Duke of Pleasure

by Elizabeth Hoyt

  Would she be here to see it heal entirely?

  She bent her head and kissed the scar, and then between his brows, on that line where he always frowned. His high cheekbone, bruised from the fight tonight. The corner of his wickedly pretty lips, where there was always a bit of a curl.

  He turned his face a fraction, and then she was drawing from his mouth. Inhaling all his hurts, all his needs, all the hopes he could never dream.

  This man. This man she couldn’t have for her own.

  She rose, balanced over his cock, heavy between her legs, trembling on her knees. She wanted to take him in and hold him forever. To never let this night go.

  “Easy,” he whispered, his voice rough.

  He put a hand on her hip to steady her, his thumb brushing back and forth on her skin as they kissed.

  She felt tears start in her eyes, and she closed them fiercely. She wouldn’t let him see her cry. She was Alf of St Giles and she wasn’t weak or scared or to be pitied.

  She felt his palm on her breast and was grateful for the distraction. The stab of sweet pleasure as he pinched her nipple.

  She gasped, breaking their kiss, and saw that he was watching her.

  “Are you still sore?” he asked, and it was such an intimate question she nearly hid her face.

  “No,” she lied, for she was a little. Not much, though—certainly not enough to pass up a night with him. “I want you.”

  He closed his eyes as if he were in pain, and his prick jerked against her thigh. She looked down at it, such a splendid thing, all ruddy and alive. Thick and hard, the foreskin stretched back, the eye weeping a little.

  “Come here,” he said, interrupting her inspection.

  He urged her up higher and took a nipple between his teeth.

  She gasped, watching him through lidded eyes as he suckled her, those pretty lips ruby against her breast, making her feel such things. Making her feel wanton.

  His black eyes flicked open and gleamed up at her, and she couldn’t keep her hips from moving. Seeking something.

  He lifted one knee, wedging it between her legs, firmly against her folds.

  Oh. Oh, that felt good.

  She closed her eyes and slid against him as he lifted his head and blew on her wet nipple.

  She whimpered.

  He moved to suck her other nipple while he thumbed the first, pulling pleasure from the two points, holding her captive. She’d never known her nipples could be so sensitive. That she could be so aware. She’d covered and hid and disguised herself for so many years, and now she was naked with him.

  It was like being reborn. Her skin alive and new.

  She ran her fingertips over her sides, feeling her skin prickle and spark. Feeling the sweet, wet ache between her legs. Feeling the tight pull of his lips.

  Until she cried out loud, gasping, her head thrown back, her body bowed, her legs spread crudely over his knee. It was as if a great hand seized her, squeezing life into her. Hope and dreams and every sensation she’d denied herself living as a boy.

  If his hands hadn’t grabbed hold of her she might’ve collapsed to the bed.

  But he held her, safe above him, and she opened her eyes and saw him. His eyes were black and fierce, his lips parted.

  He wanted her.

  “Ride me,” he rasped.

  She blinked, not fully comprehending, but he was spreading her legs farther apart, taking away his knee and lowering her to his cock.

  Oh, if she’d thought it large before, that was nothing to how proud he was now. A dark, angry red, heavy and full, thickest at the middle, and the foreskin stretched taut about the ridge of the head. She wanted to stare. To look her fill and perhaps feel it with hands and tongue.

  He had other ideas.

  He took hold of himself as she watched and rubbed his prick against her wet quim. “Sit.”

  She could feel him at her entrance—there—big and waiting. She leaned a little forward, placing her hands on his shoulders and meeting his eyes.

  Staring into his eyes as she tilted down and felt him breach her.

  His nostrils were flared, his gaze implacable. “More.”

  She nodded, lowering herself, pushing down, forcing that big wedge of hot flesh past her fragile folds and into her. It felt… it felt as if he were taking her, even if she was the one doing all the moving.

  She bit her lip at the realization, her gaze flicking up to meet his, even as she felt a pulse of desire at her center. She could smell how wet she was for him, which meant he could, too.

