A Duke is Never Enough

by Darcy Burke

  Papa’s eyes widened briefly, then the sullen mask came back into place. “No. As I said, none of this is your concern. Tell your mother I am making a different kind of investment—with the man you saw. It’s safer and is guaranteed not to fail.”

  Phoebe knew better than to believe that, but she also knew better than to argue with him any further. “All right. I’ll tell her that.” That would be enough to persuade her to come home. “Don’t you miss her, Papa?”

  He grunted, but she saw the softening in his expression. “It’s quiet here.”

  “I’m sure it is,” she said drolly. “My house, on the contrary, is not.”

  “Is that the real reason you live alone?”

  She noted the edge of humor in the question and was so glad to hear it, she thought she might giggle with joy. “I will never say.” She smiled at him and winked. “How about I ask Cook to make her favorite dessert? I’ll bring her over in time for dinner.”

  “You’ll stay too? For dinner, I mean.”

  She knew he wished she’d come home to stay—until she wed. But maybe, just maybe, he was beginning to accept the choices she’d made. For a brief moment, she wondered if Mama had told him about the Blackguard, but realized he would not have taken that well.

  “Of course. I’ll go speak with Cook.”

  He looked relieved, his shoulders dipping and his frame relaxing.

  Phoebe paused as she walked past him and lightly touched his arm. Then she continued on and went downstairs to speak with Cook.

  As she climbed into her coach a short while later, she fell back onto the seat with a smile. Her mother was likely going home. That meant Marcus could come that night. She’d dispatch a note to him as soon as she got home.

  She thought about the man with the cane and whether he could be Osborne. She’d ask Marcus about him that night. Phoebe could describe him—the man had been almost unnaturally tall.

  Assuming he was Osborne, she could try to help Marcus find him. Presumably, Papa was able to communicate with them. She could tell him she wanted to meet with the man about investing. If it was a safe and guaranteed investment, he would have no problem helping her. And if it wasn’t?

  She pursed her lips as she pondered how to help Marcus. Maybe there was something in her father’s study that would lead them to Drobbit or Osborne. She could surely create an opportunity to look… Yes, that seemed the best course of action. She only hoped she was able to find something that would be of use to Marcus.

  He’d be so thrilled. She could hardly wait to see him.

  Chapter 11

  Energy sparked through Marcus as he stepped into White’s. He was a rare visitor, but for the fourth night in a row, he found himself there once again. He sincerely hoped Sainsbury finally showed up.

  After Marcus accomplished his objective, he’d move on to something even better: going to Phoebe’s house.

  Her note that afternoon had been a welcome surprise. At last, her mother was returning home. He smiled thinking of what she’d written: You’re cordially invited to attend me at midnight for the purposes of ravishment.

  It was all he could do to focus on the matter at hand, but he was fairly motivated to his cause. He walked into the main room and looked about for his quarry. Sighting him near the center of the room, Marcus felt his pulse begin to drum. At fucking last.

  Marcus began to thread his way through the gentlemen gathered, moving slowly to exchange pleasantries, lest it become obvious he was on a single-minded mission. He was here to punish Sainsbury in any way possible. He’d call the blackguard out if it wouldn’t have further impacted Phoebe. What reason could Marcus give for demanding satisfaction aside from avenging her?

  It took everything Marcus had not to march right over to Sainsbury and knock him to the ground. Hit him so hard, the man wouldn’t ever be able to get up.

  For a moment, Marcus froze. The busy room around him slowed to nothing, and the sound disappeared. This wasn’t him. He didn’t let emotion rule the day. Ever.

  Everything started again, a whir of noise and light. He lingered near Sainsbury, close enough to hear him speak.

  “I wish she had something better to grip, if you know what I mean.” Sainsbury, a man of middling height with a small nose and pronounced chin, lifted his hands and mimicked grabbing a woman’s breasts to indicate precisely what he meant, to the sniggers of those around him. “Still, she’s extremely biddable, which is a far more important trait.” Sainsbury brushed back a lock of dark blond hair on the side of his head.

