The Duke of a Thousand Desires

by Jillian Hunter

  “You aren’t the shrinking sort yourself. What manner of discipline do you have in mind?”

  He fitted his groin to her backside. His penis stood erect; the pressure branded her skin. Her body tingled as she anticipated another round of wicked bliss. He whispered, “I’ll show you once we know each other a little better.”

  “You’re one of my oldest friends.”

  His dark voice caressed her nape, sending another tingle down her back. “I was referring to a more basic knowledge.”

  “Of course you were,” she said with a laugh of resignation. His hand slid down her spine to the seam of her bottom, dipping between her thighs to her cleft. She inhaled and slowly closed her eyes.

  Her body softened, opened, acutely sensitive. His fingers parted her engorged folds and splayed, intensifying the ache that rendered her his captive. She was tender inside, and still her body clenched in response, ravenous for more of his masterful touch.

  Who had she become? She was so willing to oblige his wants that she could not have been the same woman who’d only hours ago stood at the altar. Simon, however, was flagrant in what he needed. No trace of his earlier reticence was evident. He was all dark arrogance now.

  He licked a path from her nape, down her spine, and to the rise of her bottom, murmuring, “I want to take a bite of you.”

  “You wouldn’t.” She gasped as he held her around the waist and sank his teeth lightly into her rump. “I feel as if a fox just nipped my bum.”

  “Delicious. Did you know you have two adorable dimples on your arse?”

  “Dimples are the mark of the devil.”

  “The devil cannot have you. As of today you are the property of a duke.”

  “Does it follow that you belong to me?”

  “Down to the bone,” he said without hesitation. “Deeper even.”

  “And I can make similar claims on you?” she asked, turning her head slightly to his, her gaze narrowing in speculation.

  A smile ghosted his face. “At any hour of the day or night. I await your pleasure. Claim me, duchess.”

  Several moments elapsed. He fell silent, his fingers slightly embedded in her folds. She throbbed inside where he had filled her. “Simon?” she asked at length, drawing onto her back to regard him. “What are you doing?”

  “Thinking,” he said.

  “About?”

  “You,” he answered, covering her with his body. “Us. This.”

  She didn’t need to ask whether he was at least for the moment content. The tone of his voice allayed her doubts. With only a smile to forewarn her of his intentions, he eased his fingers from her sheathe, parted her thighs, and pushed slowly inside her.

  “This?” She swallowed a cry as he ground into her. She felt unbearably swollen as her muscles closed around his shaft. She felt a sweet pain, an urge to draw him deeper. “The act of sex itself?”

  “No,” he said. “The act of us together. Body and soul as one.” His back flexed; his face darkened in raw desire. His answer sent exhilaration through her blood. “Marriage to you is all that I have needed, and apparently I need it more than I could admit.”

  22

  He was sitting at his desk when she woke up several hours later. Shirtless, barefoot, dressed only in black trousers, he played solitaire in the muted morning light. She studied his sharp profile in silence.

  How cruel of him to have introduced her to carnality and then sit down to a game of cards while she slept off the excess of their wedding night.

  “I envy your ability to concentrate,” she said from the bed, swallowing to ease the tightness in her throat.

  He swiveled around from his desk. His eyes made a long assessment of her person, or what he could perceive of it behind her screen of bedding. She was not certain he’d left her with any secrets to hide. He owned her after last night.

  “I’ve lost a dozen times in a row,” he admitted.

  “I’ve brought you bad luck?”

  He tossed down his cards, stood, and came to the side of the bed. “I’ve won what matters -- do you always look this appealing in the morning?”

  “You are an engaging sight yourself, shaven and half-attired. I do need a bath.”

  He hovered between the bedposts. “Why? I find your ravished appearance more arousing than I should confess. I’ve seen you in worse condition.”

  “Do not remind me.”

  His mouth thinned into a smile. In a certain light he could look cold, even detached. But then she had always struggled to guess what he was thinking. Did he rue his choice? Did she?

