Duke of Pleasure

by Elizabeth Hoyt

  He bent and kissed her again, his finger working against her faster, more strongly. She lifted her hands, feeling his hair, short, but softer than she’d thought it would be. Her breath coming in gasps into his mouth. She wanted to spread her legs, but she couldn’t, not really, not while still wearing the breeches. And she could feel the warmth, the wetness building in her quim.

  She squirmed against his hand, moaning into his mouth.

  He was going to make her… make her…

  She touched his cheek, the bristles of his beard prickly under her palm, his face warm and intimate, and arched into his hand, his fingers curved through her wet flesh, possessing her, holding her as if she were his.

  As if maybe he might be hers as well, impossible though that was.

  And on that thought she felt the stars fall from the sky and she flew up and up and up over rooftops, over London, maybe to the moon itself.

  Oh, it was lovely.

  Better even with him than when she did it herself.

  She felt so warm and limp and melty, her eyes closed, her chest heaving.

  Her mouth was curving into a smile.

  She felt so wonderful in fact that she didn’t realize he was taking the mask from her face until it was too late.

  HUGH PULLED THE mask from the woman in his lap and for a moment the world tilted on its axis.

  The face revealed was… a boy’s. Was Alf’s.

  But he’d felt the small, perfectly tipped breasts.

  The evidence of her wet cunt still glistened on his fingers.

  He blinked and the world righted itself.

  This was Alf on his lap, her sweet, round arse against his hard cock.

  The delicate features re-formed—still the same as before—but now he saw the tilt of her chin, the slim little nose, the pink lips, the winged eyebrows above big brown eyes. The jaw was too fine for a boy, the neck too elegant. She was so obviously female that she could nevermore look like a male to him.

  Alf was most definitely a girl, not a boy.

  And as he knew the truth, she leaped to her feet.

  She snatched the mask from his lax hand and was out the French doors while he was still rising.

  “Wait!” He scrambled after her, feeling like a bull chasing a deer. “Goddamn it, wait!”

  But by the time he was through the open door, the garden was deserted. He squinted into the dark night. Had she hidden herself? Surely she couldn’t have disappeared so quickly?

  He went out onto the terrace and called softer, trying not to frighten her, “Alf.”

  He could see no movement.

  Then he remembered how nimbly she climbed buildings.

  He whirled to scan the facade of Kyle House.

  She wasn’t there, either.

  Goddamn it.

  He went back inside the house because he simply didn’t know what else to do—and then stood staring at the fire. It was tempting to dismiss the entire episode as some sort of wine-induced dream.

  Except he knew bloody well it wasn’t.

  He could still smell her on his fingers. He brought them to his face and inhaled, closing his eyes, and his still-hard cock jerked. He’d woken to her kiss, so tentative and shy, but mischievous as well. And he’d responded without thought, without hesitation, dragging her into his lap, plundering that sweet mouth, exploring those pretty little breasts. He’d never stopped to wonder why she had sought him out in his library, why she’d kissed him.

  Why had she run? Was her disguise so important to her? Was her name truly Alf, or was that some sort of disguise as well?

  Bloody hell, had she been playing him for a fool this entire time?

  “Christ!” He thrust both hands into his shorn hair at a new realization.

  How old was she? When he’d thought Alf a boy he’d estimated her to be no more than sixteen or seventeen. Of course if she’d truly been living in St Giles all this time then it was highly unlikely she was still an innocent, much less a virgin. Except…

  Except her lips had trembled under his. She’d seemed surprised and excited when he’d touched her.

  Dear God, had he just debauched a child?

  ALF LEAPED FROM one roof to another only minutes later, catching the toe of her trailing boot on the eave. She fell hard, shingles clattering to the alley below, her hands scrabbling for purchase as she slid on the slanted roof. Her legs overshot the edge and dangled into space before she could stop her slide.

  For a moment she hung there, her ribs aching, her leg throbbing, a sob catching at her throat.

