunging deeper and deeper, harder and harder, riding her as if the two of them were trying to reach some imaginary country of sweat and sobs and little cries.

  And then—and then fire raced up his body and every muscle froze for a moment as if he’d died and gone to heaven. He managed to pull free just in time.

  It must be because he hadn’t made love to a lady in years. That must be it.

  Because men didn’t fall like a felled tree on the body of their female companion and find that their eyes were inexplicably damp, at the same time their lips were curling in a fool’s grin.

  Only a fool would think it was something sacred, making love in a hired room, with a widow who thought he was his own brother. But if the rightness of what just happened meant he was a fool…

  She was lying in the crook of his arm (because he shifted his weight after a moment). He couldn’t see her face, but he could hear her breathing, and then as he was holding her, her body shook with one final little tremor.

  There hadn’t been much to be proud of in the past few years. The only thing he’d done with passion was drink, and there were no prizes for that.

  But the bone-deep satisfaction roared through his body. She was his, after this. He’d done it. He’d seduced Imogen Maitland, and now she was having an affair, and of course, he would tell her who he really was.

  And then she’d marry him.

  And then…he was grinning when a sweet, hot thought had come to him. Who was he to think that Imogen was definitely won by that encounter? He couldn’t resist, so he brushed his mouth over her nose: just that delicate little nose, and yet it made him swallow hard.

  Her eyelashes fluttered, and he was tired of trying to stay out of her line of vision, never mind the fact that the room had grown as dark as the bottom of a scullery bucket.

  One moment Imogen was lying in a comfortable dazed state, and the next broad hands had lifted her and before she had a moment to see what was happening, she was facedown in the pillow and those hands—those hands—