Shameless Duke

by Scott, Scarlett

  They moved as one, their joining wild, almost furious. When he stroked her pearl, she fell apart, seizing on him as a violent wave of pure bliss broke over her. Her climax thundered through her like a summer storm, and she fell headlong into the velvety abyss as he thrust home inside her one last time. He tensed beneath her questing fingertips, his body stiffening, as he reached his pinnacle as well. The hot rush of his seed filled her, and she clutched him to her, sated and spent, their hearts pounding in tandem.

  Chapter Twenty

  “Have you asked her yet?”

  Lucien heaved a sigh and glared at the interloper who had dared to disturb him as he pored over documents in Strathmore’s study. The early light glowed, making his sister look particularly radiant this morning, even if she was interrupting him and poking her nose into his affairs, where it decidedly did not belong.

  “Good morning, Lettie,” he greeted wryly. “I did not realize, when your husband offered me the temporary use of his study that it would mean you would trespass whenever you wished.”

  Violet smiled at him, imperturbable as ever. Her disposition had always been sunny, and her happiness only heightened it now. It was good, he thought, to see her well-settled with Strathmore.

  “You did not answer my question,” his sister pointed out tartly, settling in to one of the chairs arranged before Strathmore’s desk, quite uninvited.

  “Have I asked who?” he asked, feigning ignorance. “And what shall I ask her?”

  In truth, he knew precisely what Lettie’s query was about. In the aftermath of the warehouse explosion and fire the previous day at the docks, Lucien had returned to Strathmore’s townhome and had promptly spent the rest of the day tending to the woman who loved him.

  Yes, Hazel loved him.

  And he loved her, but he had found the words strangely difficult to say in return.

  Because they terrified him. He had spent his life believing romantic love was nothing but a fiction which led to everlasting misery.

  “Miss Montgomery of course,” Lettie said. “After the scandal you created yesterday, you must marry her.”

  She was referring to his insistence he accompany Hazel to her chamber and tend to her himself. He did not regret his actions, though he acknowledged the rashness of them. He inclined his head. “I have every intention of marrying her. I already asked her previously, in fact.”

  Lettie’s brows rose. “And what did she say?”

  “She declined.” He frowned then, recalling her response.

  What if she denied him again? He wanted Hazel, and yet, she was forever determined to see the differences between them.

  “Did you tell her you love her?” Violet asked gently, ever perceptive.

  “No,” he admitted.

  “What are you waiting for?” his sister demanded. “You could have lost her yesterday. Do not lose her to your pride.”

  Lettie was right, of course. But damn it if the notion of his little sister giving him counsel did not rankle. “Thank you for your unsolicited advice, sister dearest. I will take it into consideration. For the moment, I have work to do.”

  He gestured to the papers he had been poring over. Some of the documents in the possession of the Fenians had remained intact, kept inside a strongbox. Winchelsea had tasked him with reviewing them for any information which would be of use to future investigations.

  “Always the League,” Violet said then. “Always duty. For once, Lucien, put yourself and your heart first. You deserve to be happy, and so does Miss Montgomery.”

  Did he?

  He sighed again. “How can you know I will make her happy?”

  His sister smiled. “Because I can see the way she looks at you, and the way you look at her. Stop lingering here with these dratted papers! Go find her, and ask her to be your wife. My babe will be fortunate indeed to have a brave auntie like Hazel.”

  The last of his sister’s words hit him then. “Your babe? Are you…? Lettie! Why did you not say so before? This is wonderful news.”

  Her smile deepened. “Yes, it is.” She rose from her chair abruptly in a swish of lavender-colored skirts. “Now, I must get back to my crocheting. I’m trying my hand at a blanket for the babe. Do cease being a stubborn arse and go secure yourself a wife.”

  Bemused by the prospect of Lettie becoming someone’s mother, he watched her go, before turning to the documents he had extracted from the strongbox. Hastily, he began to restore them to the box, knowing they could wait, that he had a far more important task at hand.

  He was just about to return a small leather-bound journal to the strongbox when he opened it instead, for the journal looked familiar. He was startled to find his name written prominently within, penned in Hazel’s tidy script. Clearly, the journal belonged to her and had been thieved from her chamber at Lark House.

  He knew he had no business reading her private musings, but part of him reasoned he could not avoid reading it, for it was a part of his duty. The journal had become integral to the investigation, and it must be examined. Moreover, it appeared to be written in the form of a list. His eyes scanned the lines.

  Lucien West, Duke of Arden.

  Arrogant.

  Forbidding.

  Suffering from an abundance of self-confidence.

  Strongly objects to being referred to as “Mr. Arden.”

  Easily manipulated.

  Pompous.

  Strong.

  Dark hair.

  Emerald eyes.

  Possessed of an authoritative manner.

  Exceedingly rude.

  Arrogant.

  She had listed “arrogant” twice, and he could not help but to grin when he noted it. That was his Hazel, the woman who had stormed his battlements and overtaken him completely. He could not deny he owned each fault she had written. He could see from the manner in which she had crossed out some of the lines she had been conflicted about him at the time she had constructed the list.

