Blame It on the Duke (The Disgraceful Dukes #3)

by Lenora Bell

  Grabbing her wine, Alice gulped down half a glass. When Nick summoned the charm, a lady needed liquid courage.

  One wouldn’t think the combination of the sharp, herbal liqueur and the wine would be pleasing, but as the wine dissolved on her tongue there was a pleasant burst of sun-dried plums that mellowed the lingering fire of the anise-flavored spirits.

  “I’ll taste the wine later,” Nick said in a low, intimate voice, “On your lips.”

  There he went, setting her senses aflame again.

  Charlene’s words echoed in her mind: The act of love is the most intimate conversation two people can have . . .

  She must remain composed. Distant. Detached.

  She must observe her body’s responses from a remove. Separate her mind, heart, and body and keep them compartmentalized.

  Which would be no easy task, as her body and mind were ready and eager for more kisses.

  She’d tried to banish her nerves, but the moment he looked at her with that hungry expression, her trepidation rushed back tenfold.

  She must stall a moment more. Keep him talking of other subjects. Seek the composure required to view this evening’s activities from a scholarly perspective.

  “My lord, I’m worried about the duke’s diet,” she said. “He ate hardly any of his meal and what he did ingest was either animal flesh or smothered in butter.”

  Nick shrugged. “My cook is French.”

  “When I asked about your kitchen garden I was not being facetious. It’s a well-known medical certainty that the nourishment one ingests plays a role in one’s physical and even mental health. I wonder if the duke is truly deranged? Or could his malady be the result of a lifetime of unsalutary eating?”

  Nick’s eyes lost their teasing light. “My father is mad. And no amount of vegetables will improve his condition.” He rose from the table and held out his hand. “If you don’t believe me, let me show you.”

  His strong grip crushed her hand as he pulled her from her seat and led her down a long, dark hallway, following a glimmer of moonlight into a spacious, open, window-lined gallery, which opened out onto the shadowy gardens.

  He took a flickering lantern from a hook near the door and held it aloft.

  The halo of light illuminated rows of paintings, somber with blood red and inky black.

  “This is why you shouldn’t become too fond of the duke, Alice.”

  Chapter 11

  When a man and a woman embrace each other while the woman is sitting on the lap of the man . . . then it is called an embrace like a “mixture of milk and water.”

  The Kama Sutra of Vātsyāyana

  Or too fond of me, Nick added silently.

  “I am descended from a long line of madmen, Alice.” He strode across the cavernous room, lantern held aloft, stopping to point out the more notorious of his ancestors.

  He paused before a forbidding portrait of a man with black eyes and black hair. “Edgar Hatherly, the ninth Marquess of Hatherly, until he was created Duke of Barrington by Queen Anne in the early 1700s. Poor old Edgar was convinced he could fly. Built this house and then died by flinging himself from a tower with a pair of feathered wings strapped to his shoulders.”

  “Gracious.” Alice shivered as she studied the portrait. “He does have rather a maniacal gleam in his eyes.”

  “Exactly.” Nick drew her by the hand to another painting. “My great-great-grandfather, Warren Hatherly, whose elder brother died in infancy. He believed he was being persecuted by miniature men with green skin who probed his brain with common household implements at night in order to steal his thoughts.”

  “An inventive fellow, your great-great-grandfather.”

  “A madman,” Nick corrected. “He published a letter to Parliament warning about an invasion of the tiny green men who wished to take control of first Parliament, and then the world. Very embarrassing for the family, I’m told.”

  Alice nodded. “I imagine so.”

  He walked past several portraits, marching swiftly, avoiding her eyes, and stopped in front of a painting of a woman wearing red silk skirts stretched stiffly to either side with the aid of panniers. “The third duke’s sister, Lady Grace, wife of the Earl of Langdon.”

  Alice lifted a hand to trace the lines of Lady Grace’s cheek. “She’s beautiful—such silver eyes, and such a feline face. Staring straight ahead. Such an impression of strength.”

