Duke of Sin

by Elizabeth Hoyt

  She took his proffered hand.

  He curled his long musician’s fingers over hers, and drew her into his bedroom, shutting the door behind them.

  Inside she saw Cal the footman, standing by the fireplace, looking partly defiant, partly scared out of his wits.

  Mehmed wasn’t in sight.

  “Where is Mehmed?” she asked quietly as Val led her toward the fireplace.

  This felt like a ceremony somehow.

  He shrugged. “I sent him away to sup with the other servants tonight so that he could learn about the true depths of both English cookery and English prejudice. He’s quite excited.”

  She frowned at that and then hissed, “This morning you told me you couldn’t get out of bed. What are you doing, strolling about your room now?”

  He stopped and turned to her, taking both her hands as he leaned very close and whispered hotly in her ear, “I may’ve lied to you.”

  She glared as he stepped away and winked before turning and gesturing to the footman. “You see I had reasons to conceal my health. Whilst I was ill my enemies grew complacent. If they thought me well again, they might flee.”

  She looked from him to the footman. “Cal? But what about… I thought… Attwell is the one who disappeared?”

  Val tutted. “Attwell has a mistress called wine who entices him away from his duties every so often for a week or more. He slumbers in her arms who knows where and when he awakens comes stumbling back, shamefaced and empty of pocket. In short, he wouldn’t hurt a fly, much less me.”

  He turned slowly, gesturing with outflung hand, the purple silk rippling from his arm. “Now Cal on the other hand doesn’t mind hurting, do you, Cal?”

  The footman seemed to try to throw back his shoulders, despite what looked like near-paralyzing fear. “You’re the one who hurts, Montgomery. You’re the Devil.”

  “I?” Val smiled, an angel fallen to walk the earth and tempt mere mortals. “But I wasn’t the one who made you service an old woman.”

  Bridget’s eyes widened in surprised comprehension.

  Cal flushed a mottled red. “That’s not true. I loved her. I—”

  “You were fourteen when she first took you to her bed.” Val tutted. “I doubt very much it was love when you saw her withered teats. Though why you should blame me for my mother’s venal ways, I don’t know. We were the same age. I could hardly have stopped her if my father didn’t care to.”

  “You were jealous!” Cal shrieked, spittle flying.

  Val arched an incredulous eyebrow. “Is that why you tried to kill me?”

  Cal’s lips drew back, baring his chalk-white teeth. “I’ll not hang for you.”

  “Won’t you?” asked Val gently. He might’ve been crooning to a tired child. “Poisoning a duke is considered quite bad, even by those who might not like said duke. They’ll drag you to Tyburn through the baying crowds and hundreds will watch and cheer as you dance at the end of the rope. It’ll be a very ugly death. Tell me, Cal. Did you poison me?”

  Cal stared at him, his chest heaving.

  Val smiled. “Did you pour something noxious in that glass of wine and take it, balancing it carefully through the crowd that night, until you found me, and offered me that glass of death? Did you, Cal?”

  “It should’ve killed you,” the footman said, low and viciously. “I put enough in there to fell a horse. You should’ve died in your own vomit and shit that very night. Only a witch or a demon could survive that glass of wine. Your mother knew what you were. She cursed the day you were born. She cursed you. She told me what you did. She told me—”

  “Enough,” Val roared over the string of spiteful words falling from Cal’s mouth.

  He flung open his banyan and let it fall. Naked, he advanced on the cowering footman and only as he reached the other man did Bridget see that he held the gold-hilted curved dagger in his left hand.

  “No!” She started forward. “No!”

  He moved swiftly, like a striking snake. Once. Twice. Thrice.

  So fast his hand was blurred.

  Blood spurted from the footman’s side, but his eyes were still open.

  Slowly he looked down at the mortal wounds.

  And almost lazily Val slit his throat.

  The thing that had been Cal thumped to the carpet.

  Bridget gasped, her hands covering her mouth. Oh, God!

