Heartless Duke

by Scott, Scarlett

  But first, he would satisfy them with his hand and his imagination. Leo stroked his cock, thinking of how she had looked in the moonlight, her skin pale and ethereal, eyes glistening, her hair a dark contrast to the dreamlike silver cast of the rest of her. How she had tasted of wine and fiery, passionate woman. Of herself, Miss Palliser, the enigma.

  He held his breath as he worked his hand over his shaft faster. Already, moisture pooled on the tip of his cock, and he ran his thumb over it, wishing it was her cunny juices instead. And then his imagination took control of his mind, and he was back in the gardens with her. Back to the moment after she had drawn his blood.

  Something to remember me by, Your Grace.

  “I shall do the same,” he would have told her, instead of sending her away. “Give you something to remember me by.”

  His wicked mind wondered how he would begin. Would he bind her wrists? Strip her naked and bite her nipples until she was writhing in passionate fury?

  No, he decided as he increased the pressure and the pace once more. He would kiss her and kiss her, sink his tongue inside her lush mouth. Tug her to the ground and throw up her skirts. He would kiss along her stockings, his hands finding the luscious swells of her calves, and her stockings would be silken and smooth under his touch. Upward, he would go, until he was kissing her inner thighs, near enough to the wet, needy heart of her, where she was pink and swollen for him. He would spread her thighs, bury his face in her folds, and suck—

  Fucking hell.

  He came with more force than he could recall in recent memory, his seed jetting into the bedclothes. Sated pleasure washed over him for a beat, soon to be replaced by the sense that it wasn’t enough. He wanted her in reality, though he could not have her. How mortifying to think the woman had him so at her mercy, he had spent to the mere thought of licking her cunny. Bleeding hell, he had not even sank his cock inside her.

  But that would have to be another fantasy for another day.

  The sun was already farther than he would have preferred in its relentless trek across the sky, and having slept two nights in a row—thanks to Clay’s limited, though blessedly good whisky cache—he felt more rested than he had in years.

  Pity he could not touch the drink again this evening. Pity too he could not touch the governess.

  His cock sprang back to life.

  “Christ,” he muttered, forcing himself from bed.

  It would simply not do to continue lusting after his nephew’s governess. The woman was untouchable. A temptation he could not afford to indulge in. Not to mention there remained something about Miss Palliser, for he refused to think of her as Jane on principle,—an indefinable quality, more a hunch of Leo’s than a discernible trait—which made him suspicious of her.

  Leo performed his ablutions, thinking he must warn Clay about his instinctive reaction to Miss Palliser. It could be nothing, but he knew his brother—newly reunited with his beloved son—would not want to take any risks where young Edward was concerned.

  Washed and dressed, he rang for his valet. Though Leo, quite unlike most lords, preferred to dress himself, he nevertheless employed a man for the sole purpose of keeping himself and his belongings organized. Without Richland, he would be a hopeless, wretched soul. Or rather, even more of a hopeless, wretched soul than he already was.

  “Your Grace,” Richland greeted with his effortless aplomb. The elder man had been a solider in the Crimea, and in addition to being blessed with excellent organizational talent, he was also the sort of chap Leo would want on his side in a skirmish to the death. Richland could shoot and wield a blade, and he was no stranger to the theater of war. Despite the irrefutable fact that he was twice Leo’s age, the man was as hale as any prize fighter and just as dangerous.

  Richland had been assigned him by the Home Office, who had understood his need for a man he could trust. Leo was thankful for his aid and loyalty each day.

  “Richland,” he greeted, grateful for the sight of the man he trusted so implicitly, for it returned his mind to reality. To the dangers at hand, facing them from all directions, unseen and boiling beneath the surface of every quiet moment. “We will be leaving by noon. Please see everything is prepared for travel.”

  Richland, predictably, took the sudden change of plans in stride. He bowed. “Of course, Your Grace.”

