Daring a Duke

by Claudia Dain

  Twenty-four

  It took Lord Ruan very little time, but some small effort to find Sophia within the rooms of Hyde House. She was not in the main reception rooms, nor in the stair hall, where she had so efficiently cut his ballocks off him for the insult of searching into her past. He could well understand the sentiment. He had no wish to have anyone, for good or ill intent, look too closely into his past either.

  It had been a serious misstep. Anyone else might have decided to avoid anything remotely like it again, but having stomped into the tangled wood, his only recourse was to delve deeper in an effort to find the path that led the way out. Or that’s how it seemed to him. Clearly Sophia understood him well enough to anticipate that was exactly what he would do.

  She was a most wary and most bewildering adversary.

  Adversary she surely was, at least in this dance they danced between them. He had never been so engaged, so intrigued by a woman like this before. He scarcely knew what he was doing, only that he was nearly compelled to keep doing it. He had to know her, to know more about her, to plumb her every thought and emotion, to learn the scent of her skin and memorize the taste of her in his mouth.

  He knew without question that she would reject such knowing as the worst sort of assault, an invasion she would fight against, offering no quarter.

  Was there ever such a woman?

  The more she eluded him, the more determined he became to find her. The more determined he grew, the more she withdrew, laughing at him as he stumbled all over himself, lost in the dark wild wood that was Sophia.

  He would not, could not think of what her life had been, of how she had been used so callously. Not now. Not just before he found her. If she saw pity or anguish or sorrow in his eyes, she would slice the heart from his ribs for the insult. He knew that now. And he now knew why.

  She had survived. In three lands, this lone girl had fought for her survival and won.

  He was hard-pressed not to stand in awe, but that would not do. She would not want that from him either. He could not think of anything that she would want from him at the moment, he had stumbled so thoroughly, but something would come to him. He was sure of it. He had to be.

  He found her by the sound of her voice, the softly amused tremor of it coming through the closed door between the dressing room and the gold bedchamber. A man’s voice retreating, the sound of a door opening, and then Ruan was through the door to the gold bedchamber, Sophia turning, a coiled black curl sweeping over one shoulder to catch in spider web strands across the white muslin of her gown, her long gold earrings gleaming in the red-tinged light of the setting sun.

  She did not look even slightly surprised to see him.

  Nor did she look enraged. Of course, neither did she look delighted.

  “Talked to Lord Quinton already, have you, Lord Ruan?” she asked softly. “Did you find yourself soundly entertained? When a man wants to find out more about a woman, let him drink deeply of that brew, I say. Perhaps he then shall choke upon the draught. But how did it all go down, darling? Smooth as buttered rum? Or have you been poisoned?”

  “Did you want to poison me, Sophia? Did you think I would ever turn away from you?” he asked, closing the distance between them. She watched him come, her dark eyes shining with grim amusement.

  “I had hoped for something of the sort, I simply must confess,” she said.

  “I don’t believe you,” he said. Not because he didn’t, but because he wouldn’t.

  The light was very dim, the room sparkling in gilt glimmers, the bed behind her, the windows darkening and turning to black mirrors to her left. He came on. He couldn’t stop. He knew then that he’d never be able to stop.

  “How very like a man,” she said, her smile erased, her eyes not leaving his. “I tell you what I think and what I want, and you don’t believe me. What will it take to convince you, darling Ruan? A blade to the throat? I’m prepared. Are you?”

  “Yes,” he whispered, the distance between them erased, his coat brushing the tips of her breasts. She did not move away. Neither would he. “Do what you will, and so will I.”

  Where was that blasted fan? Not clutched in her hands, so where was her blade?

  His hands slipped around her waist, pulling her hips tightly against his own, the ridge of his arousal pressing into the softness of her belly. Her hands came up between them, her palms against his chest, yet she did not force him away.

  He had not intended this. He had thought to charm her anger with clever words, to start the dance they always danced between them, the cut and thrust of spoken seduction luring her defenses down. He had not meant to touch her. He had not thought to cast words down like broken glass, both sparkling and useless.