  Stupid, stupid idiot.

  She’d well and truly buggered it this time. She could hear Ned’s voice inside her head, chiding her as she grunted, painfully reaching up the roof to search for a fingerhold. There. She could feel a hole where a shingle had broken off. She dug her fingers into the wood and pulled, gasping. Flung her other arm as far as she could up the roof and grasped whatever she could, ignoring splinters cutting into her palms, and crawled like a panting, broken creature onto the safety of the roof.

  She turned and lay on her back, catching her breath, her face wet with tears, and stared at the moon, gauzed over with clouds. She didn’t even have her mask on—she’d shoved it inside her still-open tunic. Slowly she began buttoning her shirt and then her tunic.

  Her fingers were shaking.

  He’d seen her.

  He knew.

  No one alive knew except for St. John, and even he never discussed it with her. He’d tried a time or two, but she’d either changed the subject or left until he’d stopped trying to pry into her life and her past and why she was the way she was.

  Hiding all the time.

  But Kyle. Kyle had had his hand on her quim when he’d bared her face. He knew her as Alf and the Ghost and a woman.

  She was revealed.

  She didn’t know what to do.

  Maybe she should flee. Run back to St Giles and her hidey-hole nest. Stay away from Kyle and his black eyes and big hands.

  Never let anyone know, Ned had said. Never let them close. Never reveal yourself. Hide yourself away, Alf. Don’t let anyone in to hurt you. Better to go it alone than to expose yourself to danger.

  She stood, trembling, and looked around. She wasn’t even sure where her feet had taken her, but she soon realized.

  She wasn’t far from Saint House—St. John’s home. She could… maybe she could ask him what to do.

  She tied her mask back on her face, pointed herself in the direction of Saint House, and, moving more cautiously than she had in years, loped across the roof. The moon guided her through the cold winter night. When she was very little, Ned used to say the moon was a round, fat lady watching out for them.

  Saint House came into view. It was a great old building, with two shorter wings extending from either side to form a courtyard between them. She ran and leaped to the roof of the right-hand wing. From here she could see that there was a light on in the upper floor of the main building.

  The light was below the practice fencing room—where the nursery was.

  Alf crouched low and tiptoed closer until she could see into the room. Perhaps one of the nursemaids was up with the baby. St. John’s little girl. But when a figure crossed the lit window, it wasn’t a nursemaid she saw.

  It was Lady Margaret. Megs. That was what he called her. Her heavily pregnant form wrapped in brightly printed silk, her hair down about her shoulders, she cradled the baby in her arms and paced.

  Alf caught her breath. She was so close she could see the other woman’s smile as she looked down at her beautiful baby. And then St. John was there beside her. He said something. Megs looked up and he bent and kissed her over the sleeping baby, and Alf…

  Alf turned away. She couldn’t look anymore. It wasn’t right seeing something so private, but that wasn’t the reason there were fresh tears in her eyes. That wasn’t the reason she blindly fled back over the rooftops.

  She would never have that. Not as she was. Not dressed as a
boy, not dressed as the Ghost. She had nothing and nowhere to go, did she? Not when she came right down to it. She either had to go back into St Giles and return to being Alf, with the constant threat from the Scarlet Throats and others like them, or return to Kyle.

  And she couldn’t do that, could she?

  Except.

  She’d done nothing wrong, had she?

  She paused, leaning against a chimney, trying to think, the moon calm and serene above her. Dressing as a boy wasn’t wrong, was it?

  She wiped her nose and her eyes. Besides. She and Kyle weren’t done yet—not by a long shot. They hadn’t brought down the Lords of Chaos. Of course she wasn’t sure that he would want to work with her anymore. But he needed her, he did. She was the one with the connections in St Giles. She knew how to worm out information.

  And there was that kiss tonight. Maybe he wouldn’t want to kiss her again—not now that he’d found out that the Ghost and Alf were one and the same—but if she didn’t go back, she’d never know, would she?

