Regarding the Duke

by Grace Callaway

  His kiss was warm and firm, dissolving her doubts in a wave of honeyed heat.

  The taste of him was foreign, deliciously male. He kissed the way he did everything else: with absolute authority…and it made her relax into the new, exciting sensations. The prickling of her skin, throbbing of her pulse points. The flutters and trembles deep inside her. Most of all, the dizzying, ground-shifting pleasure. When her knees wobbled, he caught her easily against him.

  Because he was Adam Garrity. He wouldn’t let her fall. In his arms, she felt a security she’d never felt before.

  Held against his virile strength, she shivered with delight. Everything about him felt so right. When his tongue swept across her lips, it was only natural to part them. To let him in where no man had been before. He coaxed her to mate her tongue with his, and the sinuous, slick dance caused the tips of her breasts to tingle, a strange, molten feeling awakening at her core. A sudden gush of wetness between her thighs made her squirm—and she felt something very hard and very large poking into her midsection.

  What does Mr. Garrity have in his pocket? came the nonsensical thought.

  Abruptly, he ended the kiss. He exhaled sharply, and Gabby was fascinated by the tinge of color on his slashing cheekbones. A strand of ebony hair had strayed from the rest and now dangled over his noble forehead. The tiny imperfection made him look even more handsome.

  He shoved the hair into place. “Bloody hell.”

  His muttered words and the way he looked at her—as if she were some sort of odd creature he’d never encountered before—pierced her pleasant state. Icy reality crashed over her. Had she kissed him incorrectly? Had she disappointed him?

  “Did I…do something wrong?” she said haltingly.

  His gaze softened. He lifted his hand, rubbing his thumb briefly over her bottom lip, which felt puffy from his kiss. Then his brows drew together, and he took his hand away.

  “On the contrary, Miss Billings, you did everything right. Too right.” He cleared his throat. “I hope your wish is not for a long engagement.”

  As his meaning sank in, she was swamped with sudden joy. He wants to marry me. I’m going to be Mrs. Adam Garrity!

  “I will leave that up to you and Papa,” she said shyly.

  “Excellent. And I must commend you on your timing, my dear,” he murmured. “Your setting up this rendezvous saved me the trouble of trying to get you alone.”

  She suddenly remembered why she’d sent for him in the first place.

  “Mr. Murray,” she blurted.

  The warmth in Mr. Garrity’s gaze flickered out. He regarded her with eyes as flat and black as coal. “What about him?”

  “That’s why I wanted to see you. Not the only reason why,” she added hastily, seeing his darkening countenance. “The others were saying that you’ve called in his debt.”

  “This is a business matter. And I fail to see why you are so concerned for Murray.”

  “He’s a friend—or, at least, a friend of a friend. He’s a chum of Miss Violet Kent,” she explained, “and Violet has been so good to me. In fact, I’m indebted to all the Kents, who took me under their wing during my seasons.”

  “I am acquainted with the Kents.” Mr. Garrity’s tone was rather dry.

  “Then you know that they are good people. And once Violet weds Viscount Carlisle, Mr. Murray will practically be one of their family. Couldn’t you extend your generosity to him just a while longer? Give him a chance to make good on his debts?” she pleaded.

  Mr. Garrity gave her a brooding look. “You do understand that I don’t run a charity.”

  “But these are exigent circumstances. And I know you are a kind and honorable man. That’s what I told the Kents.”

  “Did you indeed?” He smiled without humor. “And what did they say to that?”

  Garrity is one of the most dangerous and ruthless men in all of London.

  “I, um, can’t recall exactly. But won’t you please, this once, grant Mr. Murray a boon…for my sake?”

  “You are asking me to do this for you,” he said without inflection.

  She wondered if she’d gone too far. But she couldn’t let her friends down, not after all they’d done for her. Squaring her shoulders, she said, “Yes.”

  “I’ll speak with Murray. Work something out with him.”

  “You will? Oh, Mr. Garrity, you are ever so good and noble and kind—”

  “On one condition.”

  “Anything,” she said happily.

  “From here on in, when we are in private, you will call me Adam.”