  “Have you any correspondence for me?” he asked, almost as an afterthought. He had not been long in residence at Harlton Hall—a mere day—and it stood to reason he would not have received much information from the Home Office in that time. Still, with the rabid tenacity of the most vicious of the Fenian groups, one could never become too complacent.

  “I do indeed have a telegram for you, sir,” Richland said solemnly, reaching into his coat and extracting a sheet of paper. “It arrived not half an hour ago.”

  Damn it.

  This did not bode well.

  He took the missive from his valet. In its haste, the message had not been written in the standard code he and his operatives preferred. Just as well he would not need to tear open his waistcoat and extract the cipher wheel.

  His waistcoat.

  Damnation, the governess still had his waistcoat.

  A fresh wave of suspicion blossomed inside him. She had promised to see it laundered, and though scarcely any time had passed between yesterday morning and this morning, it did seem odd she had yet to return it. Especially considering her almost unnatural eagerness to see it washed for him.

  Unnatural.

  The lone word sank into his psyche, plaguing him as he pored over the telegram.

  Female sent stop Last of plotters stop Burghly House dead man stop Household infiltrated stop Leprechaun

  Leo’s blood went cold. Leprechaun was the code name of the highest level Fenian informant, Padraig McGuire, who had infiltrated the inner circle of the American Fenians. If he had dared to send Leo a telegram, unencrypted, the situation was dire, and chances were there was a hell of a lot more to the story than the succinct message expressed. He needed to find his brother Clay, and he needed to find him now.

  “Thank you, Richland,” he muttered, an automaton, his feet carrying him from his chamber.

  He could only hope he wasn’t too late.

  And that the female plotter in question was not the governess he had kissed. The governess he had just…hell.

  Of course she was.

  The jagged shards fit together, forming a hideous picture. Miss Palliser was a Fenian. How could he not have seen it sooner? How could he have allowed himself to fall beneath her spell? She had played him like a bloody violin.

  Her final words to him took on a newer, more terrifying meaning.

  Something to remember me by, Your Grace.

  In the corridor outside his chamber, he broke into a sprint.

  Chapter Five

  By the time Bridget reached the main road with the Young Duke of Burghly, her charge had grown noticeably worried. Though she had promised him they were going on a learning expedition, and even the head groom who had prepared their early morning gig for them had not raised any questions, the duke was a wise lad.

  He recognized the scenery, knew which direction they were going. He fidgeted at her side, shifting in his seat, expression pinched. She knew he understood they were traveling back toward the train station.

  “Mama did not say anything of a trip,” the boy said, his tone fretful.

  “It is a surprise,” she returned, keeping her tone light as the horses thundered on, down the road, leading them both to an uncertain destiny. For the good of the cause, she reminded herself. For Cullen. Anything to save his life.

  She was a soldier, performing the duty asked of her. She would deliver the boy because she had to, not because she wanted to. Cullen’s future, or lack thereof, depended upon her every action, and she would do well to remind herself of that.

  Oh, Cullen.

  Thinking of him made her heart heavy, filled her with the sadness she kept at bay m
ost days with zealous discipline. His boyish grin, sparkling blue eyes, dark hair marred by the cowlick she had so often attempted to tame, without success. How she loved him, loved him as she never had another.

  Bridget closed her eyes for a scant moment as the gig they’d taken that morning rumbled toward the train station. And then she forced them open once more, for she alone was in charge of this nonsense. She was the driver, barreling toward mayhem.

  And it was her fault. She was the one who had volunteered herself for this unwanted task, the most dangerous task John could have envisioned. Success was within her grasp, for she had done it, had she not? Here she was, Bridget O’Malley, the young Duke of Burghly at her side, having been pried from the bosom of his family with embarrassing ease that morning.

  How easily a lamb could be led astray.