  Useless. Words were useless against her. She could talk him in circles, tying him up and leaving him for dead. No, not dead. Merely left.

  No more words. Touch. He had to touch her. He wanted to reach her.

  One hand rose higher upon her back whilst the other slipped down to her hip, forcing her against him, pulling her to him. She did not pull back. Her hands did not clench. Her fingers were relaxed, as was her face. She looked, dare he say it, nearly bored. She endured his touch, that was all. He was losing himself, losing every bit of dignity and restraint, and she was bored. She stared into his eyes . . . and felt nothing. Revealed nothing.

  “You won’t give me a thing, will you?” he murmured, staring at her mouth.

  “Not that thing, no. Will you take it? It’s been done before, as you know,” she said. “I think you enjoy knowing that about me. Does it excite you, Ruan? Do you want to plunder now what’s been plundered before?”

  “What’s before is before. I am now,” he said, and then he lowered his head and softly, gently kissed her.

  She allowed herself to be kissed. She even, blandly and without any enthusiasm, kissed him in return.

  It was not at all what he had imagined his first kiss of Sophia Dalby to be. And he had imagined it, which was a boyish bit of infatuation and nothing less.

  Fine, then. She would reject the boy. What would she do with the man?

  He deepened the kiss, plunging into her mouth, tasting her, licking her, devouring her.

  She submitted to him. Only that. His hips ground against hers. She did not move against him, yet she did not resist him.

  His hands came up, swiftly flying up her ribs to cup her breasts, to tease her nipples, poking at him through the thin muslin, to press and coddle and tempt a response from her.

  She was not blind to him. She wanted him, had wanted him, had been tempted by him, and would be again. He would flay her desire until she panted, until she ached, until . . .

  Her body did nothing. She stood calmly and let him touch her, let him grind his cock against her, let him scour the inside of her mouth with his tongue, let him thumb her nipples until they were swollen buds. She let him touch her, but having her was out of his reach.

  “Damn you,” he breathed against her mouth.

  “That’s hardly heroic,” she said placidly. “Didn’t you want to play the hero? What part did you have in mind for me, Ruan? Not the damsel in need of rescuing? What were you going to rescue me with? Your mighty cock?”

  “Upon the word, the deed,” he bit out, and he pushed her down upon the high bed, her skirts flying up to her knees, her hands lying submissively next to her head, the orna-mented gold pins she wore to bind up the coils of her black hair gleaming dully.

  Her legs were covered in white stockings, pink silk ribbons tying them off at her knees, her bare white legs just barely visible above the ribbons. The sight was impossibly erotic. Her bosom lifted against the sheer muslin. Her dark eyes gleamed up at him, her black hair swirling over her shoulders, a shining shadow against the white of her dress and her skin. She wore lengths of gold chain around her throat, finely wrought, and they glittered against her neck, banded and tangled. Bound.

  Without thought, without guilt,
he lifted her skirts in one fist, lifted the muslin up in one hard motion to reveal her sex, black curling hair tucked against cloud white skin.

  There was a worn leather band around her thigh, from it hung a narrow scabbard. Within the scabbard the hilt of a blade gleamed in warning against her skin.

  She did not move.

  She also did not reach for her blade, which he found dimly encouraging.

  He moved for her, spreading one of her creamy thighs with his hand, the other still clenching the muslin as high as her breasts. She opened to him without resistance.

  Without encouragement.

  Without enthusiasm.

  Without passion.

  Without interest.

  Ruan took a shallow breath. He unclenched his fist and laid it upon her chest, between the soft mounds of her bosoms. Her breathing did not hitch. She did not gasp. She did not even protest.

  He lifted his hand from her chest. He let go of her thigh.

  He simply and completely released her.

  She lifted herself up onto her elbows to stare into his eyes, her legs still splayed, and said calmly, “Will you not take what you can, Ruan? I can see you want to.”

