Sins of a Wicked Duke

  The servant moaned, weaving her fingers in Hunt’s rich brown hair. “You shouldn’t—” Her words broke on a sharp cry and her face lowered then, granting Fallon full view.

  Naïve, flirty little Nancy? Fallon shook her head. Clearly her interest in Francis had not withstood a viscount’s persuasions. The dear, stupid girl. Didn’t she know she played with fire?

  “Oh,” she gasped, her head lolling against the velvet drapes. “Lord Hunt! What are you doing to me?”

  His low growl floated on the air. “Giving these sweetcakes what they’ve been begging for, my girl.”

  “You shouldn’t! I’m a good girl—” Her words were cut off again as he hand delved beneath her gray skirts. She squeaked, but then her cry altered, swung into a low moan.

  “Yessss,” she sighed. Apparently his hand was doing something that met with her satisfaction.

  “You like that, eh?”

  Nancy tugged his head back to her breasts, hardly a sign of protest. Disgust rose high in Fallon’s chest. Eager to leave them to their amusements, she shifted her weight, ready to turn…until the floor creaked under her. Hunt swung around, his annoyed gaze narrowing on Fallon.

  “Francis!” Nancy pulled up her dress, cheeks burning brightly.

  “Ah, our young sentinel has arrived.” Hunt stepped back from the maid, wiping his lips as if clearing the taste of Nancy from his mouth. “The guardian of all that is Right. Come to break up the little fête?”

  “I heard a sound,” she said lamely.

  “Yes, well, that happens when you pleasure a woman.” He cocked his head to the side. “Something you probably know nothing about. Is that it? Because you’ve never had a proper frigging, no one else can? Nancy, dear, perhaps you should take pity and entertain the lad here.”

  Fallon’s hand curled into a fist. She was right to dislike him. Her abhorrence for his father had nothing to do with it. He was a cad.

  If possible, Nancy’s cheeks grew even redder. “My lord!” She darted Fallon an embarrassed glance. “Please!”

  Fallon turned, ready to flee.

  “Francis, please!” Nancy cried. “Let me explain.”

  Fallon did not stop. Clutching the tray, she strode hard ahead, steps brisk, convinced that her deception was the smartest decision she had ever made if it put her beyond the attentions of men like Hunt.

  And what of the duke? Would it be so terrible to have his attentions? For him to learn she was a woman?

  So I could be another Nancy? Used and discarded like common refuse?

  Shaking her head, she vowed she would never find out.

  Chapter 17

  T hat night Dominic dreamed of Wayfield Park.

  The grim visage of Mrs. Pearce rose in the gray of his sleep. She looked on, eyes as bleak as a stormy sky as she forced a scalding poker to his palm. Then he was running, racing down corridors, the faces of his long-dead ancestors watching, judging, condemning.

  Suddenly he left them all behind, finding himself planted in a carriage, soft squabs at his back. Fallon O’Rourke sat beside him, her eyes warm and glowing. Inviting. Her face was a hazy blur like in his portrait, features not quite distinct. But there was her hair. That he recalled perfectly. The glorious mane floated around her in a luxurious sun-tinged cloud. Her hand took his, fingertips a feather’s stroke on his scarred palm. Her lips curved, seductive as he slid the sleeves of her gown down, down…

  Dominic was jostled rudely awake, ripped from the dream that had taken a decidedly delightful turn.

  “I brought Jenny for you. Wake up, Dom!”

  Blinking, resentment sharp pinpricks in his chest, he craned his head around. Feminine giggles filled the room. Before he could push off his stomach, a warm body dropped down on the bed beside him. A soft arm slid around his waist.

  “Hello, love,” a voice cooed near his ear in a rush of hot, gin and tobacco-laced breath. “I hear you missed me.”

  A hand slid between his chest and the bed, past the sheets bunched at his hips, seizing his manhood in an ungentle grip. He shot up in bed with a stifled yelp, disentangling her hand from around him.

  Hunt’s laughter filled the room. “Easy there, Jenny. Give him time to wake up.”