  This was met with nods in his small circle. Marcus’s hands fisted. He hung back and listened.

  “I agree,” another man said. “My wife is well-mannered, does exactly what she must.”

  “Are you going to propose, then?” This came from a second man, who looked at Sainsbury expectantly.

  “Not yet, but I’m considering it.” He swore under his breath, then laughed. “Now you’ll all spread rumors, and I’ll be dragged to the altar.”

  Marcus sniggered to himself. That was probably the only way he could get there. If someone was stupid enough to bother.

  “We would never say anything that could ensnare you in the parson’s trap,” the first man said, clapping his hand on Sainsbury’s shoulder. “Especially after the way you were woefully mistreated last time. You must be certain you choose wisely.”

  The urge to strike the man for simply referring to Phoebe as an unwise choice nearly overwhelmed Marcus. Dammit, this was not who he was. Perhaps he should go. She was waiting for him—or would be soon.

  “I was mistreated, but don’t worry. I got at least a little something out of her.” Sainsbury chuckled, and there was a disgusting glint of pride in his eye. Marcus longed to blacken it.

  This was his moment. He pretended to trip, falling into one of Sainsbury’s companions. This drew the attention of everyone in the immediate vicinity.

  “My apologies,” Marcus said, straightening. “Did I hear you discussing Sainsbury’s upcoming betrothal?” he asked loudly.

  “No,” Sainsbury said, his brows darting low over his narrowing eyes.

  “My mistake,” Marcus said with a flat smile. “Was it your seductive prowess, then?”

  One of the men snorted a laugh.

  Sainsbury’s thin lips twisted into a grin. “Yes, that was it.”

  Marcus adopted a pensive expression. “How peculiar. It’s my understanding you’re unable to perform at some of London’s finest brothels.”

  Sainsbury’s eyes darkened to nearly black as he glared at Marcus. “That’s a bloody lie, Ripley.”

  “How would you even know?” one of the other men asked, turning toward Marcus. He was very young and likely didn’t realize the stupidity of his question.

  Laughing, Marcus slapped the buck on his upper back. “You must not be aware of my reputation. I know plenty about London’s finest brothels. Who visits them and how often, as well as whether the guests are appreciated.” He winked at the young man. “I’m quite appreciated, and therefore, I hear a great many comparisons.”

  Around the inner circle, men guffawed. Someone nudged Marcus on the shoulder with a laugh.

  “So Sainsbury’s got a broken branch?” someone asked from somewhere behind Sainsbury.

  Marcus lifted a shoulder. “Seems to be the case from what I hear—from multiple sources, mind you.”

  Sainsbury’s lips turned white and practically disappeared into his too-long chin. “Damn you, Ripley. That’s a bloody lie. I ought to call you out.”

  Marcus took a step toward him and didn’t bother to mask the malice in his gaze. “Do what you must.” Please, do it. He held his breath.

  Rather than demand satisfaction, Sainsbury came forward and put his fist in Marcus’s cheek. Marcus lifted his arm in defense and turned his head, but Sainsbury was fast, and he connected with Marcus’s flesh, landing a blow near his eye.

  Spinning about, Marcus took the offensive and drove his fist into Sainsbury’s gut, th
en followed with a punch to his jaw. Sainsbury tried to deflect, but Marcus was faster.

  The men around them fell back, giving them a wide space. With a cry, Sainsbury flew at Marcus, wrapping his arms around his middle and taking him down to the floor.

  Marcus, larger and stronger, rolled so that he was atop Sainsbury. A bulky shape beneath the man’s coat pressed into Marcus’s leg. Was that a bloody pistol?

  Caught off guard, Marcus didn’t block Sainsbury’s blow. He planted his fist in Marcus’s side. Grunting, Marcus slid off him, and Sainsbury took the opportunity to land another hit on Marcus’s temple.

  Fury pulsed through Marcus. Baring his teeth, he pivoted and struck Sainsbury’s nose. A satisfying pop sounded, and blood gushed from the man’s face.

  Hands hauled Marcus to his feet.

