Sins of a Wicked Duke

  Her mouth worked, but no sound came.

  “Frank,” he repeated, his voice hard as ground glass.

  She shook her head. Stubborn chit.

  “But then I suppose that’s not really your name, is it?” He subjected her to another thorough, insulting examination, his stare lingering on her poorly hidden breasts. Small but pert.

  Her gaze darted left and right as though seeking escape. Moistening her lips, she finally found her tongue. “How dare you barge in here? Even a servant is entitled to a modicum of privacy.”

  “Indeed.” He cocked his head as he advanced on her. “Especially a servant with something to hide.”

  Her expression tightened as he came closer. She shook her head in desperate denial, her damp hair tossing, skimming smooth, well-rounded shoulders. Shoulders well toned with muscle. A testament to her working-class life. His gaze skimmed her body again, and he blinked, distracted. None of the ladies of his acquaintance could boast such a fine, strong body. A woman built for pleasure, for taking a man deep inside her.

  He forced the thought away. Perhaps he had been so able to reject her as a woman because he had never met a woman like her before.

  “That’s not it at all,” she denied hotly. “I—”

  “Yes. It is.” He nodded slowly. “Cease your denials. You’re simply angry because you’ve been caught at your charade.”

  Now he understood why he’d always felt slightly on edge around her. Especially curious when he scarcely noted the servants around him before. Certainly none had ever gotten beneath his skin before. None save her.

  She stopped her retreat, her back against the wall. She held up one hand as if that alone could ward him off.

  A savage smile twisted his lips. Anger burned in his blood. Dark and dangerous. He flattened both hands on the wall, one on either side of her head. Damp heat emanated from her body, drawing him in. Leaning closer, her palm rose up to flatten against his chest, clearly thinking to stop him.

  Blistering heat sparked where they touched. Her gaze flared wide, almost directly on level with his. But she did not withdraw. Not as she should.

  Something held her hand there, a will that matched his own, a determination to show control. Dark desire flared within him. Primitive and fierce as any wild animal bred to take and conquer what he craved.

  He studied the brown depths of her eyes, truly seeing them now. The amber hue glowed like fire. He read the fury trapped there, as trapped as she was. And something else stirred there. Awareness of her defeat.

  His slow smile curved his mouth. He dipped his head, grazing her soft cheek with his own. Her indrawn breath hissed near his ear and deep satisfaction smoldered through him.

  He breathed directly into her ear, “Game over. Time to pay the piper.”

  She shoved hard at his chest, harder and stronger than he would have thought a woman capable. He stumbled back. She darted past, fast as a hare.

  He surged forward with a growl, a predator set loose. He caught her just before she reached the door. His fingers tangled in her hair. She cried out.

  With a jerk, he hauled her to him, her back colliding with his chest. Releasing her hair, he folded his arms around her, sliding his fingers over the soft flesh of her throat, skimming the delicate line of her collarbone until he grasped her shoulder and spun her.

  Instantly, he was aware that the towel had disappeared—a casualty of her foolish attempt to escape. Her chest heaved with ragged breaths, and he was acutely conscious of the nipples beading into hard points against him. Scarlet stained her cheeks. “Shall we finish where we left off the other night?”

  Her eyes widened.

  “Oh, yes,” he growled with a brutal nod of his head. “That was you. Don’t think I don’t know it.”

  “My towel,” she bit out, looking to the side where the towel sat in a crumpled pile on the floor.

  He shrugged. “A good place for it.”

  Her eyes glittered with defiance, widening in outrage as he grew hard and insistent against her. With a rocking motion of his hips, he nudged the warm juncture of her thighs.

  “Wretch!” Her bare heel slammed down and ground into his foot.

  “Bloody Amazon,” he cursed, hopping back, still holding on to one of her arms.

  She struggled, straining to reach her towel on the floor.

  With a quick twist, he snatched up the towel himself, never releasing her arm.