  “Oh, all right…Adam,” she said shyly. “And, um, do call me Gabby. Everyone does.”

  “Gabriella.” His possessive rasp made her ordinary name sound beautiful and exotic. “I will speak to your father today, if that suits.”

  “Yes, please,” she said over her thumping heart.

  His eyes burned with that dark fire, and she knew he was going to kiss her again. She trembled in anticipation. As his mouth claimed hers, her last thought was, Adam Garrity, you’re going to be my husband…my everything.

  3

  Present Day, 1838

  Seated at his desk, Adam Garrity listened as Wickham Murray, his right-hand man, relayed the preparations for the meeting that was to take place that evening. “Meeting” was a euphemism: theirs would be a rescue mission, one that entailed doing battle with Erasmus Sweeney, one of London’s newest and deadliest cutthroats.

  Adam wasn’t worried. Not only had he been around longer than Sweeney, he was deadlier.

  A man couldn’t rise from the stews and end up where he was without being ruthless. Moneylending wasn’t an easy business but it was a profitable one, when done properly.

  Adam did it properly.

  As Murray discussed the firepower they’d be bringing, Adam gazed around his study. Surveying the fruits of his labor gave him a sense of gratification. When he’d had this townhouse built, his instructions to the architect reflected his general philosophy in life.

  I want the best.

  Adam’s study was as large as many ballrooms, the walls covered with polished oak boiserie panels imported from Paris and hung with gilt-framed mirrors and landscapes. Three large Aubusson carpets padded the journey across the parqueted floors. In addition to the desk, there were two seating areas: one by the marble fireplace, above which hung portraits of Adam’s wife and two children, Fiona and Maximillian, and the other by the tall bookcases that lined the opposite end of the room.

  To the right of Adam’s desk, immaculate windows soared from floor to ceiling. He’d insisted on having abundant light. He’d lived too many years in the dark.

  Although he had properties flung across England and beyond, this London house was the jewel in his crown. The seat of his power that came from decades of sweat, blood, and merciless discipline. Anyone who dared to threaten his authority had better beware…Sweeney included.

  “I approve the plans, Murray,” he said dismissively. “That will do.”

  “You’re certain you wish to interfere in this business with Sweeney?” Sitting on the other side of the desk, Wickham Murray lifted his brows. “It is not our fight, after all.”

  It was a measure of Adam’s respect for the other that he allowed the questioning of his command. Murray had come a long way since he’d begun working for Adam eight years ago. Back then, the younger man had been a spoiled fop who’d owed Adam a great deal of money. Ten thousand pounds, to be exact (when it came to money and retribution, Adam was always exact).

  When Murray couldn’t cough up the sum, Adam had been persuaded to let the other work off the debt. Murray had surprised him by proving to be more than a feckless Adonis. With his gentleman’s comportment and blue-blooded connections, he’d helped to spread Adam’s empire into the highest echelons.

  As any cent-per-cent worth his salt knew, no one was as short of the ready as the aristocracy. Ladies hiding gambling debts from their husbands, lords concealing expensive mistresse
s from their wives…the ton was a moneylender’s oyster. Murray, with his gilded brown hair, raffish good looks, and effortless charm, had been particularly successful with the gentler sex. The interest on the vowels that Murray had collected from desperate matrons alone had paid off his debt within two years.

  Being a fair man, Adam had released the other from his employ; Murray had stated his desire to stay on. Adam had renegotiated the terms to give the other a stake in whatever business he brought in. The arrangement had lined both men’s pockets. Murray had brains as well as brawn and, unlike most gents, wasn’t afraid to dirty his hands.

  Fine by Adam. Having lived the first half of his three-and-forty years in squalor, he preferred to delegate unpleasantness. From guards to footmen to maids, he retained a legion of employees to keep his life—and that of his family—untroubled and running smoothly.

  “Sweeney intends to cut me out of my share,” he said. “He’s shown disloyalty to Tessa Kent and therefore to the order of the underworld. Such disrespect cannot be tolerated.”

  Murray’s hazel eyes narrowed, conveying his understanding. While outsiders might view the underclass of London as unruly and unorganized, anyone who made his living in this world knew better. The hierarchy here was as steadfast as that found in the finest London drawing rooms. Perhaps more so, for it was the only thing that kept chaos at bay.