  “She accused the earl of poisoning her and ran away one night, never to be seen again.”

  “The family curse strikes females as well?”

  “There’s no discernible pattern. Sometimes it skips a generation. There’ve been several sober, sane Hatherlys.” They walked farther down the row. “Virgil Hatherly, brother of the fourth duke. Entered the clergy and denounced his brother from the pulpit every day.”

  The man in the portrait was thin and ascetic, but his eyes were no less filled with demons and shadows. Nick lowered the lantern. He’d made his point.

  Alice continued walking down the line. “Is this the duke?”

  Nick nodded. He hated to look at his father’s image because it made him too sad.

  His father had been so hale and robust, the battle lance of his nose balanced by the strength of his shoulders and his proud, upright carriage.

  The artist who had painted his father had been more creative than most. The duke held an orchid, its pale white flowers glowing eerily near his heart.

  Reluctantly, he joined Alice, illuminating his father’s portrait. “He thought he could avoid going insane by strenuous mental exercises. He memorized thousands of plant species and became an expert botanist and celebrated orchid collector.”

  Alice placed a gentle hand on his arm. “How wonderful that he achieved so much.”

  “And yet he couldn’t stave off the inevitable,” Nick said bitterly. “He was attempting to extract a serum from a species of orchid in Nepal that he believed to be a lunacy preventative. But nothing helped in the end. The madness took him on the voyage back from Nepal. As it will most likely claim me.”

  “I’m so sorry.” She touched the back of his hand, and a lump rose in his throat.

  “My mother left for the Continent soon after. Their marriage couldn’t survive his descent into madness.” He laughed. “I tried to stop everything from falling apart but it was useless. I couldn’t fix my mother’s broken heart or stop her from leaving.”

  The soft light in Alice’s eyes was worse than any harsh derision.

  Excellent work, Nick.

  Bring her here to warn her about the dangers of caring for a lunatic and then lapse into some self-pitying monologue that has obviously achieved the exact opposite effect.

  Moonlight splashed across Nick’s face, caressing his angular jaw, and gleaming on dark hair and white linen.

  His voice rasped lower than any voice Alice had ever heard. Gruff and rough-edged.

  This darkness was so contrary to the teasing, lighthearted man she’d come to know over the last month.

  Always joking, always making risqué innuendos.

  He was giving her a warning.

  Making certain that she knew he could never allow himself to grow close to anyone. Not when he thought he would go mad. Not when he believed that anyone he loved would leave him.

  Seeing this raw, real side of him confused her.

  She searched the wall. “Where’s your painting?”

  “I refused to sit. I told you, Alice, the line ends with me. I’ll never sire an heir. I’m the last of my cursed line.”

  “Have you ever considered the possibility that maybe you won’t go mad? That maybe there’s no chasm of lunacy waiting to swallow you?”

  “No.”

  “How would you live your life if you knew you had ten more years? Or twenty, even?”

  “I never consider my future because I can feel that I will go insane.” He placed his fist on his flat stomach. “Here. In my gut.” He stared at his father’s portrait. “There have been . .
. signs.”

  “What signs?”

  “Sometimes the world seems as though it’s closing in on me. My vision blurs.”

  “Have you ever been examined by an eye doctor? You may need spectacles.”

  “Rakes don’t wear spectacles,” he scoffed.

  “Maybe you’re not a rake,” she rejoined. Which would be quite problematic. She was counting on him to be a rake. A conceited rake whose single purpose in life was the pursuit of pleasure.

  “Don’t go thinking I’m more than I appear, Alice. What you see is what I am.” He spread his arms wide. “Descendant of madmen. Idle aristocrat. Pleasure-obsessed rake.”

  Alice couldn’t accept his word anymore. He spoke with too much feeling, and too much pain.

  “You’re also your father’s refuge. His anchor. You don’t let him drift too far into the deep.”