  Val turned, still naked, still impossibly beautiful. Only the gore spattered on his belly, chest, and arm, marred his perfection.

  He walked toward her and she couldn’t help it. She backed away from him.

  He smiled.

  Sweetly. Like a boy. The dagger still in his left hand. And caught her arm with his right hand.

  “This is who I am, Séraphine. Naked, with blade and blood. I am vengeance. I am hate. I am sin personified. Never mistake me for the hero of this tale, for I am not and shall never be. I am the villain.”

  And he laid his lips over hers and pushed his hot tongue into her mouth and kissed her until she couldn’t breathe and it was only later that she found the bloodstains on her dress.

  Chapter Nine

  Now there came into King Heartless’s kingdom a magician who claimed he could perform all matter of miracles and wonders, turning lead to gold and ink to wine, and making the most spotted complexion smooth and dewy.

  Except, as those who bought the magician’s charms soon discovered, he could do none of these things.…

  —From King Heartless

  Her lips had been sweet, like ripe figs, her mouth a cavern of delight. But her eyes—those dark inquisitor’s eyes—had held only horror and disgust.

  Val sipped his China tea the next morning and gazed out the window. The sun shone on his garden, giving the illusion of warmth, though his empty chest was ice-cold.

  He could have explained to her that a razor-sharp blade was kinder than a hangman’s noose. That death delivered in seconds with a few thrusts was preferable to a laughing, jabbering mob, gleeful at the jerking, agonizing execution.

  But those saint’s eyes would’ve seen the hypocrisy.

  A footman laid down a small stack of letters at his elbow and then slid away.

  The servants were careful to keep at arm’s length from him now. They all knew he’d killed Cal. He’d placed a knife in the dead man’s hand and said it was a foiled assassination attempt, but still they looked at him with wary beasts’ eyes.

  Mrs. Crumb had agreed to the fiction, but with a troubled expression on her face. She hadn’t liked it, his little martyr. It disturbed some balance of rights and wrongs within her.

  Still, he did not doubt her. Had she not nursed him with her own hands? Had she not suckled his tongue so ardently? He’d give her time—a day or so only—and then he would invite her again to wait upon him. He’d slide close behind her, whisper scandalous words into her mobcap-sheltered ear, and remind her of all the things she tried so hard to hide beneath black wool and starched linen. And then… oh, and then, he’d see if his little housekeeper truly burned at her core.

  Patience.

  He could be patient when the occasion called for it, and this one certainly did.

  She’d come back to him, even with his true face revealed.

  She only needed time.

  So.

  He turned to his mail, leafing through the letters without interest until he came to one in a feminine hand. This one he picked up and slit open with his butter knife.

  Val read the letter—and then read it again, incredulous. It was from Hippolyta Royle, informing him that she would not be receiving him today or at any time in the future.

  He thrust the letter in the pocket of his coat and rose, striding toward the dining room doors. He caught the footmen outside the doors unawares and they scattered before him like startled geese. He took the stairs two at a time and arrived at his bedroom slightly out of breath—damn Cal and his poison to the fires of hell. A maid was doing something to the windows. She squeaked at the sight
of him, and he waved her out of the room with a flick of his wrist, continuing his stride straight to the bed. He leaned over it, reaching for the headboard, and opened the concealed compartment.

  Empty.

  Oh.

  Oh, Séraphine.

  He felt the grin spread over his face, felt his cock throb and stiffen. Suddenly the day was bright, singing with vibrant colors and stratagems.

  She’d outmaneuvered him.

  And that? That hadn’t happened in a very, very long time.

  “SÉRAPHINE.”

  The whisper was in her dreams and Bridget whimpered and tried to bat it away. She needn’t wake yet. It wasn’t time to rise. She had hours still.

  A soft chuckle and the brush of something soft on her cheek. “I would never have guessed you were such a deep sleeper, my practical housekeeper.”

  She had a terrible foreboding, an awful suspicion, even in her dreams, and she fought valiantly through the sluggish waves.

  Bridget opened her eyes, blinking, in the candlelight, to find azure eyes only inches from her own.