  “Come on.” The voice was familiar. Marcus turned his head to see Anthony staring at him grimly. He steered Marcus through the throng and out of the club. “I’m not usually the one rescuing you.”

  Breathing heavily, Marcus fought to regain his equilibrium as they walked up St. James’s away from White’s. That hadn’t gone quite the way he’d planned, but he felt a sense of euphoric satisfaction. For a moment, he thought he might be fighting a duel come dawn. He was slightly disappointed that he wasn’t.

  “I’m glad you’re speaking to me again,” Marcus said. “Have I rescued you often?”

  “There was the masquerade, and yes at least a couple of other occasions where you removed me from a situation that could have deteriorated.”

  Yes, when he’d been too far in his cups. “Seems it’s your turn, then,” Marcus said.

  “I’m delighted to return the favor. Can I see you home?”

  “No. I do need a hack, however.”

  “I’ll fetch one.” Anthony did just that, then looked to Marcus. “Where are you going?”

  “Cavendish Square.”

  Anthony gave the direction to the driver, then climbed into the vehicle after Marcus.

  “Why are you coming?” Marcus asked.

  Anthony shrugged as he settled back against the seat. “I’m curious where you’re going. Not really, well, yes, I am. But that’s not why I’m here. What the hell was that all about?”

  “Sainsbury attacked me.”

  “Because you maligned his masculinity. Most men would have attacked you.”

  The places Sainsbury had hit him began to ache, particularly the first blow near his eye. He reached up and touched the spot, wincing slightly.

  “Careful, you’re bleeding.”

  He was? Damn. Phoebe would have to tend him again. That brought back memories of when they’d met and how enchanted he’d been by her even then.

  “It was just an odd thing for you to do,” Anthony said, drawing Marcus’s focus back to the altercation. “Actually, it’s odd that you were at White’s at all.”

  “You don’t usually go there either,” Marcus noted.

  “Not usually, but once in a while I do.” He appeared as though he might say something more, but looked out the window instead.

  White’s had been Anthony’s father’s club. Perhaps that was why he still went on occasion. Marcus wasn’t going to ask—they did a good job skirting any meaningful discussion of his parents.

  As they drove up Bond Street, Anthony said, “Sainsbury was bleeding far more than you. You must have broken his nose.”

  “I did. He deserved it.” And more.

  Anthony flicked him a provoking glance. “Does this have anything to do with Miss Phoebe Lennox, who was formerly betrothed to Sainsbury?” When Marcus didn’t answer, he added, “Who lives in Cavendish Square?”

  Marcus focused on the shops out the window as the hackney rolled along.

  “And with whom you drove to Richmond for a picnic?” Anthony asked.

  “Who says we did that?”

  “You really don’t pay attention to gossip, do you? Perhaps you should. Everyone knows you did that.”

  Everyone? Hell, if everyone knew that, they needed to be extra careful about their affair. Otherwise, everyone would know about that too. He fixed a demanding stare on Anthony. “Don’t tell anyone where I’m going tonight.”

  “I would never. Are you having an affair?”

  Marcus ignored the question and stared out the window.

  “I won’t say a word,” Anthony said. “I do hope you haven’t made an enemy of Sainsbury. He has a nasty temper. I saw him lose at cards a while back. It was ugly. He actually brandished a pistol before one of his chums dragged him away.”

  He’d had a pistol then too? The man was a menace. “He’s already made an enemy of me. And since I broke his nose, I expect he’ll steer quite clear of me.” The coach drew to a halt in Cavendish Square. “He will if he possesses even an ounce of intelligence.”

  “You may be overestimating him, sadly.”

  Marcus opened the door of the hackney. “I can take care of myself.” Once on the street, he looked up at Anthony. “Thank you for your discretion.”

  Anthony inclined his head, and Marcus closed the door. He heard the hackney drive away as he walked toward the mews that would lead him to the back of Phoebe’s house.

  As arranged, the door from the garden was not bolted. He slipped inside and closed it behind himself. He picked up a candle from atop a table and crept to the stairs, moving as silently as possible. He climbed up to the second floor and easily found her chamber, the door of which was slightly ajar, as he expected it to be.