  Her body felt no regret.

  Her heart felt blissfully free.

  “You aren’t ashamed of what we did, are you?” he asked, lowering himself to the bed.

  “No.” His nearness discomposed her senses. She ran her hands through her tangled black curls. “I wonder how Isolde fared in her country escapade. I could use her help right now. She has guided me through more than a few misadventures that resulted in untidy hair.”

  “But right now you’re all mine.” He settled his shoulders back against the carved mahogany headboard. “I’m happy to serve in her place. Show me where to begin.”

  “I’ll comb it in a while. Don’t you try.”

  She looked away to hide her thoughts. He was too close, too potently male, too self-possessed to contend with first thing in the morning. Especially this morning. She felt exposed, muddled, and yet somehow glorious. “How did this happen to us, Simon?”

  He shook his head in apology. “We have a long time to work it out. But I couldn’t have imagined any better start than last night. Could you?”

  She sighed. “I could never have imagined most of what went on in this room.”

  “Never? Not even once when we were at the castle?”

  She shook her head slowly. “Did you?”

  “Not if you didn’t,” he said prudently.

  She grinned. “Did you?”

  “I’ve said enough.”

  “You didn’t say anything.”

  He turned onto his side, drawing her against him until she heard the beat of his heart. “It was good, wasn’t it?”

  “You know the answer to that,” she said, and blushed again. “You look so refreshed that I am envious. I feel wilted in comparison. I insist on a bath.”

  “As you command.”

  He had hastily washed in his closet and could wait for breakfast. He didn’t crave anything but her. Indeed, he was insatiable and had decided during the night that she had become as essential to him as food and air. Which did not justify consuming the whole of her at one time. In the throes of such intense longing, he had to remind himself again he could not afford to let marriage lull him into a disregard for caution.

  He would continue his inquiry into Susannah’s death. But now Ravenna’s keeping took priority. He was coming to understand how easily a man could damage a woman’s heart, her body, her psyche, even a woman as fearless and intuitive as his duchess. The law gave a husband permission to control every aspect of his wife’s existence.

  The servants brought hot water and towels to the bedchamber, built up the fire and quietly left like friendly ghosts.

  He sat on a footstool while Ravenna soaked in a steaming bath, her hair rinsed, combed, and caught back in a knot. His soapy hands slid over her with studied gentleness. This was a ritual he vowed would become habit.

  “You’re making me feel like a goddess,” she mused.

  “Which to me you are.” The residue of lilac-scented soap outlined his forearms and chest. “I feel like an attendant in a bathing rite.” He dipped the sponge between her breasts, caressing the pointed tips until her head dropped back in enjoyment.

  “What do you know about ceremonial bathing?” she asked, half-afraid of what he would answer.

  “Only what one of my tutors taught me. The professor was enthralled with Greek mythology. He once showed my brother and me drawings of ancient Greek maidens who were bathed before marriage
in a ritual to please the goddess Artemis. He was a lusty old sod now that I think about it.”

  “I’m bathing after the fact. Moreover, I don’t have the least interest in placating any mythical deities.”

  His gaze followed the descent of his hand to the apex of her thighs. Her lips parted in anticipation. “You have other interests?” he asked, slowly looking up.

  “Sufficient unto this day is pleasing the mortal man who is moving that sponge where it doesn’t belong.”

  “Hush for a minute,” he said, reaching back to the washstand. “Put this cloth over your eyes.”

  “Whatever for?” she asked suspiciously.

  “You are relaxed. It’s a good time to reflect. Go back in your mind to the night in the garden.”

  She frowned. “Attempted murder isn’t as pleasant a topic as being compared to a goddess. I won’t be relaxed for long.”

  “You were standing under the walnut tree,” he said. “A man dropped at your feet. What was he wearing? Did he speak to you? Can you see a face?”

  “Yes,” she replied at length. “The face is yours. It is stark and handsome. And if you expect me to remember anything of that night, I shall not do so in the aftermath of having been reduced to a hedonistic state. Is it surprising that after you laid siege to my every sense, I have difficulty recollecting anything more complicated than my own name?”

