Shameless Duke

by Scott, Scarlett

  Also, to never trust the Duke of Arden.

  “My carriage is this way, Miss Montgomery,” he announced in his crisp accent.

  As fancy as his house, his china, his many-coursed dinners, and his chamber pot.

  “Then you had best be finding it, Mr. Arden.” She raised a brow, still feeling as if she had drunk poison the night before, but doing her damnedest not to allow it to show. “If you will excuse me, I am attempting to hire transportation of my own.”

  “That is unnecessary.” His expression was grim, almost as if he found what he was about to say distasteful. “As we are both going to the same location, and as your safety is now a part of my duties, you will ride with me. One never knows what manner of cab driver one will find.”

  She was certain this was yet another ruse. Likely, he would lure her into his carriage, then attempt to throw her from it whilst it was in motion. “Was my safety your concern yesterday evening as well? Or this morning, for that matter?”

  He stepped nearer to her, and though the jangling of tack and the busy sounds of the city surrounded them, she felt strangely as if they were alone. Arden absorbed all of her attention with his undeniable magnetism.

  “I did warn you to pace yourself, did I not?” he asked, offering her his arm.

  She ignored it. “My recollections suggest otherwise.”

  “Your recollections are faulty, in that case.”

  His gaze continued to burn into her, making her uncomfortable. She longed to squirm. Admittedly, her remembrance of the evening before was murky at best. She did not recall, for instance, how she had managed to undress herself, or even find her way to the bed. Fortunately, Bunton had dispelled her inner horror when she had reassured Hazel earlier she had been the one to aid her.

  If the Duke of Arden had undressed her, Hazel would never had been able to look him in the eyes again.

  But that was neither here nor there, for she was still standing opposite him, in the midst of a teeming city street, at a stalemate.

  “Did you, or did you not, encourage me to drink enough port to drown a sailor?” she demanded.

  “As I have never attempted to drown a sailor, I cannot help but think myself unqualified to answer that question.” He smirked.

  And Lord help her, but if a frowning Duke of Arden was handsome, a smirking Arden was somehow even more beautiful. Of course, she knew she was not meant to notice he was a man. It had been her policy ever since working amongst them for the last decade. Romance did not mingle well with detective work, and she had learned that bitter lesson long ago in the most brutal manner.

  Still, she could not seem to ignore Arden’s undeniable good looks, despite her determination to think of him in the same fashion she had all the other detectives she had worked with over the years. Despite his arrogance and his condescension. Despite his attempt to undermine her by filling her glass with port.

  All of which just served to heighten her irritation with him.

  “You knew I was going to be ill this morning,” she countered.

  The smirk deepened. “You were looking rather green by the time I escorted you to your chamber. But you seemed perfectly hale and hearty in the dining room. How was I to know you were an unseasoned novice when it comes to port consumption?”

  Her eyes narrowed. The scoundrel was enjoying this, taking pleasure in her discomfort. “You knew.”

  “I suspected.” He lowered his head toward her, getting closer still. “Just as I suspected you were lying about the Home Office wishing for you to stay at my home.”

  She truly had underestimated Arden, even more so than she had initially supposed. “I am leaving for my hotel upon my return. You have no need to worry I will impose upon your hospitality a moment longer.”

  “No, you will not,” he said simply, as though his pronouncement was a predetermined conclusion. “You will be staying at Lark House for your tenure here, however long it lasts.”

  However long it lasts.

  Ah, so that was Arden’s game. He intended to chase her off, to send her running scared back to New York City. She had faced murderers and never once turned tail. But he would discover her mettle soon enough.

  “I will not be staying at Lark House, Mr. Arden,” she informed him coolly. After all, she need not give him further opportunities to do damage to her. “Now, if you will excuse me, I truly must get about the business of procuring my ride back to Lark House.”