  “I will not take. I want only what you will give me, Sophia,” he said, forcing his breathing to calm, to force the wolf inside him back into its cage.

  “Then you will get nothing,” she said. “I do not give myself away.”

  “I will not pay for you.”

  “No? You will not rape me and you will not pay me.

  What’s left, my lord? There is no other way to have Sophia.

  Did you not learn that from the tales you heard today?”

  Tales? Was she implying they were not wholly true? No, they were. He could see the truth of them in her eyes.

  “Are you not tired of being paid for?”

  Sophia smiled and slid off the bed, her skirts falling to her ankles in a smooth fall of fragile muslin. “Does anyone grow tired of being paid? I certainly don’t. Lord Ruan,”

  she said, walking up to him and laying her hand against his cheek, “do you not seek passion? Do you not want to look into my eyes and see desire burning within me?”

  He said nothing. He looked into her eyes, unable to turn away, and watched passion rise up in her. Suddenly, she was a woman who wanted a man. A woman who wanted him.

  “I can give you everything you want. I can make your dreams come true. Won’t you make mine come true, darling Ruan?”

  It was lie. He knew it for a lie. Hadn’t she just told him as much?

  But when he looked at her, he couldn’t quite believe it.

  This was just some way of hers, some devious way to show him what she truly felt. She did feel desire for him. Her behavior, her cold boredom on the bed, had been the lie. A punishment. This was true. This, now.

  “Ah, Ruan, don’t you want me?” she breathed, urging his face down to hers, her mouth opening.

  She lifted herself up onto her toes and kissed him, a hungry kiss full of hot yearning. He could not stop himself from responding in kind. She was fire in his arms, twisting her arms around his neck, pulling him into her, wrapping a leg around his, moaning into his mouth.

  “Can’t we stop playing these games? I’ve waited weeks for you to come to me as you are now,” she said breathlessly, her lips nipping at his jaw, his throat, rubbing her breasts against his chest. “Why did you make me wait?

  Why did you not give me this?”

  “Sophia,” he said, his hands moving up her back to hold her head, to take her mouth in a deep, penetrating kiss.

  She moaned and put her hands on his hips, pulling him against her, squirming and grinding against the hard jut of his sex. Walking, stumbling, blind with passion, he backed her against the bed and fell with her onto it.

  “Hurry,” she said, panting, clutching at his clothes. “I want to feel you against me, inside of me. Hurry, darling. I can’t wait another moment for you.”

  Even as his hands fondled her, lifting her skirts once again, the small voice of reason whispered that it was wrong. This was all wrong. But he could not stop. He simply refused to listen.

  Once again he saw the thatch of her black hair curled between her thighs. She moaned and bucked toward his hand and when he touched her there her eyes went wide and desperate, hungry. She was wet and hot for him, and she quivered against his touch.

  “Kiss me!” she demanded, pulling at his shoulders.

  He fell against her and she wrapped her legs around his waist, her mouth nipping at his lips, her breathing frenzied.

  His hand slipped down to work his buttons, to free himself to enter her with one quick thrust. Her hand covered his, coldly and efficiently. Her passion tremors vanish-ing like mist in the sun. She let her legs drop and, with a darting movement, she had her blade pressed against his sac. It was a dagger, smooth and sleek, and it was not new.

  How many times had she held this blade against a man? How many times had she needed to? He froze, staring into her black, bottomless eyes. She lowered her gaze and with a shift of her legs, her feet were against his chest and she pushed him off of her. In the next instant she had rolled off the bed and was smiling at him.

  “I should have disarmed you when I had the chance,” he said with grudging respect.

  She smiled coldly, the dagger held comfortably in her hand, and said, “You never had the chance.” With the other hand, she pulled one of the gold pins in her hair free; it was a blade, small and gleaming.

  He believed her. This woman would never be forced again.

  “I am not free, Lord Ruan. I never was, not then and not now. Unless you meet my price, I shall keep myself, to myself.”