  “Almost there,” he whispered, and flicked a thumb over her nipple.

  She jolted, the movement bringing her down another inch, and she thought she saw the shadow of a smile on his face.

  So she lifted her chin and slammed herself all the way on him, taking his penis fully within her.

  “Good girl.” He took her mouth in a savage kiss, lunging up at her, his pelvis grinding into hers.

  She moaned, for she was still oversensitive from her earlier orgasm. Every movement, every rough thrust of tongue and cock was a spark on her skin, so pleasurable it was nearly painful. She couldn’t stop, couldn’t hold back, could only cling to him as he bucked beneath her.

  Driving himself into her again and again.

  And then he put both his thumbs in her cunny, right where his cock stretched her flesh tight, and circled her wet, aching pearl until she shoved a fist in her mouth and screamed.

  He growled and pulled her up and off his cock, and she felt his hot seed spurt against her stomach and thigh. For a moment she leaned against him, her head against his heaving chest, his face on her shoulder. Then he gently rolled her to the bed and got up.

  Alf lay with her eyes closed, half-dreaming, before she felt a damp cloth cleaning her belly and thighs. She opened her eyes and looked at him, a duke, wiping his come from her body.

  But perhaps here he was simply a man and she simply a woman.

  He got in the bed and she settled against him, his big arms around her.

  She could dream, at least.

  Chapter Nineteen

  On the twelfth anniversary of the defeat of the White Sorceress, the Black Warlock caused a great celebration to be held at the ruins of Castle White. He stood with his son in the exact spot where the sorceress had died and spread wide his arms as he crowed in triumph to a gathered crowd.

  And as he did so a circle of magical fire sprang up around him and the Black Prince. The White Sorceress’s dying curse was finally being fulfilled.…

  —From The Black Prince and the Golden Falcon

  Hugh woke to peace. To the sun at the window and a warm breast against his arm, and truly his first emotion was joy.

  Followed immediately by fear.

  For it wasn’t as if he’d never felt joy before in his life. He’d thought himself blissfully in love with Katherine once. That had led to screaming arguments, anger the like of which he’d never known, and exile from his land, his home, and his family.

  He turned to look at Alf. She lay with dark lashes on her delicate cheeks, her pink lips parted in sleep. Her hair was tangled about her head, a lock almost across her closed eyelid.

  He gently brushed it aside without waking her.

  Alf was nothing like Katherine, in looks or temperament or station in life. Alf was lovely and quick and cocky, where Katherine had been an elegant dark beauty. Alf made him laugh with her teasing.

  Katherine’s teasing had led only to sex or bitter arguments.

  And of course Katherine had been the better match. She had been an aristocrat, born and bred to be the wife, if not of a duke, then certainly of a titled gentleman. She’d been taught how to plan balls, how to talk to foreign princes, how to pour tea.

  Alf knew none of that. She simply brought him joy.

  That was what sent a thrill of unease down his spine. In this emotion he could not trust himself.

  But he could not draw away, either. He’d tried to keep himself apart from Alf and
failed.

  He watched as she sighed and turned her head on the pillow, her palm curling against her cheek.

  He wanted her. Not just her body. He wanted her laughter. He wanted the spark he saw in her eyes when she teased him. He wanted the way she ate too fast, the appetite and enthusiasm she had for jam. He wanted the way she held his sons and told them unsuitable stories. He wanted her worldly cynicism and her innocent wonder. He wanted her running beside him, in the night or in the day. Hell, he wanted to cross swords with her and then make love to her afterward, still panting with their exercise.

  He wanted her beside him always.

  And he couldn’t trust his want.

  He must’ve made a sound then, for she opened her eyes and looked up at him.

  Her pink lips curled in welcome. “Hugh.”

  “Alf.” He bent—he couldn’t bloody stop himself—and brushed a kiss across her mouth. She was warm. Humid. Smelling of woman and him. He was hard against her—he’d woken hard—and his hips shifted, his cock sliding on her thigh.