  “You do not have any difficulty expressing your thoughts.”

  She pushed off the cloth to open her eyes and regard him in reproach. “I am bereft of any modesty. Allow me a short period of mourning to grieve the maidenly virtue that I have lost.”

  He smoothed the sponge over her belly. “Modesty, as I should have explained, is a garment that we shall shed as we enter our private lives. When we are alone, we please no one but each other. And we do not necessarily have to do so in a manner that is considered polite.”

  Isolde bent over the man curled under a blanket in the narrow bed. His light snores gave her pause. He looked exhausted, albeit dashing in the duke’s cambric shirt, snug trousers, his dark hair in a tangle. The scallywag deserved his sleep.

  Should her concerns wait until daylight? She decided not. Murderers did not linger about waiting to be caught at one’s convenience. She must scour her heart of consideration and remember lives could be at risk. Hers and his. Lady R and the gallant duke.

  She reached down tentatively to the sinewy arm that covered one side of his face. He awakened and instantly swung upright in a defensive reflex, his fist raised to her chin. His unfocused eyes apparently perceived her as an enemy.

  “Mr. Timpkins!” She swung back like a professional boxer as his knuckles grazed the hollow between her throat and jaw. “Calm yourself. It is me.”

  “Good God. Oh, hell, miss. I almost planted you a facer. What time of the day is it? I didn’t hit you, did I? I did. Here, let me have a look.”

  “You did no damage by good fortune.” She retreated from the bed, concealing a reluctant smile. “It’s turning light. I apologize for this intrusion, but the head maid burst into my room a minute ago insisting that she’d sighted a strange man beneath her window.”

  He scratched his shoulder. “Well, it wasn’t me. I’ve been out cold.”

  “I know that,” she said in frustration, stepping over the hat on the floor. “I thought you should be alerted.”

  “And you were right to rouse me.”

  He threw off the blanket and stamped his booted feet to the floor. Thank goodness he’d not undressed for bed. “You will wrinkle the duke’s shirt and breeches sleeping in them like that,” she said softly.

  “I beg your pardon, but I nodded off the minute I sat on the bed. You wouldn’t want to come upon me as I sleep most nights.”

  “I’ll remember that in future.”

  He rose with a great yawn and grabbed the frock coat slung over the bed. She eyed his figure covertly. He might be brash, but he looked muscular, threatening even. She pitied the intruder who crossed his path, and the woman -- great heavens, what a thought. At a time like this.

  “I patrolled the grounds not an hour ago,” he said, fortunately oblivious to her thoughts. “The undergardener is supposed to be on duty now. Young fool is probably drinking in the delphiniums.”

  “The maid’s window faces the family vaults.”

  He thrust his arms into the coat. “I know where her room is.”

  “That doesn’t surprise me,” she murmured, lifting her gaze primly to the wall.

  “What was that? I couldn’t hear you.”

  “One says ‘Excuse me.’”

  “For what?”

  She gave a sigh. “In the improbable event that we have been mistaken for the duke and duchess and were followed from London, you are a target. Especially in that coat. It gives you a lordly air. You might want to exercise caution as you proceed.”

  The compliment went over his head. He strode from the room into the hall. “I hope you don’t expect me to change.”

  “You should at least put a hat on that hair,” the head maid said from outside the door where she anxiously awaited Isolde. “His grace would not be caught in his crypt looking like a scarecrow.”

  Isolde frowned at this vanity. “This strange man could have galloped to the coast by now. Mr. Timpkins does not need to worry about his hair when our lives might be in jeopardy. You are armed, aren’t you, sir?”

  “Always.” He patted his pocket and headed down the stairs. “Stay inside, ladies. And save a place for me at the breakfast table. I’ve a feeling this will be a fruitless chase, but one is obliged to make certain.”