  “Bastard,” she hissed. “Hand it over! Don’t you have a tart next door ready to prance naked for you? What do you need me for?”

  “I sent her home.” His gaze dropped to her body. Quivering with rage, he had a fairly good idea how those breasts would look perched above him, shuddering as he moved inside her. His mouth dried, and, suddenly, her punishment had become his. Those small perfect breasts, the high-tipped nipples, pink as freshly picked raspberries, ensnared him. So much so that he didn’t see her tightly wound fist coming.

  Pain exploded in his right eye.

  Releasing her, he covered his eye. “You bloody hell hit me!”

  She didn’t answer, simply grunted as she fought to grab the towel back.

  Dropping his hand from his stinging eye, he held the towel high above and wrapped an arm around her waist, crushing her to him. Still trying to reclaim her towel, she hopped on her feet, her nipples chafing his chest.

  He hauled her even closer.

  Her eyes clashed with his. She ceased moving. Indeed, it seemed she stopped breathing.

  His gaze roamed her face, taking it in, seeing her. For days, weeks, it had been Frank. His anger returned, flared anew at the reminder. “Did you have a good laugh?” He tightened his arm around her waist. Surprisingly small for a woman of her size.

  “Astonishing as it may seem, not everything is about you.” She fell still as stone in his arms. And yet she was as soft and warm as any woman, her nipples burning into his chest. Heat radiated from the apex of her legs, almost in perfect line with his throbbing cock.

  He stared hard into her face, his gaze skimming over the strong angles, the strong nose, the full mouth. No beauty to be sure. She failed to possess the petite features and delicate bones that marked a woman as truly beautiful—at least by the ton’s standards—but she was no less striking.

  “Then why did you do it?”

  Her lips pressed together in silent mutiny.

  “Tell me,” he demanded, determined to have the truth. “Speak—” he broke off, about to say “Frank.” The near slip only made his blood churn hotter.

  Air escaped her in a hot rush. “It’s about me. About keeping a bloody position for longer than a fortnight.”

  “And you need to live as a man in order to do that?”

  “Apparently,” she snapped, renewing her struggles. “Otherwise I risk being molested.” Her fiery gaze snapped to his, the accusation hot as smoldering coals. “As now.”

  “I don’t molest the women in my employ.”

  “You are now! As a woman in your employ, I would be at the mercy of your desires.”

  “Are you female? I can’t be sure,” he snarled even as his blood thickened at the feel of her pressed so intimately near. Definitely a woman.

  Fire lit her cheeks and her eyes glowed an even brighter amber, like flame trapped in polished glass, fighting to escape. And, God help him, he wanted it to.

  “You bloody well know I’m a woman. Now unhand me.”

  Even in his fury, something stirred in his gut. A quiet thrill at her boldness, at her audacity to dare such a deception, to talk to him in such a manner—as no man did—to strike him in the face.

  “And what should I do with you, fraud that you are?”

  “Send for the watch. I’m certain that is what you will do.”

  He arched a brow. “And why are you so certain?”

  “Because that is what toffs do, Your Grace.” His title, she sneered like an epithet. “Suppress and abuse all beneath them.”

  Dominic jerked as though he h
ad been struck. Again. “You are the one who committed the offense here.”

  She shook her head as though she did not hear him. “What are you waiting for? Get it over with.”

  An idiot could not miss the bitterness in her voice. “What happened to you?” His gaze skimmed her shorn hair. “Some fine lord cross a line he should not have?” Even as he posed the question, an odd tightness gripped his throat at the prospect, and he knew with absolute certainty, that if that were the case, he would find the man and kill him.

  Splotchy patches of color broke out over her face. “No!” The word shot from her lips as if such a thing were utterly impossible. “Do I look like I would let a man take advantage of me? I’m no one’s plaything. I resisted the allure of your web, did I not?”

  He blinked and gave a small shake of his head. “I thought you a man. I never propositioned you—”

  “Oh, we’ve met before.” Her words cut into him. She arched a brow, waiting, it seemed, for him to remember.