  She had nothing to lose. Nothing at all.

  And when this was all done? Well, then she could go back to her life in St Giles. If he told no one what he knew about her, why, none would be the wiser. She’d go back to being Alf the boy.

  Back to hiding day and night.

  Her breathing was calmer now. Alf pushed away from the chimney and ran back the way she’d come.

  Ten minutes later she swung down from the eaves of Kyle House to her room in the servants’ quarters. She’d left the window open hours before when she’d first gone out as the Ghost, and now she slithered in, easy as you please.

  She took off her swords and Ghost costume and hid them under the bed. Washed herself in the cold water left in a jug on the dresser. Bound her breasts and put on her boys’ clothes, and then went to bed, determined not to worry about what she’d say to Kyle on the morrow.

  But as she fell asleep, her mind drifted to beautiful lips curled in male satisfaction and knowing hands that had touched her as no one else ever had, and she wondered: could she ever truly return to what she’d been before?

  Chapter Nine

  Now the Black Warlock was not a loving father. He ruled his kingdom and his son with violence and fear. The Black Prince had never had a pet, though he’d often longed for one. Carefully the boy picked up the golden falcon and took her into his room. He lined a wooden box with a soft cloth and carefully placed the falcon inside. Thereafter the boy secretly nursed the bird himself, feeding her with meat from his own plate.…

  —From The Black Prince and the Golden Falcon

  Hugh woke the next morning to a hard cock and the vague memory of dreams involving masked boys who turned into wanton women.

  He groaned and sat up, rubbing at his aching head. Jesus, he did not need this in his life. The Ghost had been tantalizing as a nameless, faceless will-o’-the-wisp. A woman who fought and danced and taunted him.

  As Alf she was dangerous.

  He didn’t want to know her. Didn’t want to care about her, didn’t want to worry about her, didn’t want to long for her.

  Didn’t want any part of this madness. What he’d felt for Katherine had led to ruin. What he felt with the Ghost—with Alf—was far too close to that same feeling.

  He had other, more important, matters to mind.

  He had to find another trail to follow on the Lords of Chaos.

  On that thought he rose and hastily washed and dressed. He ought to call his men to gather and plot a new course, but he found his footsteps heading up the stairs instead. Something impelled him toward her room, even though he knew she wouldn’t be there. Perhaps she’d left something, some indication of where he might find her. If nothing else he’d send Bell back to the One Horned Goat to ask after her.

  But if she wanted to hide…

  He scowled as he mounted the last flight of stairs, his head pounding harder. An urchin like her in the warren of lanes and alleys and hidden rooms of St Giles? He might never see her again.

  Dear God, how had she survived all these years? She’d said that the Scarlet Throats were after her—more so now that he’d sent her on their trail. They’d already beaten her once. What would they do if they found her again? Had she run straight back into their arms?

  The thought twisted something deep inside him, and he felt a shard of pain in his right eye.

  He strode down the hall to her room and threw open the door, bracing himself for the emptiness.

  And then stood struck dumb by the sight that met his eyes.

  She was there.

  Alf lay curled in her bed, fine brown hair spread around her face on the pillow, and she wasn’t alone. His sons were snuggled close on either side of her. Alf wore her boy’s shirt and Peter lay with his fist clutched in the loose fabric over her breast, his head butted under her chin. Kit was wrapped around her back, his arm thrown over her side. They lay so close to her there was no way she could move even in sleep, as if she were essential to their slumbers, essential to their life in some way.

  He stared, relieved that she was here, puzzled as to why she’d chosen to come back. How had his children come to be here? Had they sneaked upstairs in the middle of the night? Was the nursemaid not aware of their absence?

  Why?

  What comfort did they find in Alf that they couldn’t find in him, their father? Or even in Iris, a woman they’d known all their lives?

  What had this slight, fey creature done to them all?

  At that moment Alf opened her eyes, and he inhaled silently.