  He stepped over the threshold, and she met him immediately, her face lighting up with a brilliant smile. It fell from her face the moment she came near.

  She drew in a breath and frowned, her gaze on his temple. “Why are you bleeding again?”

  Blood trickled from a small cut on his head. Or had trickled. It seemed mostly dry now.

  “Come and sit.” She took his hand and led him through the sitting room into her bedchamber.

  “This is very…pink,” he said, looking around.

  “It’s my favorite color.” She gently pushed him down into a chair near the hearth, where a few coals burned. Then she turned and went to the dresser that held a ewer of water and a basin. Grabbing a cloth from the top drawer, she wet it in the ewer and returned to him.

  “Whom did you fight with now?” she asked, cleaning the dried blood away.

  “No one. I hit my head getting into a hackney.”

  She drew back and stared at him for a moment as if she were trying to divine whether he spoke the truth. Saying nothing, she went back to tending his head.

  She pressed hard, and he winced. “It started to bleed again,” she said softly. “I’ll just hold it here for a bit.”

  “You’re an excellent nurse.”

  “You bleed too much.”

  He laughed. “Maybe I wound myself on purpose in order to receive your attention.”

  “That’s preposterous, so I shan’t even justify it with a response.” She pulled the cloth away and surveyed his head.

  “How does it look?” he asked.

  “Not nearly as awful as the first time.”

  “Excellent. Not that I had any intention of allowing it to inhibit me this evening.”

  She took the cloth back to the dresser and set it beside the basin. Turning, she watched him remove his boots and set them next to the chair. His stockings followed, and she was rewarded with his bare, rather large, feet. Her pink bedchamber grew suddenly smaller. And warmer.

  He stood and removed his coat, draping it over the back of the chair. Next, he unbuttoned his waistcoat, his gaze lingering on hers as he stripped the garment away and set it atop the coat. Lifting his hands, he untied his cravat, his long fingers moving with expert speed and precision. He pulled the silk off with a whoosh as it slid along the fabric of his shirt. It joined the garments on the chair.

  His shirt gapped open at the neck, exposing an alluring V of his upper chest. Phoebe licked her lower lip.

  “Do that again,
” he said. “Slower.”

  She did as he asked and watched his eyes narrow. Her body tingled with a heightened awareness, a hunger for the pleasure she knew he could give her.

  “You said you wanted me to remove my shirt this time. Would you like to do it?”

  She was before him in a trice. “Yes, please.” Pulling the hem from his breeches, she pushed the fabric up his abdomen, baring inch after inch of his hard flesh. Muscles rippled beneath his taut skin, and she dragged her thumb across one.

  He sucked in a breath and then tore his shirt the rest of the way off, tossing it carelessly to the floor. She lifted her hands to his chest and flattened her palms against him, exploring his heat and strength. She traced her fingers along his collarbones and down to the hollow of his throat. Continuing downward, she swiped her fingertips over his nipples, feeling them harden beneath her touch. Feeling bold, she leaned forward and licked one, earning a gasp from him.

  With a smile, she pulled him away from the chair so she could walk around him and look at his back. His wide shoulders pitched down to sharp blades, then tapered to his waist. Below that, she admired the curve of his backside. So much so that she caressed him before continuing her orbit.

  “Like what you see?” he asked, his voice warm and deep.

  “Yes. Very much.”

  “My turn,” he said, reaching for the tie to her dressing gown.

  Phoebe tried not to blush. But he was about to see—

  “You aren’t wearing anything.”

  The dressing gown opened, and no, she wasn’t wearing anything beneath it. “I didn’t think there was a point.”

  He pushed the garment off her shoulders and stared at her as it slipped to the floor, pooling around her feet. His dark blue gaze feasted on her, heating her along with the warmth of the hearth.

  He reached for her, his fingers tangling in her hair, which she’d left loose around her shoulders. He claimed her mouth with a searing kiss. Desire leapt within her. She hadn’t realized how much she’d longed for this moment, how desperately she’d craved his touch.