  Known as the “King of the Underworld,” cutthroat Bartholomew Black ruled London’s darkest streets, enforcing its rules and administering justice when necessary. He was aided by powerful “dukes” who oversaw specific territories; Adam was known as the “Duke of the City” since his power flourished in the financial center of London. Tessa Kent was the “Duchess of Covent Garden” and, moreover, she was Black’s beloved granddaughter.

  Like Adam, Erasmus Sweeney ran a usury business. Adam had no liking for the uncouth bastard, but they had a common interest: the Duke of Ranelagh and Somerville owed them each fifty thousand pounds. His Grace, also known by the moniker “Ransom,” had somehow gained the favor of Tessa Kent, who’d brokered an armistice, allowing the duke extra time to recover a treasure that would pay off his debts. Adam had agreed to the deal because it was always wise to curry Mrs. Kent’s favor and that of her grandfather’s. The extra twenty percent interest he’d be getting was naught to sneeze at either.

  Sweeney, too, had agreed to the temporary truce. Then he’d reneged. He’d violated the agreement by kidnapping Ransom’s young daughter and demanding the entirety of the duke’s newly discovered fortune—including Adam’s portion—in exchange.

  If there was anything Adam despised, it was a man who lacked honor.

  His distaste must have showed, for Murray rose, muttering, “I’ll make the necessary arrangements for tonight.”

  A soft knock on the door prevented Adam’s reply. His wife entered, and as he rose to greet her, he couldn’t stop the familiar stir of warmth inside him. Gabriella wasn’t beautiful in a conventional sense: her unabashedly red hair, golden freckles, and generous curves didn’t feature on current fashion plates. Yet the moment Adam had laid eyes on her, he’d been struck by a stunning sense of recognition.

  He was possessed of a singular memory (a handy ability for he never forgot a debt) and could recall the past with vivid clarity. At that first meeting with Gabriella, he’d flashed back to his earliest years. He’d been five at the time, living in Florence with his mama, and she’d had the rare day off from performing. As an artist, she was a lover of beauty, and she’d taken him to a grand gallery called the Uffizi. In that palace of treasures, he’d seen a painting of a woman so beautiful that it had stopped his boy’s breath, his knees growing weak.

  I see you’ve lost your heart to Venus, Mama had said with a smile. You have good taste, Anthony. This is the work of the great painter Titian.

  He’d never been back to Italy, hadn’t seen the painting again. But he saw the Venus of his memory every day in his wife. The same Titian hair and glowing lush curves, the same sweetly expressive eyes.

  There were differences, of course, the main one being that Gabriella lacked the goddess’s come-hither confidence. To him, this was a boon. His past had taught him the perils of loving a woman who was too aware of her own charms.

  For an instant, he saw Jessabelle on the last night of her short life, tossed like another piece of rubbish in the alley behind the pleasure house. He saw the surprise on her angel’s face as she lay there, the vermin gathering around her, drawn to the dark stain soaking through her tawdry dress. Crystals had glittered like tears on the golden demi-mask still dangling from her neck.

  I’m sorry, luv. I was lonely… Her fading whisper. Forgive me?

  He’d forgiven her but not himself. She’d died because he’d failed to protect her from the recklessness and excesses that were part of her nature. Because he’d asked her to marry him despite knowing that his ambition was a demanding mistress. Because he’d forgotten the lesson he’d learned at age nine:

  A powerful man isn’t blinded by sentiment.

  Love was a distraction he couldn’t afford, not while he still had his vengeance to achieve. Not only did love weaken a man, he couldn’t see any benefit to the emotion: all it resulted in was pain. His mama had loved a man who’d abandoned her and tried to murder their son. Adam had loved a woman who’d betrayed him, her death leaving him with nothing but guilt and regret. Hell, even his mama’s love for him had led to suffering; in her naïve efforts to save him, she’d delivered him into the hands of the devil.