  Dominic rubbed his eyes, following the shadowy figure of his friend as he strolled across the room and pulled open the drapes. Moonlight shimmered into the room. “Hunt? What the devil are you doing here?”

  “I let myself in.”

  Dominic frowned. He was going to have a talk with Adams. And where the hell was the usually vigilant Frank?

  “I brought you a present. I knew you would be glad to see Jenny again.”

  Dominic eyed the female closely, from her rouged lips to the cheap, decadent gown. Her lips were full enough. But the same mouth he had kissed?

  Grinning, Jenny snuggled closer, her hand drawing ever-widening circles over his tattooed chest and shoulder as a slight knock sounded at the door.

  “Your Grace, are you well? I heard a sound—”

  Dominic stilled as his valet entered the room. Their eyes locked across the distance. For some mad reason he felt like a boy caught at mischief.

  Hunt planted his hands on his hips. “Ah, your keeper has arrived, Dom.”

  Frank’s face reddened as he absorbed the scene before him. “Forgive me for disturbing you, Your Grace. I’ll leave you to your…company.”

  “As will I,” Hunt declared, dark cloak swirling around him as he moved toward the door. “You’re going to be occupied for the remainder of the night.” He winked over his shoulder. “And perhaps tomorrow, too, eh?”

  “No perhaps about it,” Jenny chortled.

  The door clicked shut behind Hunt, leaving Dominic, Jenny, and Frank alone in the room. Frank’s eyes shined darkly in the gloom. The flesh at the back of Dominic’s neck tingled as their gazes locked. Something odd lurked in that gaze. An emotion Dominic couldn’t quite identify. Sadness? Hurt? Perhaps it was just odd that emotion lurked there at all. Why should it? Why should a bloody valet care how his master occupied himself? It was deuced strange.

  Then, like a fire doused, the emotion vanished, banked within a flat, dark stare. Frank departed the room in a hasty retreat. Dominic stared at the closed adjoining door for some moments, long after Frank had passed through it. A deep heaviness settled in his chest. He did not move, even as Jenny rubbed herself against him.

  “Come, my fine duke. Lord Hunt told me how eager you’ve been to see me again.”

  True. He’d thought of her for days. Traipsed to Fatima’s searching for her. And now, with her in his bed, he wished her gone. He could only credit his fascination with her to alcohol-induced madness. Because the cloying chit in his arms failed to rouse him. Not as she had a week ago. Not as she ever would.

  Fallon poured the last kettle, nodding in satisfaction at the plumes of steam wafting over the tub. Her hands trembled as she lowered the kettle to the floor beside an empty bucket. They had trembled since she left the duke’s rooms. The heavy, gnawing ache beneath her breastbone had not lessened either.

  With one last glance over her shoulder at the door, she stripped off her clothes, confident that the duke would have no need for her the rest of the night. Not occupied as he was.

  She carefully eased one foot in the water, sighing in gratification. Bliss. It was worth lugging water up the stairs—not that she hadn’t become particularly equipped at lugging buckets of late. Mouth twisting wryly, she leaned back in the copper tub, sliding down until she was completely submerged. Rising, she wiped water from her face and began scrubbing her hair, scratching her scalp with her fingers, ridding herself of every last drop of the oily pomade she applied before donning her wig.

  That done, she washed all of her body until it glistened pink. Thus far, she had made do cleaning herself from the basin in the room’s washstand. Dropping her sponge, she released another sigh and leaned back again, propping one foot over the tub’s edge.

  Fortunately no sounds carried from
next door. That she couldn’t have abided. To actually hear him with another woman. A woman he believed to be the one he kissed senseless a week ago. Her. Still, the image of him in bed with Jenny lingered, tormenting her. The tart possessed curves enough for two. And her breasts…Fallon snorted. It was almost too funny to think that they could have been confused for one another. No doubt Dominic was having a fine time with her. Her chest tightened and she rubbed wet hands over her face as if she could wipe free the images from her head and ease the itchy ache from her eyes.