  “He harms no one so I keep him here with me. He’d never gambled before now. Dalton believes there was someone behind the scenes besides the duke’s hired caretaker, Mr. Stubbs. Someone who wishes my family ill. Every day, my friends and I search for news of Stubbs in pubs, coach passenger lists, and on ship registries. If I find Stubbs, he’ll lead me to my true enemy.”

  Alice saw the steely resolve in his eyes. “I don’t like the idea of someone holding a grudge against you.”

  He smiled. “Says the lady whose father practically blackmailed me into marriage.”

  “Says the lady who requires nightly instruction in the particulars of pleasure, or have you forgotten our arrangement?” she teased.

  She needed to turn the conversation back to her love lessons, because she didn’t like the rush of emotion stirring in her heart.

  She heard the suffering in his words, but she didn’t want to understand the reasons for his darkness and his pain.

  It made her feel too sympathetic.

  Too vulnerable.

  She had to regain control over her emotions.

  Follow the plan.

  She glanced at the large, thronelike chair she’d noticed earlier. It was time to turn imaginings into reality. “Sit,” she urged.

  When he wavered she pushed against his chest. “Sit, Lord Hatherly.”

  He settled into the chair looking like some medieval painting of a mountain king. All he needed were wolves at his feet and a fur strapped across his chest.

  She’d twisted her hair into a simple knot. All it took was one yank to release the curls. The swift hiss of his breath informed her that he liked her hair unbound.

  Kshiraniraka, or milk and water embrace . . . the woman is sitting on the lap of the man . . .

  The wine coursing through her body was making her feel quite reckless.

  But how was this going to work? He was so very large, and she had long skirts. She’d have to hike them to her hips.

  She reached for the hem of her skirts, hefted them into the crook of one arm, and climbed onto his lap. Recalling the description in the Kama Sutra, she situated her limbs to either side of his enormous torso.

  “Good God.” He looked stunned. “Dimples, what do you think you’re doing?”

  “Wind your arms around me and clasp me to your chest,” she instructed.

  Was this right? It felt rather ridiculous. But she bravely continued since there was no use stopping now, not until they achieved the correct position.

  “I think if you . . .” She adjusted herself on top of him, squirming to find a comfortable seat.

  He caught hold of her waist with his hands. “I wouldn’t wriggle quite so much,” he said with a grimace.

  “Are you in pain? Am I hurting you?”

  “You could say that.”

  She was doing this all wrong. Perhaps if there were fewer impediments.

  She tugged on Nick’s cravat, attempting to loosen the knot.

  He emitted a strangled laugh. “You are the most surprising woman I’ve ever met.” His laughter died and his hands tightened around her waist. “And the most arousing.”

  If someone painted their portrait right now, what a scandalous painting it would be.

  The way his large hands wrapped nearly all the way around her waist made shivers run up and down her spine.

  His hands rearranged her to suit his needs with unspoken commands.

  Hips here.

  Arms around my neck.

  Lift your bum.

  She liked being rearranged. Disarrayed.

  Deranged.

  “This gown’s too rough. You should wear silks,” he rasped.

  “It’s a sensible gown.”

  He tugged her bodice lower. “I crave the silk of your skin.” He lifted her hand and placed it in the center of her chest. “Feel what I crave.”

  She’d never laid a hand directly across her breastbone before.

  Such a serviceable bone.

  Protecting her heart.

  It made her think about how easily a heart could be pierced.

  By a dagger.

  A sliver of bone.

  By silver eyes filled with longing and buried pain.

  She shouldn’t allow herself to think such thoughts, but recklessness was building inside her.

  One more hard tug from Nick and her bodice slipped down, exposing her to his gaze.

  “Touch yourself there,” he commanded.

  She knew what he meant. He wanted her to touch her breasts. As she had this morning while she watched him working in the garden.

  She couldn’t bring herself to obey. It was too much. She wasn’t bold enough.

  He lowered his head and blew cool air on her naked flesh.