  And not just lambs either, but the fiercest, most dangerous men could be as vulnerable. She had made the Duke of Carlisle a fool, had infiltrated his brother’s household without an inkling of suspicion. She had kissed him. Flirted with him. Plotted against him beneath his nose, and he, the vaunted leader of the Special League, had been completely unaware. Bridget had faced him in battle, and she had won.

  But you enjoyed his kisses, whispered that awful voice inside her.

  You thrilled at his touch.

  Yes, the Duke of Carlisle had been an Achilles heel. But she had also stayed her course, proving that not even her weaknesses could keep her from her duties and her loyalties.

  Even so, she could not deny it was the stakes of this gamble that made her hands tremble on the reins, the knot of fear and guilt swelling inside her to ridiculous proportions. That made the bile rising in her throat continue to make its steadfast presence known.

  “I want to go home, Miss Palliser.”

  The young duke’s polite request, underscored with fear and worry, struck her in the vicinity of her already anxious heart.

  Guilt, which had begun to drench her, turned into a deluge. He was but a child, and he wanted to return to his mother.

  Stay the course, she reminded herself sternly when part of her wanted to continue her charade, instead of carrying through with the plan of abducting him. To return him safely to Harlton Hall after they drove about on their feigned expedition. To make it seem real. Return to her charmed chamber with the eastward-facing windows. Forget this had ever happened.

  But that part of her needed to be stifled by the rest of her. Conscience and concern could have no place in this fight. It was all about gaining what the cause wanted, what they needed, by any means possible. Fair or foul. But more than that, it was about saving someone she loved. If she did as John ordered, she could help to free Cullen. She could not afford to lose sight of the goal of seeing him walk free and unencumbered on the streets of Dublin once more.

  Kilmainham Gaol was a hell of a place for an eighteen-year-old young man to find himself on account of his poor decisions. She could only pray he would be the same young man she had known when he emerged.

  Thoughts of prison made her grip on the reins tighten, her teeth grinding together with so much force, her jaw ached. She would not find herself in the same straits as Cullen, she vowed, for she was older. Wiser. More careful.

  Surely she was.

  “We shall return you to your home in a trice,” she lied to the lad, struggling to keep her voice even and calm.

  She knew she must say something comforting, though she hated herself for deceiving him so thoroughly. For being the person who had been entrusted with his care, and yet also the same person who would betray him.

  “But I wish to go home now, Miss Palliser,” the young duke insisted again, a quaver creeping into his voice.

  Of course he was frightened. He was a sweet, kind young boy who had just lost his father to murder. Whose mother had become the target of subsequent attacks. Who was himself at the mercy of a woman he had only known for mere days. A veritable stranger, and one he could not trust at that, though he did not know it.

  Bridget thought of the lovely, kind, and welcoming Duchess of Burghly as the horse and cart plodded along. Her guilt grew, doubling and tripling within her, until it was all she knew, a sea of sickness.

  “But we cannot go home now, Your Grace,” she said softly. “Our adventure has only just begun.”

  “I do not like this adventure.” The tremor in his voice lanced her. “I wish to return to my mother and father.”

  Doubts gripped her, tightening like manacles. “You will return soon enough,” she lied.

  “I do not think I would prefer a surprise this morning, Miss Palliser,” the young duke pressed, concern in his voice.

  Bridget felt as if she had swallowed a belly full of poison. She did not want to be responsible for separating the young man at her side from his family. It was wrong, and with each beat of the horses’ hooves on the road, she was reminded.

  It became a litany.

  Wrong. Wrong. Wrong. Wrong.

  Until she broke. There had to be another way. She could not do this. Bridget slowed the horses and guided the gig to the side of the country road. And that was when she heard the unmistakable thunder of approaching horses behind her.

  Fear clawed at her throat, for she knew instinctively who it was.

  The Duke of Carlisle was coming for her.

  And he would show her no mercy.

  She extracted the pistol she had kept hidden within her pelisse, and though it was not loaded, pointing it at the wide-eyed lad and watching the color leach from his face filled her with the deepest brand of shame.