  Her eyes were sleepy and a little dazed. Her cheeks flushed from sleep and, no doubt, the warmth of his sons, snuggled so close to her. She looked at him and seemed to become aware almost at once, her brown gaze sharpening. There was the mocking amusement he’d seen from the lad, Alf, the biting wit.

  But now it was in feminine form.

  She stared at him, and her soft pink lips—God, he’d been a blind fool to ever have thought that the mouth of a boy—smiled. Full and warm. Like sunshine. Like joy and hope.

  The smile of a woman. Lethal as a spear to the chest.

  Dangerous. Seductive.

  He realized his headache was gone as his cock stiffened to life again. He stared at her, this boy, this woman-girl, this Ghost, this comfort to his children, this maddening enigma that caught and ensnared him when he needed his attention, his sanity elsewhere.

  He glanced away, angry at himself and his weakness. “Get up and meet me downstairs. We need to figure out what next to do about the Lords of Chaos.”

  “Right you are, guv,” she whispered. Her tone sounded mocking.

  But perhaps that was just his imagination.

  ALF WATCHED KYLE leave the room and her smile died.

  He’d said nothing at all about last night. Nothing about discovering she was a woman.

  Everything was back to normal.

  Why then did her heart ache? This was what she wanted, wasn’t it? She could resume her life as Alf the boy. Could still wield her swords at night as the Ghost of St Giles. Could forget everything that had happened last night.

  Except that wasn’t likely to happen, now was it?

  Even if he could forget so easily, she found she could not.

  She sighed and sat up.

  Peter made a fretful sound and rolled against her, kicking his legs, while Kit yawned hugely.

  Alf looked down at the boys fondly. “Best be up, you two.”

  They’d sneaked into her room in the early hours of the morning, and she’d been too tired to bother chasing them away.

  “Don’t wanna,” said Peter.

  “But you must,” she said briskly. She couldn’t prepare for the day until after they left. “Your nursemaid will find you gone if you’re not back in your beds soon.”

  “Come on, Petey,” Kit said, slipping from the bed. “Annie won’t let us have pudding tonight for supper if she finds us gone.”

  The smaller boy whined, but he rolled over to
his hands and knees and crawled off the bed backward and then stood unsteadily.

  His blond hair stuck up all over his head and was quite adorable.

  Alf smoothed it back from his face. “All right there, Peter?”

  The little boy nodded sleepily. He’d been sniffling, his face wet with tears, when he’d stumbled into her room last night, led by Kit. She hadn’t said anything. Simply made room for them both, one on each side of her, and sang a little song Ned had taught her as they’d fallen back to sleep.

  Peter looked up at her, his blue eyes big. “Will you come to visit us later?”

  She winked at him. “Course.”

  “And sing the moon song again?” he asked anxiously.

  She had a sudden urge to kiss him—but that wouldn’t be quite right for Alf the boy. Instead she smiled. “Aye, I will.”

  “Come on, Peter!” Kit called by the door.

  Peter ran to him. “Don’t forget,” he called to Alf before both boys disappeared.

  Alf sighed. She missed Hannah. She hadn’t been able to visit the little girl while she’d been at Kyle House. She wished she could somehow bring Hannah and Mary Hope here. See Peter and Kit and the girls all together, perhaps playing in the nursery. She smiled a little sadly. If that ever happened Peter and Hannah would quarrel over who was in charge.

  She shook her head fiercely. Wishes wouldn’t accomplish anything.

  She got up and set about getting herself ready for the day. First she checked her stitches—they were reddened, but still in place—and then she swiftly washed herself before dressing again.

  Half an hour later she started down the stairs.

  All the servants were gone from this floor by this time of the day, of course, already about their duties long before the sun rose. It made her glad she wasn’t in service, for it had always seemed a hard, thankless job, working for the swells.

  She meant to turn toward the kitchens, to see if she could find a bit of bread and tea to break her fast, but as she made the first floor she heard men yelling.

  And truth be told, she’d ever had a curious turn of mind.