  The tips of her breasts tightened and throbbed.

  “Alice.” He caught her gaze. “Touch yourself for me. Make me an offering.”

  Slowly, with trembling fingers, she slid her hand from her breastbone to cover one of her breasts.

  “The other one, as well.”

  She cupped both her breasts with her hands and closed her eyes.

  “Good girl.”

  He rewarded her for obeying him with a long, lingering kiss, his tongue stroking inside her mouth while his hands held her captive against his arousal.

  Every time he shifted beneath her, he rubbed against the center of her body through her linens, sending waves of pleasure along her inner thighs.

  Only leaving her lips to kiss his way along her neck, he murmured encouragement as she arched into the embrace.

  “I want to be bad,” she heard herself whisper.

  “With all the mad dukes watching?”

  “Let them watch.”

  Who knew good, sensible girls would burn the hottest?

  The heat emanating from her was enough to burn all the canvases to ash and rid him of his cursed legacy forever.

  He filled his hands with her breasts, shaping the peaks, tugging and teasing.

  The lantern had long since burned out and the room was lit only by moonlight. He couldn’t see her eyes in the darkness, but he knew their color. The clarity and depth of the turquoise, like the heart of a candle flame. Like a rare orchid blooming in the night.

  He lifted his hands and she exhaled through her nose, a disappointed little sound that made him smile.

  “I’m only finding the wine,” he reassured her.

  There was always a bottle of wine here, next to this chair. For the nights he couldn’t sleep. The nights he came here to sit and stare into the maw of madness.

  The stopper came away easily with a soft sucking noise.

  Imported Portuguese wine with a rich, ripe berry flavor and hints of tobacco and chocolate.

  He kissed her with wine pooled inside his mouth and she gulped greedily, kissing him hard and fast.

  “More,” she demanded.

  Another deep draw of wine transferred into her lips.

  She purred like a cat. “It’s delicious, Nick.”

  He lifted her skirts higher, pressing upward with his cock against the layers of buckskin and linen separating them.

  Ju
st some woman, he reminded himself.

  Some beautiful fever dream of a woman.

  Like all the women he’d had. All of them saying his name in the same purring, pleasure-soaked way.

  She was no different. Merely one of many in a long line.

  Stretching along his past like the portraits lining the gallery.

  The history of lovers gone.

  Courtesans. Opera singers.

  And now Alice.

  Innocent, intelligent, inquisitive Alice.

  Gown around her waist.

  Breasts spilling over her stays. Nipples red as wine in the moonlight.

  When his lips sought her breast she held still, surprised, as he sucked gently and rhythmically, flicking her nipple with the tip of his tongue.

  Some women were able to climax simply from a lover playing with their breasts.

  Her nipples were sensitive; that was obvious from the way her belly trembled against him and she made small, tentative thrusting motions with her hips, rocking against his erection.

  He moved to her other breast, lavishing the same attention and care. She rocked faster, instinctively seeking her release.

  She was close now.

  He could feel it.

  This was the moment he lived for. When he knew he could make a woman shatter to pieces in his arms.

  Such power.

  This he knew. This he owned. This pleasure. This drunken abandon.

  In a practiced movement, he hiked her skirts, separated the folds of her drawers, and sought the pearl awaiting him there . . .

  “Oh . . .” Alice jerked against him, trying to escape but he tightened his elbow around her waist and held fast.

  One firm sweep of his forefinger against her clitoris while his lips resumed suckling her nipple and she came—only a small crisis, but he’d work her up to the big, earth-shattering ones soon.

  “You touched me,” she said in a stunned voice. “There.”

  “Shh.” He kissed his way from her dimple to her lips. He didn’t like it when women talked too much during sex. Easy enough to keep them sighing instead. “Let’s get you to a bed.”

  “Mmm.” Her head dropped to his shoulder and she fell against him, still riding the pleasure.

  “That was very educational,” she murmured.