  They crinkled at the corners. “There you are.”

  “What.” She jerked her face back, looking around frantically. She was in her own little room in her own little bed. Even Pip was there, standing at her hip, wagging his tail at Val squatting by her head, the traitor. “What are you doing in my room?”

  He grinned like a vicious imp of morning hell. “Waking you, of course.” He reached out and tapped her nose. “Do you ever take off that thing on your head? Are you bald? I’ve been wondering.”

  “I… what?” She reached up, suddenly fearful that he might’ve disturbed her nightcap as she slept, but no, it was as firmly tied now as it had been when she’d lain down however many hours ago. She let her hands fall, and said plaintively, “What time is it?”

  The duke cocked his head as if he could hear some unearthly clock no one else could. “Just gone half past three, I think.” He smiled angelically down at her. “Now get up. We leave at four.”

  And he turned to the door.

  She scrambled upright. “Leave for where?”

  He’d already exited, but he poked his head around the doorjamb. “Ainsdale Castle. My estate in the country.”

  Then he was gone.

  For a moment Bridget stared, dumbfounded, at the place his devilishly smiling face had been. Her poor brain wasn’t used to working so early in the morning and especially without her usual two or three cups of tea, but this was highly irregular. Most houses had their own housekeepers. Surely Ainsdale Castle was fully staffed? Why then was he taking her? Was it merely for his own amusement—or was it for some other, more sinister reason?

  After all, only two days before she’d seen him kill a footman in cold blood. Of course Cal had tried to kill the duke in a particularly awful and vicious way. But then afterward the duke had kissed her as she’d never been kissed in all her life. His tongue had tasted of wine and sin and she’d wanted to moan and rub herself against him as he’d tilted her back over his arm. She very much hoped that she hadn’t actually done that… although she wasn’t altogether certain that she hadn’t. She’d been avoiding him ever since.

  She was very muddled at the moment and she very much wanted some tea.

  “Hurry, Séraphine!” His voice came from the kitchens as if he saw her sitting there on her bed, debating.

  Bridget rolled her eyes and began dressing. She pulled a small soft bag out from under her bed and swiftly packed the few necessities she might need, and then she glanced at Pip.

  He was sitting on the bed, watching her motions with interest, his head cocked.

  “Oh, damn,” she said under her breath.

  Bridget stood and picked up the soft bag in one hand, snapping her fingers for the terrier with the other, and went into the kitchens.

  Somehow the duke had roused most of the servants without her knowledge. Cook was busy supervising the packing of baskets of foodstuffs, maids were bundling together boxes, and footmen were marching in and out of the kitchen, laden with the materials the duke deemed necessary for a journey.

  He whirled at her entrance and beckoned her impatiently with his fingers. “Come, come, Mrs. Crumb. We mustn’t dally.”

  “But…” She looked down helplessly at Pip.

  The duke actually rolled his eyes. “Oh, bring the mongrel as well, if you must. Just come.”

  So she was hustled out the door and into the garden, still black, for it wasn’t even dawn yet. They crossed to the gate, the terrier trotting happily along, stopping only to water a hedge, and then they were in the mews and Bridget saw that the duke had had two carriages prepared. Only two. She’d seen some aristocrats travel with three or more. She sighed and started for the second one, wondering if she’d be able to sleep again on the bumpy roads, but Val caught her arm.

  “No, not that one.” He led her to the first carriage—his carriage. “You’ll ride with me.”

  She looked at him mutely. Of course. Of course he wanted her—the housekeeper—to ride with him. Shaking her head, she allowed herself to be helped into the carriage.

  Inside she found Mehmed, already sitting on one of the luxurious red leather seats. He grinned at her. “Mrs. Crumb! We travel to an English castle!”

  “So I understand, Mehmed,” she said wearily.

  She began to sit next to Mehmed, but the duke guided her firmly to the seat opposite, and then took his own place directly beside her. She was conscious suddenly of his warmth and of the hard muscle of his thigh pressed against hers.