  Jamming her eyes tight, the images stayed, twisted and turned, taking a life of their own. She saw Dominic in his big bed, kissing, loving…the serpent tattoo rippling, alive with the movement of his body as his broad hands roamed over yielding, female flesh. Only the woman was no longer Jenny. She changed. Became Fallon. As she once looked. Her hair long, the gold-red tresses tangled between them. Instead of Jenny, her hands stroked his chest, following the twist of that serpent across his flesh.

  She rubbed the base of her palms into her closed eyes, pressing hard, but it did no good. The vision clung, tenacious as a root, unfolding itself in startling detail. Heat scored her face, working its way down her body.

  She saw Dominic perfectly in her mind. His strong hand dove into her hair, twisting the strands around his fist, forcing her closer as he bent her backward for his kiss. A kiss she remembered only too well. A kiss he gave to another even as she entertained sordid thoughts of him. She slapped a hand on the water’s surface, spraying droplets in her face.

  Blast him! Was he so jaded he could not differentiate between women?

  Lurching to her feet, she stepped from the tub, water sluicing down her body and forming a puddle at her feet. She snatched her towel from a nearby chair. Muttering, she roughly chafed herself with the linen.

  Foolish as it seemed, she wanted to march next door and correct him of his misapprehensions. Invite herself into his bed instead. Don’t be ridiculous, Fallon. Let him slake his lust on another. She wanted nothing to do with him. Her hands slowed, her movements gentling, becoming less punishing. Inhaling deeply, she gathered her composure.

  At her current wage, she need only continue her deception a while longer. A few months at the most. Then she could move from Town. Away from the noise, the fog, the smell. She could escape it all. Sequester herself in the country. A small cottage. A simple, humble living. She could teach music or French, even rudimentary Latin. Any number of things she had learned at Penwich. It might have been a grueling existence, but she had received an excellent education. And then there was what her father had passed along to her. With her knowledge of gardening, she could grow and sell flowers or vegetables. All enough, she was convinced, to get by.

  She could forget all about the demon duke and focus on carving out a home for herself. The only thing she ever wanted. The only thing that mattered.

  Grumbling under his breath, Dominic stood and donned his robe, yanking the belt tight in an angry motion.

  “Sorry,” he grunted, not sorry at all. He sounded angry. And he was. But not at Jenny—the girl had tried mightily to kindle his interest.

  He handed her several notes. “Here. Take this.”

  Rising from the bed, she took her time putting her dress to rights before snatching the money, counting it in front of him with agonizing slowness. Her gaze slid over him with narrow-eyed cunning. “And what do I get for my pride? It’s twice now you’ve sent me away…” Her gaze flicked over him. “Unsatisfied.”

  Instead of arguing, he handed her more. “I’m certain there are finer gentlemen to appreciate your charms.”

  A slow smile spread across her face. “Thank you, milord.” Stuffing the notes into her gown, she shook her head ruefully, looking him up and down as though he were a piece of horseflesh to be assessed. “Don’t have a go with too many nobs that look as you do, though. A right shame.” She stepped closer with a conspiratorial air. “You know, I’ve a friend good with herbs. She might have a remedy for what ails you.”

  His forehead creased. “Ails me?”

  Jenny held one finger straight in the air and then let it fall limply, the digit waving listlessly toward the floor.

  Dominic stifled a snort, more amused than he perhaps ought to be over the slight to his virility. Better she think the fault in him than her. No sense pointing out that her sour breath may have had more to do with his disinterest.

  “Thank you for the suggestion,” he murmured.

  Nodding, she departed the chamber.

  He shook his head. Sour breath aside, she was a pretty bit of skirt. But not the woman he kissed the other night. And that was the crux of the matter.

  Strolling across the chamber, he dropped down into a plush armchair near the window. He stared out at the night. A waxing moon peered down through a latticework of branches.

  A heavy mist hung on the air. The light from the square’s lamps fought to penetrate the opaque fog. He heard the clattering of hooves below and imagined Jenny departing below, courtesy of one of his coaches. He beat his head against the chair’s back once. Twice.