  He stared at her for a long moment, absorbing the features of her face, the aquiline nose, the full mouth, the proud, high arching brows. And the hair. The bloody hair. While still mostly wet, several dry wisps floated around her face. The color of a Spanish sunset. Even in the room’s muted glow, the strands glinted fire—a myriad of red and gold. The memory of a carriage ride with Fallon O’Rourke slammed into him. A portrait sat two doors over of this very woman. And she had been beneath his nose for weeks!

  “You,” he breathed. “I took you to the Daventry Hotel.” Instead of feeling pleasure at seeing her again, his sense of betrayal only intensified. At least you can flesh out the face now.

  “Indeed,” she replied in a clipped manner that reminded him of Frank.

  Bile burned at the back of his throat. “Did I offend you so much that you decided to make a fool of me with this little charade?”

  “The agency referred me. I needed the work. It wasn’t personal.”

  “No?” He palmed her waist, sliding down to cup one smooth cheek, round and firm. “It feels quite personal to me.”

  Air hissed from between her tightly clamped teeth. “Stop.”

  The dark pupils of her eyes dilated as he fondled the warm flesh. He knew desire when he saw it. Recognized when a woman slipped to that place where she scarcely remembered her own name.

  He released her derrière to trail his fingers around her hip, his touch feather soft, sliding inward, seeking her heat. Her flesh quivered beneath his hand. Gently, he teased the tender skin of her inner thighs. She grew heavy in his arms and he tightened one arm around her waist to keep her from falling.

  Her thighs parted for him.

  “That’s it,” he murmured, sifting through springy-soft curls. He groaned as his fingers met moist warmth. Never had a woman felt more ready. More willing.

  Her eyes drifted shut and he jostled her in his arms, passing his fingers over the core of her. “Watch me,” he commanded.

  Eyes wide, she held his stare as he toyed with her, finding that tiny little nub, rubbing and squeezing it until she panted hotly in his ear. He eased a finger inside her. Her slick channel closed tightly around him. He pressed a thumb against her nub, rolling it as he stroked in and out of her in deep penetrating glides that left his cock aching to be free, aching to feel her clinging warmth surround him. To put his stamp on her.

  Fallon shuddered and cried out, her thighs clenching around his hand. Eager to join her in her climax, he moved a hand to the front of his trousers, confident that he would have her on her back beneath him in moments. He could think of no more fitting punishment than hearing her cry out his name in pleasure.

  Except that would make her right. And Dominic as bad as all the other blue bloods she measured him against.

  Her words came back to haunt him. A female in your employ, I would be at the mercy of your desires.

  Cursing, he released her.

  Suddenly having to stand on her own, she nearly collapsed. Staggering back, she collided with the small bed. For a moment, he allowed himself to feast on the naked sight of her, the long stretch of legs, the perfect thatch of tawny hair between her legs that he had touched moments before…that he ached to touch again.

  He burned to possess her, to take her. But he would not. Not because he was good or kind or, perish the thought, a gentleman. He was none of those things. Nor did he aspire to be.

  “You’re welcome,” he snarled.

  She shook her head, clearly confused.

  “I’d say that just about nullifies your certainty that all toffs abuse those beneath them. I’ve taken nothing from you. I’ve only given.” He raked her with a carefully neutral stare, trying to ignore her flushed skin and overly bright eyes…or the agony ripping through his unfulfilled body “And left you quite satisfied.”

  Her mouth sagged, color suffusing her face. Her hands fluttered over her body, trying to shield herself.

  Crossing her arms over her chest and pressing her thighs tight in a protective gesture, her square little chin lifted. “What now? What will you do with me?”

  He knew what she thought he would do. What he likely ought to do. Certainly other men in his position would call the watch on her. Impersonating a man and passing himself off as a duke’s valet certainly bore penalty.

  “What should I do with you?” He slid his gaze over her in slow perusal, suppressing the thoughts of what he’d like to do…all that his base impulses commanded he do.