  23

  It was the morning after the wedding. Rhys and Heath had settled in for a long wait in the drawing room of Simon’s residence. The two men had arrived separately, on foot, and met on the pavement. Only after Heath had made a detailed study of the premises had they slipped through the back passage from the stables into the house. The interior had an abandoned sense, but for the aroma of fresh pastry that wafted from the servants’ hall.

  “I assume we are safe from spies,” Rhys remarked wryly as the butler showed them to the ground floor.

  “Spies, dissidents, assassins.” Heath circled the drawing-room carpet. “Still, if I were you, I might check behind the sofa in case a debutante is lying in wait. I understand you are a popular gentleman about town these days. Eligible rakes are all the rage.”

  The exchange had taken place two hours ago. A footman served tea with cheese and biscuits. Then a light luncheon of small beer and cold roast turkey. Coffee and pound cake. Sherry and more biscuits. Heath unbuttoned his vest.

  “It’ll be dinner before you know it,” Rhys said, stretching his legs out spider-fashion over a footstool. “We shouldn’t have come. Not the day after they were wed. It’s damn gauche. I feel like a poacher waiting here in the dark. We weren’t invited.”

  Heath scribbled something in the small journal balanced on the arm of his chair. “I promised Simon I would personally deliver any news to him that I receive. When I receive it.”

  “How can you see to write? It’s like a closet with all the curtains drawn.”

  “Months of practice.” Heath glanced up blankly. “Writing in a cave, in dirt, the back of a wagon, a church cellar.”

  “God. I wonder that you kept your sanity.”

  “God, indeed,” Heath said. “I had a Bible. I challenged myself to translate it into five languages. It kept me occupied, and sane, although I am still working on the Portuguese version.” He tucked his journal into his coat pocket and came to his feet as Simon appeared in the doorway. “Well, here’s our wayward duke now. We aren’t intruding on your privacy, are we?”

  “Do you even need to ask?” Simon entered the room and crossed to the massive sideboard to pour himself a drink. “Have you been fed and watered?”

  “To the gills,” Rhys said. “How is my sister?”

  Simon raised his glass. “Splendid.”

  “It’s not like her
to stay in bed all day.”

  Simon choked down a swallow of sherry. “She didn’t sleep much the night before the ceremony. Supposedly she stayed up chatting about her wedding trousseau or something of that nature. Then there was all the excitement of our escape.” He coughed to clear his voice. “Is that what you came here to find out? She is still very much alive.”

  Rhys crossed his arms. “Aunt Glynnis asked me to remind her to eat. My sister forgets her meals when she becomes overexcited.”

  Simon merely nodded. Ravenna had consumed only three Spanish oranges, a half-bottle of champagne, and a few sips of wine since last night. And she had been overexcited. So had he. He chose not to confess this intimate tidbit to his brother-in-law. He respected Rhys’ protective inclinations, but he was Ravenna’s husband and gladly assumed the responsibility of her.

  He would also like to return to their bed. The memory of sinking inside her sweet body filled him with an impatience he battled to hide. He was not in a mood for a man-to-man. He turned to Heath. “Do I understand you have some information for me?”

  “I believe so,” Heath said. “It came from one of Harriet’s criminal relatives.”

  Simon didn’t bother to question the reliability of Heath’s sources in the London underworld. Ravenna’s sister-in-law, the former Harriet Gardner, once known as the “Duchess of St. Giles,” had been born and raised in the lawless rookeries. Some of Harriet’s family and former cohorts still lived in the slums. It was logical for Heath to maintain connections in the metropolis’s dark pulse.

  “To the point,” Heath said, peering through the curtains to the garden. “It appears that no one known in the stews was paid to kill you.”

  Simon put his glass on the sideboard. “That narrows the search to -- almost anyone.”

  Heath smiled in grim accord. “The guests at Grayson’s party have all been quietly investigated. None of them seem particularly motivated to murder you, either, but several ladies expressed disappointment that you’ve been snatched off the marriage mart.”

  Simon lifted his brow. “No remarks about Ravenna?”