  It was, he supposed, an oddly prescient representation of the way he had felt for her as well. Initially, he had been vexed. He had been determined to make her cry off from being his partner in the League. From the beginning, he had been attracted to her, for she was not merely a beautiful woman, she was also capable, fierce, intelligent, bold, and daring.

  She was Hazel, uniquely wonderful. Utterly intoxicating. And he had been smitten. But his feelings for her had changed. Oh, how they had altered. As he worked at her side and watched the fascinating firing of her mind, he had been in awe. From the moment his lips had first touched hers, she had owned his heart.

  Lucien had just been too damned stupid, prideful, and stubborn to see it.

  He eyed the list and thought, forgetting the investigation, as Lettie had urged him. Forgetting everything but Hazel and the way he felt for her. The list was missing a few key points, he realized. Here, at last, was the answer he had been seeking.

  He retrieved a pen from Strathmore’s desk, dipping it in ink to add one more item to her list.

  The man who wants to marry you.

  He eyed the list, then realized, much to his dismay, he had neglected to include the most important item of all, the one which must not be forgotten.

  The man who loves you.

  There. That would do.

  That would do quite splendidly.

  Hazel looked down at the gold band she had been wearing upon her hand since Adam’s death. She stood by the window in her guest chamber at Strathmore’s townhome, the morning sunshine kissing her face. Earlier, with the aid of Bunton, she had dressed and her hair was styled artfully. Her reflection in the looking glass had revealed a woman with a bruised cheek, but a determined air.

  The time had come to move on, in more ways than one.

  With a deep breath, she tugged at the ring, twisting it from her finger. She raised the thin metal—warmed from her skin—to her lips for a kiss, then tucked it inside the small pouch where she kept all her jewelry.

  “I will never forget you,
” she whispered, putting the jewelry inside the valise where she had already seen the rest of her meager possessions packed.

  In a few minutes, she would emerge from the chamber and face the rest of what she must do. Goodbyes were never easy, and this one would be the most difficult of all. She did not think her heart would ever recover. But she also knew it had to be done.

  She had fallen asleep last night in Lucien’s arms, only to wake at dawn to find herself alone. She’d had ample time to lie in bed and contemplate her life and what she wanted from it. She loved Lucien enough to let him go. With Flannery and Mulroney dead, and their cohort arrested, her work in London was finished.

  She had not stopped the bombings from occurring. Nor had she brought the perpetrators to justice. But she had found, all the same, a sense of peace. A realization as well, that perhaps the time had come for her to cease being a Pinkerton agent and living an unsettled life of danger.

  Losing her heart to Lucien had led to an unexpected discovery: she did not want to spend the rest of her life alone. She wanted a husband. Children. She wanted the deep, abiding contentment she had seen in the Duchess of Strathmore’s eyes.

  And she was going to return to America to find it, if she could.

  A knock sounded at the chamber door. She knew without having to ask who it was.

  “Enter,” she called to Lucien.

  The door clicked open, and he crossed the threshold as if he belonged there, shutting the door at his back. She wondered for a moment what Lady Beaufort and the Duchess of Strathmore would say at his trespass in broad daylight, without the excuse of their near-deaths yesterday to bolster his actions. And then she told herself it mattered not, for she was leaving this gilded world she little understood far behind.

  But how difficult it would be to leave.

  Nigh impossible, she thought, as she watched him stride toward her in his confident way. He was dressed informally, wearing only shirtsleeves, waistcoat, and trousers in stark contrast to his immaculately groomed dark hair. He had shaved, she noted. Her heart gave a pang.

  “Good morning,” he greeted tenderly.

  “Good morning,” she forced herself to return, as if she was not breaking inside.

  “I believe I found something of yours.”

  Belatedly, she noticed he carried a small journal in his hands that she recognized as her own. “My journal! But where did you find it? It was in my satchel that was stolen from Lark House.”

  Naturally, Flannery and Mulroney had not stolen the handsome journal Lucien had gifted her, for its pages had been blank. She reminded herself now that she needed to return to Lark House for the remainder of her belongings. She was keeping the journal, for it would be the only piece of Lucien she could carry with her.

  “I found it in a strongbox liberated from the rubble of the warehouse,” he told her, offering the small leather-bound volume to her. “You may wish to have a second look at the list you made inside, however. I fear you were missing a few important things.”

  Her cheeks went hot as she recalled the first list she had made within it.

  “Oh, hell,” she grumbled, before she could stop her wayward tongue.

  “I propose heaven, rather than hell,” he said with an enigmatic smile. “Take a look for yourself.”

  Perplexed, she flipped it open to the first page. There was her infernal list, just as she had originally drafted it. However, there was a difference. Her small, precise scrawl had been joined by a slanting, masculine script. She read the last two lines of the list.

  The man who wants to marry you.

  The man who loves you.

  She stared at the page, unseeing, as an intense burst of emotion hit her. Her gaze lifted to his, and he was still smiling, so fully, his rarefied dimples made a heart-melting appearance.

  She struggled to string together words against a rush of hope so strong, it nearly toppled her over. “You love me?”

