Shameless Duke

by Scott, Scarlett

  “Arden, put me down,” she tried again.

  “Not now,” he said, urgently, his expression taut. “We need to get you home.”

  She had no home. She wanted to tell him so, but all she could muster was a yawn. Her body felt weak, her mind was confused, and she could not deny how good and reassuring being held by Arden felt.

  He was warm and strong and steady.

  She snuggled against his chest, inhaling deeply of his divine scent. Later, if he questioned her, she could blame her indecent reaction upon her confusion. She had suffered at least two blows to the head, after all. Perhaps she could even convince herself the blows she had suffered were the reason for the warmth settling over her, and the undeniable feeling of comfort being in his arms gave her.

  Even when her stomach was as tender as if it had been run over by the wheels of a carriage. What in the hell had they done after bludgeoning her? Even breathing hurt. A booted kick would have produced such an effect, she was sure. Her head ached, the throb of her heartbeat pulsing in her temples. The blows she had received had been substantial enough to make her lose consciousness. She blinked up at Arden’s beautiful jawline, dizziness suddenly assailing her.

  For the second time in her acquaintance with Arden, Hazel feared she would cast up her accounts all over him. The first time, it would have served him right. This time, however, she would feel guilty. After all, here he was, playing the role of knight, whisking her away to safety in his powerful arms.

  She swallowed hard, forcing the lump of bile down her throat. She would not be ill. One slow inhale through her nostrils, one exhale. Her head ached more, but the wave of nausea subsided.

  “What happened?” she forced herself to ask. “How did you find me?”

  “There will be ample time for explanations later,” Arden clipped as he continued striding to his destination. “Are you in a great deal of pain?”

  He sounded slightly winded, and she had no doubt it was the effect of carting her about the streets taking its toll upon him. She was tall for a woman, and she knew it well. Her height had both haunted and aided her for all her life. She was certain she weighed more than enough to wind even the strongest and most able-bodied of men.

  “It hurts to breathe,” she admitted, though the confession pained her as much as her injuries did. “But I have survived worse scrapes.”

  “Falling from a tree, for instance.”

  Something about his quip touched her. His attempt at lightness, in such a time of darkness, warmed her insides. And, well, here was proof he had been listening to her silly stories earlier at dinner with Winchelsea. That warmed her too.

  “That was nothing,” she told him, her tongue and mind still feeling sluggish. “I landed—”

  “On your feet,” he finished for her. “Nary a broken bone for your troubles. I would suspect that is always the way of it for you, Hazel.”

  Hazel.

  Arden had called her Hazel for the first time since the wickedness in his study. And something inside her was melting. It was a name she had never liked, merely the one she had been given by the mother who had not wanted her. But on the Duke of Arden’s lips, Hazel sounded different. When he spoke her name, she wanted to be Hazel, rather than Miss Montgomery, or H.E., as all the other agents she had worked with called her.

  But this reaction, this strange affinity for her name, this sudden thrill…? Whatever her unseen assailant had cudgeled her with, it must have addled her wits. For there was no other reason why Arden’s use of her given name—spoken in his precise accent—should wrangle a sigh from her lips. But it did. She sighed and snuggled closer to him. Her head still ached, and breathing still hurt, but his scent of musky citrus had replaced the odors of the city, and his muscular, protective heat had replaced the lingering shock dogging her.

  “I do not always land on my feet,” she said at last before continuing, compelled to protest once more. “But you must put me down, Arden. I am capable of walking.”

  “No.”

  “Arden.” Her protest was by rote. In truth, she did feel weak and dizzied, and the pain in her head was growing to a crescendo by the moment. She did not want to reach the safe haven of his carriage by her own locomotion. But for the sake of her pride, by God, she would.

  “We are almost at my carriage now, Hazel. I would carry you back to New York myself if I had to, after seeing you lying on the floor in a crumpled, bleeding heap.”