  He raised his head and her smile widened beautifully. The hand by her cheek disappeared underneath the coverlet and he knew where it was headed.

  He caught her wrist.

  That beautiful smile died. “Guv?”

  He cleared his throat. “I need to speak to Shrugg.”

  “This early in the morning?” She glanced at the window and then back at him, her smile uncertain now. “I never knew swell coves were up and about before noon.”

  He hated that he’d made her doubt herself, but he needed to think.

  And he couldn’t think naked and in bed with her. “Some of us are.” He let go of her and rolled to the edge of the bed. “I should have seen Shrugg yesterday to give him my report on the Lords of Chaos and to hand over both the list of names and the cypher that Iris decrypted, but I didn’t want to leave Peter and Kit. I’m surprised he didn’t send messengers to pound on my door at dawn’s first light.”

  He stood and began dressing. “I’ll make sure that Cook prepares some breakfast. You can have it either here or in the dining room, whichever you’d prefer.”

  God, he sounded like a bloody stiff ass. He knew it even as his mouth was forming the words, and yet he couldn’t stop himself.

  She sat up, wrapping her arms around her legs, but didn’t reply.

  He frowned, feeling ill at ease as he donned his waistcoat. Would she find herself bored in the house without him? There were the boys and his men, but perhaps she didn’t consider them adequate company. Of course she could go out.

  The thought reminded him.

  He crossed to a heavy chest of drawers and took a key out of his pocket to unlock the top drawer.

  Inside he found a purse of coins, and he turned with it in his hands. “I owe you this, I think. You’ve more than done the job I originally hired you for, and I never gave you the second payment.”

  He handed her the purse, a slight smile quirking his lips. What would she spend the money on? Would she tell him when he returned? Or did she hoard her coins like a small fiery dragon?

  “Thank you, guv,” she said, her voice gruff. She’d bent her head over the purse, held in her lap, so that he couldn’t see her face.

  “You’re welcome,” he replied, turning to the door. “I have my son’s life because of you. Don’t think I’ll ever forget that, Alf.”

  “I’m not likely to forget anything about you, guv,” she called.

  He turned.

  She’d straightened in the bed and was staring at him, the covers pooled in her lap, her breasts proud and bare. She looked like an Amazon warrior.

  He hesitated. This was all wrong and he knew it. He almost returned to her and that warm bed, but he was already dressed and he hadn’t lied about Shrugg. The man had sent two urgent letters yesterday, demanding information.

  He shook his head. When he got back maybe he’d have lifted himself from this awkward humor. “Good-bye, Alf.”

  “Good-bye, guv.”

  He left then without turning back, because if he did he wasn’t at all sure he’d be able to resist temptation a second time.

  He walked to the palace and then spent nearly three long and tedious hours explaining and going over everything that had happened in the last three weeks with Shrugg.

  At the end of that time the older man sat back and nodded with evident satisfaction. “I’ll task my men with checking the names on the list you’ve given me against the gentlemen we arrested at the church, but I can tell you now that there are very few names on that list that I don’t recognize and already know to be dead or in prison. I think the Lords of Chaos are done.”

  “Yes,” Hugh replied. “They’re finished. We don’t have Dyemore, but what can he do without a society to lead? Everyone else is gone.” He rose and smiled grimly. “Besides, I’ll be watching him.”

  “Thank you, Your Grace.” Shrugg stood as well. “His Majesty is most pleased with the result of your endeavors.” He hesitated. “Are you still interested in traveling? I’ve word that a gentleman of your talents will soon be of use in Vienna. Especially when you marry Lady Jordan. An intelligent and sophisticated wife can be a very helpful tool for a diplomat.”

  Hugh’s lips firmed. “I’m afraid Lady Jordan has informed me that we no longer suit.”

  “Indeed?” Shrugg’s bushy eyebrows nearly reached his wig. “I’m sorry to hear that, Your Grace. But never fear, there are other ladies in society of equally old lineage. When you find your new duchess I’m sure she’ll be the sort to be able to move in the courts of Europe.”