  Pip climbed in the carriage and leaped onto the seat beside Mehmed.

  A footman closed the door.

  “And away we go, sailing north into peril and adventure!” shouted the duke, striking the ceiling with his stick.

  “Huzzah!” cried Mehmed.

  Pip barked.

  And the carriage lurched into motion.

  “Lord, I need a cup of tea,” Bridget moaned to herself.

  “Why didn’t you say so earlier?” the duke asked in a more normal tone of voice. “Mehmed, the tea, please.”

  “Yes, Duke,” Mehmed said, and jumped up from his seat.

  He gently pushed the terrier from the seat as well and raised it, revealing a storage compartment. From this he took a polished wooden rectangular box. He stood it on the seat and opened it like a book. On the right was a stoppered ceramic bottle, carefully fitted and strapped into the padded interior. On the left were teacups, spoons, and a smaller stoppered bottle containing sugar.

  Swaying gracefully with the movement of the carriage, Mehmed proceeded to serve both Bridget and Val tea—gratifyingly hot. Then he dived back into the storage compartment and came back up with a hamper containing a small bottle of milk for the tea, a basket of peeled hardboiled eggs, ham sliced so thin it was nearly transparent, crumbling sharp cheese, crusty bread, a cold raspberry tart, and several crisp apples, all served on China plates.

  Val motioned with his fingers and Mehmed brought out a final basket, removing the top with a flourish.

  The inside was crammed with books of all sizes and shapes.

  “Oh!” Bridget gasped.

  Val caught her eye and smiled. “I always like to travel with reading material. Please. Take your pick.”

  And as Bridget watched the sun rise she decided traveling with a duke might be quite interesting indeed.

  LATE THAT AFTERNOON Val watched with half-closed eyes as the autumn fields passed outside the carriage. They were making good time, which was excellent because by now no doubt there would be a hue and cry. He’d taken the precaution of sending off two other diversionary caravans, going in different directions from Hermes House. Even so, his pursuers would not be fooled for long.

  A corner of his mouth curved.

  Which only made the game more fun.

  The carriage rolled over a bump and Mrs. Crumb’s head lolled on his shoulder. She, like both Mehmed and the dog, had been asleep for the last half hour. I
n that time she’d migrated from what she’d no doubt considered a safe distance up against the far end of the carriage to nestle against his side, lax and entirely defenseless.

  He wondered what she would do when she discovered the countermove he’d made in their private game of chess. Oh, but he was looking forward to her reaction! The flare of indignation or anger or passion in those dark eyes. Would she assault his person?

  He rather hoped she would.

  He looked down at her sleeping form. Her hands lay like half-opened flowers on her lap, one cupped within the other. Such sturdy little hands, meant for practical work. Her fingers were rather plump. He smiled at the thought. He held his own hand over hers, comparing. His fingers, long and elegant, dwarfed hers, and yet he found he preferred hers.

  He let his hand fall to his lap.

  She wore that dreadful mobcap, hiding both her hair and her face from him, and he wanted to pluck it from her head.

  But to do so would disturb her sleep.

  He cocked his head, considering the conundrum. He found, on the whole, that he didn’t wish to disturb his housekeeper’s sleep. It felt… nice to have her lying so trustingly against him.

  If he listened very intently he could hear her breaths.

  After a bit he breathed with her.

  In and out.

  In… and then out.

  A carriage wheel dipped rather violently into a hole in the road.

  The jolt jerked her forward and only his arm kept her from a spill on the floor. “What?”

  “It’s all right,” he said.

  A glance showed that Mehmed and the dog were still somehow asleep, the dog within the circle of the boy’s arms.

  “Oh,” she said, and then attempted to move away from him.

  That he did not like.

  He slung his arm across her shoulders. “Careful. The road’s quite rough here.”

  “I don’t think—”

  “If you watch out the window, you might see blue cows.”

  She tilted her face up to see him, her expression extremely skeptical. He might be hurt if he were a man at all used to telling the truth. “Pardon?”