  His vehemence took her by surprise. Another wave of nausea crashed over her, but she fought it back with as much determination as she had the first time. Unless she was mistaken, there was a protective note in his voice. Precisely what had Flannery and Mulroney done to her? A chill went down her spine, making her tremble.

  “The last thing I remember, is something cracking against my skull, twice,” she said. “Whatever happened afterward, I have no recollection. Do not concern yourself on my account.”

  His jaw clenched. “Hold tight to me now. We have reached the carriage.”

  He issued orders to the driver, then climbed into the conveyance, still carrying her as if she were helpless, until he deposited her gently upon the bench. Dizzied anew, she planted her palms against the leather, holding herself still, lest she collapse in a puddle upon the floor.

  He settled at her side, rather than opposite her, then stared down at her, his countenance strained, pulled tight with lines of concern. “Miss Montgomery,” was all he said.

  She mourned the loss of her given name in much the same way she mourned the loss of his touch. “Arden,” she returned, struggling against her aching head, her increasingly painful ribs, and the dizziness, which would not seem to leave her, now it had settled in like an unwanted guest. “You need not sit at my side as if I am an invalid. I have received injuries before, on many cases. This is not the first, nor will it be the last time, I expect. Attend to your duties.”

  “You are my duty,” he gritted, his jaw clenching once more. “And I have already failed you once this evening. I will not do so again. I never should have left you there on your own. I chased the bloody miscreant into the street and promptly lost him in the crowds.”

  “Arden,” she said again, reaching for his hand.

  Neither of them wore gloves, for they had fled Winchelsea’s townhome without bothering to attend to social niceties. Her gloves—and Lord, how she hated wearing gloves anyway—were likely discarded somewhere upon the Duke of Winchelsea’s handsome carpet. They had been in her lap, but when she had sprung to her feet, they had been unceremoniously flung who knew where.

  “Do not protest.” His hand cupped her head, and she winced as his fingers gently probed her scalp. “You are bleeding. I need to get you home so a physician can tend to your wounds.”

  “I am fine,” she assured him, even though her head felt as if it were a melon which had been busted open after being dropped from the roof of a tall building, and her ribs hurt as if the devil himself had danced a jig upon them.

  “You are certainly not fine, Hazel.” He cupped her face in his big hands, staring into her eyes with an intensity that cut straight through all her aches and pains to the heart of her. “And I alone take responsibility for what happened to you. I ought to have been there to protect you.”

  Her sense of independence—running through her like a river for all her life—objected. “I do not need anyone to protect me. I protect myself just as I always have, and if I fail in that, I am to blame. I alone have made an error in judgment. Do not feel responsible for my injuries, Arden. I am perfectly well. Do not accompany me because you feel beholden. Capturing the men responsible for the bombings is of far greater importance, and I fear I already bungled that.”

  “I bungled it,” he growled.

  His fingers probed a particularly sensitive area, and the moment he touched her there, she knew her scalp had been split open. Warm wetness trickled down her skin. Blood. She hissed a painful breath, then grimaced as her ribs reminded her they too had suffered a trauma
. She suspected Flannery and Mulroney had acquainted her ribs and stomach with their boots.

  Several times. How gracious of them.

  But Arden was not responsible for her hasty decision to venture to the second floor of the hotel on her own, and she would not allow him to mistakenly imagine he was.

  “I followed on my own though I was unarmed, and past experience strongly cautioned me against doing so,” she argued. “You are not to blame for my knock over the head.”

  “This is more than a knock over the head,” he argued, his voice cold, yet radiating with barely suppressed fury. “By the time I reached you, you were lying prone upon the ground, and I thought…”

  He shuddered, not finishing his sentence.

  A shocking realization occurred to her then: Arden had been concerned for her. What had happened had left him shaken. That was the reason for the grimness in his expression and the tenseness in his jaw. Could it be possible the Duke of Arden cared for her?