  He had known it. But he had not wanted to know it. He had not wanted, and still did not want, her passion to be a deceit she practiced on man after man. He would be more than that to her. Perhaps he was already. Did she truly work so hard to humiliate every man who wanted her?

  No, his crime wasn’t that he wanted her, but that he had dared to pierce the armor of her secrecy. He had, by learning what he had about her past, become truly intimate with her. She was punishing him for that.

  “Your body is your weapon,” he said, searching her for signs of bridled passion, that she had felt something when he touched her. He saw none.

  “My mind is my weapon,” she countered, straightening her golden chains so that they fell cleanly across her throat.

  “My body is its sheath. The sheath serves its purpose, but it is the weapon which matters, isn’t it? Oh, but as I am a woman and you are a man, the sheath will be all that matters to you. You have your own weapon, do you not, Ruan?

  You long to plunge into my sheath. It is what men do best, or so they would like to think.”

  “Not all I care about. Not all,” he said. “What the body does cannot be separated from the mind, Sophia, or from the soul.”

  “A sermon? How interesting coming from the man who nearly raped me. What is your topic to be? Fornication? Or perhaps you will expound upon lust?”

  “Perhaps mercy,” he said, forcing himself to walk away from her, to cross the room to the doorway to the antechamber. “Even forgiveness.”

  “Would you shame me into showing you mercy? Must I forgive you, Lord Ruan?” she said, smiling at him as if nothing at all had happened between them, as if it were weeks ago and they were fencing with foils of flirtation, enjoying the sharp, bright wounds they pinked upon each other.

  “I care about you, Sophia,” he said softly. “I care.”

  “You care only about satisfying your lust upon me. I recognize the signs clearly enough. Can you possibly be in doubt about that, Lord Ruan? I supposed you to be a man of some experience.”

  “I am not like the others,” he said, wondering if that were true. Wanting it to be true. “I do not want you for myself. I want you for yourself. I want to know you, Sophia.”

  “Lord Ruan, you don’t know me,”
she said, her smile disappearing as quickly as it had come. “Having started on this path, have you not learned that one simple truth? My life has not been easy nor has it been simple. You insult me by looking for simple causes and by anticipating simple solutions.”

  “I never thought anything about you was either simple or easy.”

  “Except my virtue.”

  “No, not even that,” he said, studying her face. She held his gaze without blinking, a hard-eyed warrior facing a foe.

  He had never wanted to be that to her. Hardly that. “You say that no one takes from you that which you have not freely given nor been paid for. When did that begin? Not on Staten Island for you did not give and they did not pay.

  I think Westlin did that to you. Westlin and Melverley and the others. I only wanted to right that wrong. Somehow.”

  “Somehow,” she echoed, her voice lightly mocking.

  “Such a wistful word, Lord Ruan. I have no tolerance for wistfulness.” She slid the golden blade back into her hair where it shone innocently; the dagger she slid back into the sheath on her thigh, lifting her skirts casually and gracefully to do so. “If you believe that I have forgotten Staten Island, that I have ever forgotten the faces, the hands, the feel of those men who took the virginity that Westlin so highly prized from me, you truly do not know me at all.

  Which I think is just as well, don’t you? Be content with Sophia Dalby as you first heard of her. Let your heroic tendencies fade, if it’s at all possible,” she said with mock sincerity.

  “I wanted to know you, Sophia, to understand why you are the woman you are. That is all I’ve tried to do. And perhaps to save you just a little. I am a man. Some small, dying part of me wanted to be a very small sort of hero to you. It is a grievous flaw, I do agree with you. But my crime is that I looked into the shadows surrounding you, and for that there is no mercy and no forgiveness, is there?”

  He walked out without waiting for her answer.

  He walked into three gaping girls, the new brides of Hyde House.

  Twenty-five

  “Lord Penrith, do you have a sister?” Jane asked as they strolled the blue reception room, looking for Edenham, not that Jane expected Penrith to know she was looking for Edenham. Yet even if he did, what of it? She was going to do as she pleased for once. Perhaps forever. Wouldn’t it be lovely if that became a firm habit?