  No, love, that fickle, deceptive emotion, couldn’t be trusted. He’d learned from his past, adapted accordingly. Self-control and cool-headed logic had led to his success in business, and he’d applied those principles to relationships as well. He felt a surge of satisfaction as his wife’s sky-blue eyes immediately searched him out. He’d made a rational, intelligent decision marrying her eight years ago.

  As he’d made his views on love clear from the outset, there were no false expectations to muddy their union. Gabriella gave him no trouble for she was sweetly biddable and eager to please. She was the opposite of a flirt: a wallflower who was shy, insecure, and a bit nervy. She tended to chatter when she was anxious. And when she was not anxious. She was loyal, trusting, and tenderhearted, willing to see the best in others while being overly attuned to her own flaws.

  She was also endearingly unaware of her own charms. She favored frocks that hid more than they revealed, and that was fine by him. He didn’t need other men to get an eyeful of what lay beneath those frills and flounces: those pleasures were for him alone.

  Moreover, there were pragmatic benefits to his marriage. Gabriella’s father, Curtis Billings, was a banker known equally for his discretion and flexible morality. He was as rich as Croesus, and Gabriella was his only child and heir. Yet money hadn’t been the reason why Adam offered for her. Billings Bank had another, more vital role to play. Once his father-in-law was dead—and given the man’s ailing health, the day wasn’t far off—Adam would have the means to execute the last piece of his long-awaited vengeance.

  Numquam obliviscar. Never forget. An eye for an eye.

  One by one, Adam had served retribution to those who’d wronged him. Only his ultimate enemy remained: Anthony De Villier. Up until now, De Villier’s wealth and success had made him difficult to destroy, but the tides had finally started to turn.

  In recent years, De Villier had become obsessed with the railways. Not only had he waged expensive campaigns to gain the necessary Acts of Parliament to build routes from London to various cities, he’d claimed that his company, Grand London National Railway or GLNR, would soon be unveiling the world’s fastest locomotive. The steam-powered engine that would revolutionize travel had proved to be a brilliant selling point: the price of De Villier’s stock was soaring. From aristocrats to bricklayers, everyone was investing in GLNR.

  Yet Adam had inside information. According to his well-placed source, De Villier’s engineers couldn’t produce the
promised locomotive. Between constructing the railways and the development of the much-touted engine, De Villier had been bleeding money, taking out huge loans in secret, his debts beginning to outpace even his considerable wealth. Soon, his Achilles’ heel would be exposed…and Adam would deal the killing blow.

  He could have ended De Villier with a bullet, but that wouldn’t satisfy his honor. He needed to take away the only things the bastard cared about: the wealth and social standing for which De Villier had abandoned his wife and sent his son to perdition. Then, and only then, would Adam have the peace he’d been searching for all these years.

  “Pardon my interruption, sirs.” Gabriella’s breathless voice returned him to the moment.

  “You are always a welcome and charming distraction from work, Mrs. Garrity,” Murray said with a bow.

  When Gabriella blushed, brushing her hands over the abundant skirts of her blue gown, Adam felt his jaw clench. He forced the muscles to relax. He knew Murray meant nothing by it; flirting was second nature for the rake. All the same, Adam didn’t like anyone dallying with what was his.

  Gabriella was most definitely his.

  He crossed over to her, taking her hand. Her gaze flew to his, and primal satisfaction filled him as her pupils darkened, her plump, naturally red lips parting as he brushed a kiss over her soft knuckles. Her fingers trembled in his grasp…the way she trembled in his bed.

  Although Adam had made it a habit not to be taken by surprise, he had to admit that his wife’s physical effect on him had been most unexpected. After all, he prided himself on self-discipline and didn’t believe in indulging in excessive appetites of any sort. A man ought to be in control of his impulses, not the other way around. Yet from the start, sweet, guileless Gabriella had made him inexplicably…randy.

  At first, he’d chalked it up to the novelty of having a wife at his beck and call. But his carnal desire for her had only grown stronger and more distracting over time. Right now, for instance, his brain sizzled with the notion of bending her over his desk. Of tossing up her fussy skirts and exposing her delightfully rounded bottom, which might be too generous for fashion but was absolute perfection for bedding. As, indeed, was the rest of her.