  Her fingers tightened over his, the connection between them seeming, somehow, vital. “You reached me, and you carried me all the way to your carriage. You did everything in your power, and now I am safe. I have once more landed upon my feet.”

  He shook his head, and despite her attempt at levity, his sensual lips did not turn upward into a smile. “I reached you too late. It was my responsibility to remain at your side. Being beaten is not landing upon your feet, Hazel. When I find the man responsible for this, I will tear him limb from limb.”

  Her blood chilled at his menace-laden words. “There were two of them.”

  His stare never wavered from hers. “You saw them?”

  She tried to nod, but her head hurt too much for the movement. Her eyes slid closed against the blinding flash of pain. “I know them.”

  “Christ, Hazel. Who are they?”

  “Their names are Sean Flannery and Thomas Mulroney,” she said faintly, as another burst of pain hit her when the carriage rattled over a bump in the road, jarring her. “Though I have no doubt they were traveling using aliases. You must tell Winchelsea. We need to find the list of guests at the hotel. It may not be too late to discover their travel plans. They will be leaving London soon, I would imagine, and they will have booked passage back to New York.”

  “You will be doing nothing, aside from being attended to by a doctor,” he said sternly. “I will pass the information on to Winchelsea and put some of our men on their trail.”

  “We should find Winchelsea immediately,” she protested, guilt skewering her at the delay she had already caused in not imparting the vital information to Arden as soon as she had regained consciousness. “I can describe them. Perhaps a sketch could be created.”

  “You will do nothing of the sort,” he said, his tone firm. He slid an arm gently about her shoulders and settled her against him. “You will rest.”

  “I do not rest,” she countered, though her eyes were still closed, and she was suddenly feeling incredibly weary.

  “You do now,” he insisted, and she felt the unmistakable, though swift, caress of his fingers upon her cheek. “How is your head, sweetheart?”

  Had he just called her “sweetheart,” or was that her confused and scattered wits betraying her? Playing tricks upon her?

  She opened her eyes again, attempting to gather herself, but when she did, she was every bit as lost within the emerald depths of Arden’s eyes as she had been before. She stared at him, taking in his handsome face, his regal bearing, his soldier’s air.

  Had any man ever been more potent in his allure? Not even Adam had drawn her to him with such intense magnetism. It was the sort of reaction which could drown a woman alive.

  “My head aches,” she told him honestly. “And my ribs are painful. But I am grateful to you, Arden, for charging after me and finding me. I would not be sitting here, if it were not for you.”

  “You are sitting here bleeding and wounded because of me,” he argued stubbornly once more, his voice rife with disgust. “But I will make amends, to you, Hazel. This, I swear.”

  Chapter Ten

  Just as he should not have been surprised Hazel had refused to do as he had bid her that night in the hotel, he also knew he should not be surprised to find her stowing away in his carriage. But when he climbed inside the vehicle and saw her sitting there upon the leather bench, dressed in her outlandish trousers, of all things, he knew a brief moment of astonishment.

  It was replaced quickly by outrage.

  “Out,” he ordered her.

  Her supple lips fell open, no doubt in shock at his brusqueness. But she found her voice in no time. “No.”

  “Yes.” He folded his arms over his chest. “Madam, Dr. Kelly was strict in his orders. You are to rest. You suffered a concussion. Moreover, there is a pair of vicious criminals on the loose in London, who know you are not what you claimed to be. You need to remain where you are safe and incapable of injuring yourself further.”

  She crossed her arms and glared at him. Due to the injuries she had sustained, she wore no hat today, and though her hair was dressed simply to also accommodate for her wounds, she had never looked lovelier.

  “I told you I do not rest, Arden,” she informed him. “If you are going to examine the scene today with the Scotland Yard investigators, I wish to accompany you.”

  “It is no place for a lady,” he said, regretting the words the instant they emerged.

  Her shoulders straightened. “Fortunately, I am not a lady.”