  “I’ll be gone in the morning.”

  “Very well.” He nodded and moved toward the door.

  Her leaving would be for the best. He didn’t need a fraud beneath his roof. No more than he needed a woman he ached to possess. A woman that wanted nothing to do with him.

  Chapter 19

  F allon started at the knock on her door. She had scarcely slept a wink all night, too anxious over the duke sleeping one room over, an unlocked door between them. Not that she feared ravishment. If he was bent on that, he could have had his way with her easily enough. Her cheeks burned as she recalled her ardent response to him. Her desire to run her fingers over that tattoo of his. Her willingness to give herself to him entirely.

  Clutching her neatly folded nightshirt to her chest, she faced the door, half expecting it to swing open and the duke to storm inside the small room as he had done the night before.

  Instead, his voice carried through the door, without the slightest inflection. “Five minutes. My study.”

  Nothing more than that. She bristled at the tersely worded command. Turning, she stuffed her nightshirt in her valise, no longer caring at keeping it neatly folded.

  He need not speak to her in that high-handed manner anymore. Hot air puffed through her lips. As of last night, she was no longer his servant.

  Still, he had not kicked her out into the night the moment he uncovered her deception. Nor had he called the watch on her. She supposed that was something to accord a little gratitude. A gentleman in his position could—would—have done that very thing. It certainly matched every notion she ever harbored of overprivileged noblemen.

  Shaking her head, she scanned the room, making sure she had not forgotten anything. She snorted. She scarcely need worry about leaving anything behind. Since the day she arrived at Penwich’s, she owned nothing more than the clothes on her back.

  Wrapping her fingers around the handle of her valise, she departed her room with her chin high, prepared for the stares of any servant she might pass in the corridor.

  She would leave after he said whatever he had to say. She doubted it would take long. After last night, what more was left to say?

  Striding down the corridor, she smoothed a hand down her serviceable frock—the same blue dress she wore when she met Marguerite in the park, the only one she risked including among her things.

  Moments later, she stood before the duke’s study, grateful she had not happened upon any of the other servants. With luck, she could avoid them altogether and avoid the potential awkwar
dness. They had all been so kind to her, far more accepting than the staff of any other household. Revealing her deception would give her no small shame.

  Patting the hair she had managed to pin back—save the wisps falling at the back of her neck—she rapped her knuckles against the door.

  “Come in.”

  Posture stiff, she entered the room, her right hand clutched tightly about the handle of her valise. Strangely, she felt as if she were back at Penwich, called into Master Brocklehurst’s office for the beating the school mistress claimed she deserved for her impertinent tongue.

  Sucking in a deep breath, she reminded herself that she wasn’t that girl anymore, that no man had the right to beat her. Not then. Not now.

  He looked up from his desk, his face a perfect study in stone. Papers that he actually appeared to be reading were scattered before him. It was the first time she had seen him preoccupied in a task and not pursuing vice or leisure. The sight unsettled her further, challenging her opinion of him. Making him appear somehow decent and industrious, not the libertine she first judged him.

  He did not speak for some moments. Those smoky blue eyes of his slid over her in slow appraisal. Her thoughts turned to last night, when she had stood before him naked. Heat scored her cheeks. How is it that dressed even in her shabby gown, she felt naked before him?

  Because that was what he did. Scoundrel to the core, he knew how to unnerve a woman with a single look.

  Duly reminded, she resisted the urge to fidget. Holding her spine straight, she ground out, “Yes?”

  He leaned back in his chair. “A dress suits you. Now I recall what motivated me to try and seduce you that first night.”

  The heat searing her cheeks intensified at his bluntness. “Was your lewd behavior that night your idea of a seduction?” She sniffed. “Then I have no fear that I shall ever succumb to you.”

  Something glinted in his eyes, the gray lightening until his eyes gleamed like polished pewter. “I’ve evidence that you are not immune to me. Shall I prove it?”