  “You misunderstand me, Miss Montgomery,” he said, still offering his arm as if he were a suitor. “After I relayed my concern for the criminal activities at your hotel to Winchelsea, he agreed with me that it is best if you stay at my home. He is concerned that your anonymity be preserved. Remaining at Lark House suits that purpose nicely.”

  It also suited Arden’s purposes, she was sure. For the proof was there, in every word he had just uttered. Arden had routed her once more, using her prevarication about the hotel against her, appealing to Winchelsea after she had fled the office and making certain she would be required to remain beneath the same roof as him.

  So he could attempt further sabotage. That much was without question.

  “I will speak to Winchelsea myself,” she said. “I will reassure him staying at my hotel is the only reasonable option.”

  “By admitting your little falsehoods to him?” Arden’s tone was knowing. “Somehow, I cannot help but suspect doing so would prove a hindrance to your attempts to instill confidence in your abilities, but do go ahead, Miss Montgomery. I shall wait if you wish it. Or, we can cease conducting an argument on the side of the street like a pair of rival costermongers, and you can accompany me to my carriage.”

  He was right, damn him, and he knew it. His conceit was in full force. He waited, looking well-pleased with himself, and she supposed he ought to be. He had manipulated her into drinking too much port, made her late for her meeting, and had seen straight through her deceptions, using them against her.

  Heaving a sigh of great displeasure, she glared at him, still refusing to accept his arm. She did not need to be squired about as if she were incapable of walking without a gentleman’s escort. “Lead the way, Mr. Arden.”

  His sensual lips quirked into a victorious smile. “I am certain a woman with your extensive list of successful cases is not accustomed to being bested.”

  “I am a detective,” she told him. “Not a woman.”

  The distinction was an important one. She could not allow it to be overlooked, regardless of the womanly way in which her body reacted to the duke’s handsomeness. It was a natural physical reaction, she was sure, and something all women likely experienced whenever they looked upon him.

  Until he opened his mouth.

  “Detective,” he said, his smile undiminished. “Forgive me, Miss Montgomery. I meant no insult.”

  And she was sure he had. “Well then, to the carriage if we must. As you said, it won’t do to stand about all day when we have important work that must be done.”

  He caught her hand in his and placed it in the crook of his elbow. When she would have withdrawn it, he held tight. And then he began walking, without saying another word.

  His strides were long, for he was taller than she. But she was taller than most women, and she had no trouble keeping up with him, in spite of the continued thumping in her head. Her mouth was dry, and she would give her left shoe for a cold lemonade at that particular moment.

  He handed her up into the carriage first, in gentlemanly fashion, and she allowed it, though she ordinarily chose to buck convention. She wanted to be treated as a man’s equal, not as a delicate burden. Self-reliance, and being the best detective she could possibly be, were her only goals in life. The aftereffects of her unfortunate run-in with port the evening before had left her weakened however.

  She’d not had time to break her fast, and the omission was haunting her now. She flopped onto the leather bench, taking note of the detailed elegance inside the carriage. Polished leather squabs, well-padded and
comfortable, an elegant interior, and a plush rug on the floor. Had she doubted, even for a moment, that the Duke of Arden’s conveyance would be any less fancy than any other portion of his life she had glimpsed thus far?

  He seated himself opposite her, and as he did so, his scent wafted over her, citrus and musk, mingled with leather. She breathed through her mouth instead of her nose, determined not to inhale him. To hell with the man. He was making everything about this assignment far more difficult than it needed to be.

  Though the interior of the carriage was spacious, his legs were so long, his knees nearly brushed against the simple skirt of her gown. She stared at the encroaching appendages, oddly struck by the urge to lay her hand there, her palm flat. His thighs were muscular beneath his dark trousers. She swallowed as she imagined gliding her hand higher, absorbing the heat and strength of him. Higher still, all the way to his male length, which was clearly delineated and—

  He cleared his throat pointedly, shifting on the carriage bench as he did so, as if he were suddenly uncomfortable. “Miss Montgomery.”