  Hugh opened his mouth… and then closed it. The fictional woman Shrugg described was exactly what he had wanted when he’d considered marrying Iris. A member of society. A lady from a good family. Someone who could manage his household. Someone who wouldn’t disturb him. Someone who would never cause him pain or passion.

  And he knew in his heart and in his soul and in his gut that he didn’t want that anymore.

  He wanted Alf.

  No one else.

  He took a breath and looked at Shrugg. “I won’t be able to travel to the Continent. Not while my sons are so young. I’ll be staying in England for the foreseeable future.”

  “A pity.” Shrugg sighed heavily and then brightened. “But I’m sure we’ll find something for you to do here as well.”

  “Hmm,” Hugh replied noncommittally. The truth was, he might want to take some time to simply be with his sons.

  And Alf.

  He inhaled. He couldn’t think of a future—a family—that didn’t have her in it. Even if she never learned how to hold a ball or pour tea properly. Alf was part of the whole that was he, Peter, and Kit.

  And really he’d rather be convincing her of that for the next several years than running all over London destroying secret societies.

  He nodded to Shrugg, made his final farewells, and left.

  Outside, the day had brightened, and he strode briskly toward his house, wanting to get home to Alf and the boys. If Alf was still at the house, perhaps they could liberate the boys from the nursery. Take them for a ride or simply sit in the library while they played with Pudding.

  By the time he ran up his own front steps he was smiling.

  The butler took his hat and cloak and Hugh asked, “Is Alf still in?”

  “No, Your Grace,” Cox replied. “Miss Alf left several hours ago.”

  He grimaced in disappointment. “Did she take the carriage?”

  “She left on foot, I believe—”

  Damn. He should’ve told her she was free to use the carriage.

  But the butler was still speaking. “—carrying a bag.”

  For a moment Hugh stared at Cox. A bag? Why would she be carrying a bag?

  He walked to the staircase, his muscles tensing for some reason, and then he was running. All the way to the top, to the servants’ floor. He strode down the hall and flung open the door to the room that Alf had been using.

  The bed
was neatly made. The room was empty.

  He checked the tiny chest of drawers to be sure, his breath coming faster for some reason, and then descended to his own room.

  He startled Jenkins when he burst into his bedroom.

  “Sir?”

  Hugh ignored the former soldier, scanning the room. Nothing remained of Alf.

  His chest was heaving now as he stared. She hadn’t had much to begin with, he reminded himself. The clothes on her back. Her Ghost attire. The bag of money he’d given her this morning. Was there anything else?

  He couldn’t remember.

  There was no point in panicking. She’d probably only left for the day. She was a woman used to going about by herself. If she returned…when she returned, he would talk to her very strongly about changing that. About at least telling someone where she was going and when she’d be back.

  Until then he’d just have to wait.

  Which he did.

  All day and into the night.

  But when the clock struck midnight Hugh had to finally believe it: Alf was gone.

  SHE HAD NO true place in the world anymore.

  Alf stood on a corner and wrapped her arms about herself. She wore her one dress—the blue dress that used to belong to Iris’s maid. Why, she wasn’t sure, because it wouldn’t be wise to go into St Giles as a woman. But she’d not exactly been in a thoughtful frame of mind when she’d donned her clothing this morning.

  All she could think about was that it was over. Kyle—Hugh—had paid her off. Let her know that he considered their liaison at an end. She’d just wanted to flee and lick her wounds a bit.

  And she had. All day. Walking up and down London Town, her bag in her hand.

  The problem was this: she’d had a life as a boy in St Giles. A place to stay. A means of making money. A way of being. It hadn’t been exactly the best life in the world, but it had been hers and hers alone.

  But Hugh had come along and picked her up, looked her in the eye, and shaken her. Told her she could be more. Turned her inside out and upside down and now, now she was a woman.