  “Get down from the gig and do not move when your feet hit the ground,” she ordered him. “Do as I say, and you will not get hurt. This I promise you.”

  “Please, Miss Palliser. I want my mama.” A tear escaped the boy’s eye, rolling down his cheek, but he did as she asked.

  Bridget alighted after him and, the sound of her reckoning coming ever nearer, gripped the boy’s arm. She led him into the dense wood with as much haste as she could manage, praying she had not made the biggest mistake of her life.

  Years ago, during the war in France, Leo and fellow League member the Duke of Trent had faced a group of bloodthirsty Prussian soldiers straggling from their army. Leo and Trent had been outnumbered, and he had slain three of the five soldiers himself, one with nothing more than his bare hands as he choked the life from the bastard.

  That had not been the first, nor the last time Leo had faced down men intent upon his murder.

  The hell of it was, he had not been fearful that day. He had never feared for his own mortality, for there were days when Leo did not give a damn if he were alive or dead. But he did fear for the lives of those he loved, and Edward, the young Duke of Burghly—Leo’s bloody nephew—was among that small group of people.

  As Leo stalked through the dense forest as silently as possible in an effort to surprise Miss Palliser from behind and rescue Edward, he was the most terrified he had ever been in his fucking life. The woman was mad. She had dared to abduct her charge, a peer of the realm, in broad daylight, and Padraig all but had named her as part of the ring of plotters responsible for the Duke of Burghly’s assassination.

  A dangerous, unpitying, hateful group of cowards—the sort who attacked unarmed men with surgical knives in the midst of a park. That was who she had thrown her lot in with. That was the caliber of woman who held innocent Edward in her grip.

  Clay had just been reunited with his son. The anguish in his expression had slammed Leo in the gut like a fist. Even now, his broken words returned to Leo as he slowed, hearing the sounds of voices in the clearing ahead.

  We have to find them, Leo. I cannot let anything happen to him. This is all my bloody fault, and I will not forgive myself if…

  There would be no if, Leo decided. He gripped his pistol firmly, at the ready. He would gladly die before he allowed a hair to be harmed on the lad’s head. He parted the brush, held his breath, and formed a plan as he watched.

  M
iss Palliser’s back faced him, a weapon in her hand, the barrel pointing toward what he could only assume was Edward’s head. She wore a bonnet over her dark tresses, her pelisse and dress the same unremarkable dove gray as the day before. To the uninformed observer, she would appear no different from any other governess. But he now knew what evil lurked in her heart. Knew she was not to be trusted.

  Clay faced Leo and Miss Palliser, his weapon no longer in hand.

  Damn it to hell.

  Leo was Edward’s only chance now. He aimed at her shoulder, calculating his ability to hit her with precision and avoid injuring the lad, as Clay spoke.

  “Like hell I will allow you to take him from me,” Clay called, taking a menacing step toward the woman.

  She took two steps in retreat, hauling Edward with her, bringing them both nearer to Leo.

  There’s a girl, he coaxed silently. Closer if you please.

  “Remain where you are, or I shall hurt him,” Miss Palliser warned Clay, her voice like the crack of a whip.

  Leo willed Clay to continue to distract her. It was their best hope. If she was close enough he could be confident of his shot, he would wound her, and Edward could run free.

  “What do you hope to accomplish?” Clay asked, understanding his role all too well. This was not the first time they had worked together in this capacity. “Do you truly believe the harming of an innocent youth will make Home Rule possible?”

  “What I hope to accomplish, and what I believe are two different beasts, sir,” Miss Palliser said, taking another slow step and pulling Edward with her.

  “Papa,” Edward called out, his tone pleading. Hearing the fear in the lad’s voice was akin to a spike in the heart for Leo. “I do not want to go with her. She said she will take me on an adventure, and then I can go home again. But I don’t want to do that. I want to go home to you and Mama.”