  He nodded. “I love you, Hazel. When I thought I was going to lose you yesterday, I realized no pain or grief I had ever suffered in the past could be as strong as what I would feel if you were gone from my life forever. I cannot bear to lose you, and I cannot live my life without you in it, by my side, as my wife. Will you do me the incredible honor of marrying me?”

  The journal fell from her trembling hands to the floor, but she paid it no heed. All she could see was the man before her becoming blurry and indistinct through the tears clouding her vision.

  “Oh, Lucien,” she said on a choked half-sob of love and regret. “I cannot marry you, and you know it. I would embarrass you horribly.”

  His arms came around her then, firm and strong and reassuring. He pressed her head to his chest, just above the beautiful thudding of his heart. “You will only embarrass me if you refuse my suit a second time, my love.”

  Her arms were around his lean waist, and she breathed in his scent, musk and citrus, beloved. How would she ever let him go?

  “You are not thinking clearly,” she told him.

  “On the contrary,” his voice rumbled beneath her ear. “I have never been so clear-headed.”

  “I wear trousers,” she reminded him.

  “I love those trousers,” he countered. “Your limbs and your rump look deliciously fetching in them.”

  “I have no notion of your societal rules and customs.”

  He kissed the crown of her head. “I consider that part of your charm.”

  “I cuss.”

  “So do I.” There was a smile in his voice.

  “I am an orphan who has spent her entire life roaming, with no true home of her own,” she tried.

  “And I am the man who wants to be your home at last.” His voice was solemn.

  Something inside her shifted. Gave way.

  “You cannot mean that,” she said, too afraid to hope. Terrified of the love she felt for him. Of the possibility she could actually have this man as her own. That she could be his wife.

  “I have never meant anything more. Look at me, Hazel.”

  She tipped back her head, meeting his gaze. “Lucien.”

  He kissed her. Slowly. Sweetly. Nothing more than a gentle feathering of his lips over hers. “I love you. I admire you. I respect you. And I need you by my side. Stay with me, Hazel. Be the duchess of my heart.”

  Nothing else mattered when she was in his arms. Her fears, her doubts, all fell away. Because she loved him, and he loved her, and this time, he had asked her to marry him with his whole heart. He had braved his own fears to ask for her hand.

  And there was only one answer she could give him.

  “Yes,” she said, smiling through her tears.

  Epilogue

  Lucien watched his wife as she spun about in the entry hall of the building he had brought her to view that afternoon. She was not wearing her trousers today, for her burgeoning belly had rendered them too uncomfortable by her standards. She had bemoaned the retiring of them, and so had he, but she assured him she would wear trousers for him once more after the babe was born. With or without her divided skirts, she was so lovely, she made him ache.

  He still could scarcely fathom she was his. That she loved him. That their child grew within her womb. He allowed himself a moment of simply savoring the sight of her, before recalling the reason for their visit.

  “What do you think of it?” he asked. “Will it suffice?”

  “The building appears to be sound,” she said, “but I confess I do not understand your sudden interest in purchasing edifices.”

  Smiling, he moved toward her, drawn to her warmth. “You told me you wished to begin a school for lady detectives, did you not?”

  Though she had continued to act as his partner in the League, the discovery she was with child had necessitated a change of occupation for her. He had not forced the matter; Hazel had made the decision herself, but he was grateful for it. He had no wish to spend his days worrying over the safety of his wife and his unborn babe.

  But in the absenc
e of her work as an agent, she had struggled to find her new purpose, until she had finally settled upon the notion of opening a school for young ladies interested in becoming detectives, just as she had. In typical Hazel fashion, she had already thrown herself into the task of locating lady detectives who could offer training to her students. As with anything she set her mind to accomplish, Lucien had no doubt Hazel’s lady detective school would not just succeed, but thrive.

  Her eyes widened. “Oh, Lucien! You cannot mean to tell me you purchased this building as a home for my school.”

  “The transaction is not complete,” he allowed, taking her into his arms and devouring her upturned face with his gaze. “Naturally, I would never dream of making a decision so important without your approval. That is why we are here. I have had my man looking for some time now, for something I thought would be suitable—a large enough building capable of being outfitted to your requirements, a neighborhood in which I need not fear my wife traipsing about in trousers…”

  “You love my trousers,” she protested. “You have told me so yourself on many occasions.”

  “I love peeling you out of them,” he corrected, his hand drifted lovingly over her belly, cradling the life growing within. “Here is the evidence.”

  “Wicked man,” she said, without heat.

  “I do not recall hearing you complain.” He dropped a kiss on her lips, groaning when she deepened it, her tongue slipping inside his mouth.

  She pulled away then, smiling up at him. “Why would I complain, when I have a life so wonderful, I could never have even dreamt it?”

  “Even though you married a man with fancy commodes?” he could not help but tease, affecting her honeyed drawl.

  Hazel laughed. “Of course, and even though I swear a mockingbird could imitate my accent better than you can.”

  He kissed the bridge of her nose, right over the smattering of freckles he found endlessly bewitching. “I shall have to try harder, darling. Fortunately for me, I have the rest of our lives to perfect it. But tell me what you think of this building for your Lady’s Detective School. I can bear the suspense no longer.”