  “I meant to say it is no place for a woman who has so recently suffered such grievous injuries and is attempting to gad about the city, against the doctor’s orders,” he corrected. “Now out with you.”

  “No.”

  Devil take the woman. Did her stubborn foolishness know no bounds? “This is my carriage, Miss Montgomery, and you are trespassing.”

  “Very well.” She rose from her seat. “I will hire a hack as before.”

  Damn it.

  “You will do no such thing,” he gritted.

  She met his gaze, unflinching. “Either I will travel to the Praed Street station in your carriage, or I will hire a hack, Arden. Which would you prefer?”

  “Clearly, I would prefer for you to do neither.” He clenched his jaw. “You suffered terrible injuries yesterday. I have no wish for you to injure yourself further.”

  “I will not injure myself if I have you as my escort,” she countered. “But if you want me to hire a hack, that can be accomplished as well.”

  It occurred to him she was more stubborn than a goat. He could either stand here, arguing with the infernal woman, or he could allow her to win and do his damnedest to keep her from landing herself in further scrapes.

  “Sit down,” he ordered her.

  She beamed and settled herself back down with her signature lack of grace. Despite her complete disregard for the uniquely feminine art of gracefulness, she was the most mesmerizing, infuriating, delicious creature he had ever laid eyes upon. What he wouldn’t give to have her in his bed. To watch her find her pleasure once more, but this time, to be inside her when she spent.

  Bloody hell, this would not do. He had obligations, duties. Honor, he reminded himself. He had that as well. Or at least, he had possessed it, until a certain vexing American Pinkerton agent had forced her way into his life.

  On a sigh at his own lack of control, Lucien entered the carriage and sat opposite her, knowing seating himself at her side, as he had done the day prior, was a danger he could not entertain. Her scent in the carriage—crisp clean soap, with just a hint of lavender, nothing so effusive as orris root or rose—was enough to affect him. She was too tempting, with her long legs on display and her hair uncovered. And so stubborn, he wanted to kiss her into submission, which he had also vowed he would never do again.

  Desiring Hazel Montgomery was a very bad idea indeed.

  One he could not afford to entertain.

  “Thank you for the lemonade,” she told him in her mellifluous drawl,
as the carriage lurched forward and they set upon the same course they had taken the evening before.

  He had inquired after her welfare with his domestics more times than he cared to admit, beginning the evening before, after she had been attended by Dr. Kelly, and through this morning. He had seen to it lemonade was sent on the tray delivered to her chamber, both for breakfast and for luncheon.

  He rather regretted having allowed himself to indulge in the weakness he harbored for her, now that he was faced with it. But seeing her lying motionless on the floor of the Great Western Hotel yesterday had done something to him. It had not just taken him to the same vulnerable place he had dwelled within, all those years ago, when his mother had waded into the North Sea and left her children behind. It had proven to him that, regardless of how intently he tried to refrain from caring for anyone aside from his sister Violet and Great Aunt Hortense, he was not, in fact, a fortress.

  It was the same lesson he should have learned already in the wake of The Incident. But it would seem he had not, and it had taken the American firebrand across from him being attacked to force him to realize his own faults.

  He was more than aware of his faults now, all of them glaring, and he could not bear to accept her gratitude for a gesture he had made to slake his own rising guilt.

  He did not meet her gaze, fiddling instead with his signet ring. “I am afraid I do not know what you refer to, Miss Montgomery.”

  “Come now, Arden,” she chastised lowly, her honeyed drawl making his cock twitch to life. “You are the only one I mentioned my love of lemonade to.”

  Still, he had no wish to make an admission. “Perhaps you told the domestic who has been assisting you, and you merely do not recall.”

  “Bunton,” she said.

  He lifted his gaze to her at last, hating the way the mere sight of her sent a frisson of something decidedly unwanted straight through him. “I beg your pardon, madam?”

  “The domestic assisting me,” she elaborated, “is named Bunton. You seemed uncertain of the name of your own staff member. I aided you in the recollection.”