  The tightness in his voice, along with a husky edge of an emotion she could not define, forced her gaze upward to meet his. Her ears burned, and she was sure her face was red as a boiled beet. He had caught her staring at his legs, at his thighs, at his…

  How shameful. She needed to recall her rules. She had not suffered such an egregious lapse in all the years since Adam. But she had been young then, so much younger, so ignorant of the ugliness the world held and how easily a heart could be broken, how easily a life could end.

  “Forgive me,” she said, finding her voice. “I was admiring the interior of your carriage. It is very fine.”

  She was not being completely dishonest, she reasoned, for she had been admiring something inside the carriage, against her better judgment, and his horseman’s thighs were rather fine. Even though they were attached to the rest of him.

  He shifted again, his gaze becoming more intense. “You were admiring, Miss Montgomery?”

  She swallowed. That had been a poor choice of word. Obviously. “It is a handsome carriage,” she said instead, glaring at him.

  But that, too, was all wrong, and she knew it the moment the words emerged. Damn it, she had all but admitted she had been admiring Arden’s thighs and found him handsome. Which she had been and she did, but she had not had a crumb of sustenance all day, and she was likely growing delusional.

  Her stomach chose that moment to issue a demanding growl, so loudly, it could be heard distinctly, even above the din of the street and the sounds of their carriage rocking into motion. She pressed her hand over it, as if that would stave off future rumbles.

  “You are looking wan,” he observed unkindly. “Have you eaten anything today?”

  How disagreeable of him to notice, then comment upon it as well. “My stomach was in no condition to partake in anything other than retching into a chamber pot, thanks to your generous hospitality yesterday.”

  “You do have a charming hiccup,” he dared to say. “I would happily pour as much port for you as you would like following dinner this evening, just so I may have the opportunity to hear it again.”

  “Go to the devil,” she growled. Her head was pounding, and it felt odd, almost as if it were too light for her neck. She wondered if she would need to retch again upon her return to Lark House.

  As the carriage rocked, her stomach lurched, as if in warning. She bit her lip, thinking it would serve him right if she cast up her accounts all over the long legs and strong thighs she had been ogling. Lord knew no man’s arrogance could withstand vomit.

  “You are vexed because I outsmarted you.” He raised a dark brow.

  “Vexed does not begin to accurately describe my feelings for you at the moment, Mr. Arden.” And yes, she took great joy in watching his nostrils flare once more, and his full lips turn down with displeasure, upon her deliberate confusion of his title. “But rest assured, try though you may, you will never be capable of outsmarting me. Not even the wiliest criminals have been able to escape me.”

  “I accept your challenge, Miss Montgomery.”

  “It was not a challenge, Mr. Arden,” she grumbled, as pearls of sweat broke out on her brow, “but a promise.”

  “Sure of yourself, are you not?” His tone was amused.

  Hazel saw nothing humorous in their current circumstances. She needed food, and she needed a chamber pot, and with each moment that dragged by, she was more and more uncertain which of those things she required first.

  “I am secure in my abilities,” she told him anyway.

  She could not bear to allow him to think her weak. Or to imagine he had broken her. He had not. He would not. She was H.E. Montgomery, and she had faced murderers, without a hint of fear. She had infiltrated the Emerald Club. She had traveled an ocean to take on her biggest case yet. No duke too arrogant to accept a partner was going to scare her away.

  “It is good you are, my dear Miss Montgomery,” he told her smoothly, smiling his wolf’s smile again. “For you will need to be.”

  By the time they returned to Lark House, Miss Montgomery’s pallor had returned.

  By the time he accompanied her into the entry hall, she began to crumple. There was no other word for it. One moment, she was striding boldly at his side, as if she were a general marching into battle, and the next, she was falling like a felled tree in the woods.

  He reacted instinctively, catching her, before she toppled to the marble floor and struck her head. His aghast butler looked on as Lucien stood there, Miss Montgomery’s drab skirts pooling around him, her unconscious form in his arms. She was heavier than she looked.