  Bloody hell. What was the matter with him? He should be out on the Town with Hunt. Or enjoying himself in bed with a lively bedmate. If not Jenny, some other. Instead he languished away like a lovesick fool, yearning for a woman he had evidently dreamed up.

  The restlessness that had plagued him while abroad, following him across a myriad of countries and chasing him all the way home, still lingered. Like death’s hand, it crept silently through the night, reaching for him even now, preventing him from enjoying his usual pursuits. Women, drink, cards. None enticed him.

  Pity Frank had come in when he did. Now the lad went to bed thinking Dominic was engaged in all manner of vice. The young pup had looked at him with such disappointment that Dominic almost felt inclined to knock on his door and correct him of his misapprehensions. His lips thinned and he clutched the arms of the chair firmly. Almost. He did not care what one wet-behind-the-ears boy thought of him. He did not.

  He thrummed his fingers over the padded arm, his gaze moving toward the door, to the thin glow of light peeping beneath it. From the door, his gaze moved to scan his room, alighting on the nearly empty decanter of brandy.

  With a muttered curse, he surged to his feet, snatched the decanter and stalked toward the door. Clearly, his young valet was still awake. Why not make use of him?

  “Frank,” he called, giving the door a swift, angry rap before closing his hand around the latch—and telling himself it was to simply request more brandy. Not because he gave a damn about what the young prig thought of him.

  Opening the door, he stepped inside the smaller room, his gaze sweeping the dim interior, lips parting, readying to speak.

  A soft glow of lamplight permeated the room, lending everything a soft haze. Then he realized some of the haze was in fact a vapor on the air. Steam rose from the copper tub on one side of the room.

  His gaze landed on the tub…then drifted to the figure standing beside it, a female, so still, frozen like one of the marble statues in the garden at Wayfield Park. Something froze inside him as well. They stared at each other for an interminable stretch of time, gazing at each other as two enemies coming face-to-face on a field of battle. She with a towel clutched to her bare body.

  Her eyes flared wide, enormous and frightened as any animal caught in a predator’s sights.

  The decanter slipped from his fingers, the dull thud barely registering. His gaze dragged over her, feasting on moist flesh. The wet towel did little to conceal all that pink, glistening skin—the endless legs…an amazing stretch of well-shaped legs. More legs than he remembered ever seeing on a woman. His gaze roamed upward, sliding over long lines and gentle curves until he encountered her face—and gave it his first hard look.

  The truth struck him in a blazing flash, knocking the wind from his lungs as effectively as a fist to his chest.

  His heart pounded fiercely, blood rushing his veins in a searing bur
n. The air crackled as he fought to swallow past the thickness in his throat. Oddly, he felt more awake, more alive than he had in years…ever since he became a dead shell of a man…alive only when he lost himself in a woman’s heat or when he lost himself in his painting, in the colors, in the flying stroke of his brush on canvas.

  Staring at her, he felt alive. Awake.

  Staring at her face—a woman he never met, yet knew—he grasped the astounding truth. This was the woman he had kissed. The one to fill his head all week. Not a figment of his imagination. Not wishful thinking. A wholly flesh-and-blood woman. She was real. She was here.

  And she not a he at all. She was Frank.

  A fact that did not shock him nearly as much as it should. Strangely, it fit. Made sense. More sense than his obsessing over whether his wet-behind-the-ears valet approved of him. All her disdain and haughty regard made perfect sense now. How like a woman.

  Fury spiraled through him, threatening to spill forth and devastate all in its path. Including the wide-eyed female before him.

  Especially her.

  His hands flexed at his sides. He flicked a glance to the floor and the decanter of brandy. The last of its contents seeped into the carpet just as the last drop of his control evaporated, a fast-fading curl of smoke on the air. Gone. With the last of his restraint.

  Chapter 18

  “F rank?” he drawled, his mind grasping what his eyes already recognized…what perhaps he had known all along, buried somewhere deep inside him.

  He stepped closer, bare feet sliding over the carpet as he contemplated why he had not faced the truth sooner. Why he had not seen her? He assessed her. Even tall as she was, she was undeniably female.