  “Shall I fetch your physician, Your Grace?” Reynolds asked.

  “Not yet,” he said grimly. “I’m taking her to the salon. Have someone bring me a tray of food and some water. With haste, if you please.”

  He had a feeling he knew what had caused Miss Montgomery to suddenly swoon. It was nearly one o’clock in the afternoon, and she had yet to eat a thing after having spent the morning emptying her stomach into the chamber pot.

  Because of him.

  Guilt crashed over Lucien, and this time, he made no effort to dispel it. Even if she had deceived him, he had no cause to do her injury. Forcing her to grow so weak she fainted had decidedly not been his intent. Moreover, he had already gotten even with her for her deceptions by pressing Winchelsea to agree to the notion of Miss Montgomery staying at Lark House for her own safety. In truth, it was so Lucien could more easily continue in the task of ridding himself of the unwanted burden of her as his partner.

  A burden he felt physically now, as he strode to the salon, carrying her. With ginger care, he laid her upon a divan. She had begun stirring already, and he had a feeling she was too stubborn to remain unconscious overly long. He removed her hat, then arranged her skirts so they draped over her legs, showing nary a hint of ankle.

  Tending to her felt odd, and it occurred to him he had never before performed such personal tasks upon a female. Not even his sister Lettie, for Great Aunt Hortense had been an ever-present boon to aid him with raising his sister after the deaths of both of their parents. He briefly thought about fetching Aunt Hortense now and begging her assistance, but something overcame him: shame at his culpability in laying Miss Montgomery low, along with something else…

  Some unfamiliar need to tend to Miss Montgomery himself. Some foreign sense of tenderness, the likes of which he had never felt for anyone other than Lettie. A tendril of dark hair had escaped Miss Montgomery’s messy chignon, and he brushed it away from her forehead, before he could rethink the gesture.

  She groaned, her dark lashes fluttering against her silken skin, as wakefulness returned to her. He noticed, quite against his will, that Miss Montgomery had a small trail of freckles over the bridge of her nose. And then his gaze dipped inevitably to her lips. They were the lips of a courtesan, lush and full and inviting. They reminded him of the manner in which she had b
een staring at him earlier in the carriage. At his cock.

  At first, he had been convinced he was mistaken. But as he had observed her, watched her eyes widen, her pupils dilate, he had known he was not. Prim Miss Montgomery—the feisty enigma, who had just yesterday warned him you cannot think of me as a female—had been ogling his erection. An erection which had initially been caused by a disturbing combination of their discourse on the street and his proximity to her in the carriage.

  But beneath her stare, he had swelled even more, until he had been forced to attempt to readjust himself and hope like hell she had not noticed. Or, if she had, since she was a Miss Montgomery rather than a Mrs., she would have no notion of what she had seen.

  Her eyes opened at last, some of the color already having returned to her ashen cheeks. She looked adorably befuddled for a moment as her gaze traveled wildly about the chamber. A strange burst of warmth unfurled within him. Not longing or desire, but something else. Something more profound.

  “Did you push me from the carriage while it was moving?” she asked groggily.

  The warmth fled instantly. Was her opinion of him truly that low? “You think me capable of throwing you from a moving carriage, Miss Montgomery?”

  She eyed him mulishly.

  “You swooned,” he snapped, irritated with himself as much as with her. “In the entry hall. I brought you here, to the salon.”

  She frowned at him, returning to her usual, troublesome self. “I do not swoon, Mr. Arden.”

  “Yes,” he corrected her firmly, “you do. And furthermore, we had a bargain, if you will recall. Each time you refer to me as Mr. Arden, you are breaking it.”

  “You broke it when you attempted to poison me with port,” she accused, as if she could not possibly wait to flee.

  “I made no such attempt.” True, he had known she would be ill this morning. And it had been his intention. But poison was rather a strong word. “You were in full possession of your faculties, madam. I held not one glass to your lips.”