The Detective Duke (Unexpected Lords Book 1)

by Scarlett Scott

  He shrugged out of his waistcoat next, and laid it atop the coat. Perhaps it was that she was forbidden. Or perhaps it was the time he had spent in her presence the day before. She continued to surprise him. There was something about her which was refreshing. And alluring. And…seductive, curse it. They had shared a light repast in the dining room and as the effects of the wine had lessened, she had told him more about her family.

  She adored them, it was apparent. Hudson found himself envious of the manner in which she had been raised, surrounded by loving siblings and parents. His own father had been a cold, emotionless man, and his mother had died in childbirth along with his only brother when he had been but a young lad. He admired her love for her sister, so strong that she would marry just to allow Lady Isolde to find her own happiness.

  He pulled his shirt from his trousers, undid the buttons, and dropped it upon the hastily growing pile of garments. They had both retired early, weary after the tremendous upheaval of the day. She had called for a bath, and he had been tormented by the sound of her in her tub. The rooms in Brinton Manor were hardly as large as those in the sprawling Talleyrand Park, which rendered the novelty of having a wife in residence interesting in a new way. He could hear her movements. The gentle lap of the water.

  And bastard that he was, he had lain in his bed, trying to think of anything else, and nonetheless envisioning her nude, the water sluicing over her silken curves. He had imagined the way the soap would have clung to her breasts. Her dark hair wet and streaming down her back. He had thought about taking up a cloth and washing her himself. And then his cockstand had been merciless and insistent.

  Taking himself in hand whilst she was at her bath had seemed an intrusion of her privacy. The act of a scoundrel. And so, he had rolled over to his stomach, buried his face in the pillow, and attempted to drift into the welcoming depths of slumber. His plan had eventually worked. However, he had awakened at dawn, as was his customary practice, to another raging erection.

  Damned inconvenient, especially given his inability to touch her for the next three months. The instant he could finish settling estate matters with Saunders and return to London, he would be gone. When she was no longer near, he was certain his inconvenient and unexpected lust for his new bride would diminish.

  For now, he had no cure save a swim in the very cold, very obliging, lake. He toed off his shoes and unbuttoned the fall of his trousers, shucking those and his stockings. With a hasty look around to make certain there was not an errant soul anywhere about, he whipped off his smalls. The early morning air was cool, but it did nothing to quell the fire roaring through his blood.

  Since his arrival at Brinton Manor, he had taken some small measure of comfort in the presence of this lake, where he might indulge in a morning swim. Swimming had been the only skill his father had deigned to teach him, and that only to keep him from drowning should he ever fall into a body of water. Necessity rather than the desire to spend any time with his son.

  He waded into the waters with the thought that today ought to be no different than any morning swim he had undertaken previously. And yet, today was vastly different from all that came before it. He had a wife sleeping in the dilapidated manor house behind him. A wife he had not expected to desire as much as he did.

  The cold lake water licked at his calves and thighs, and he shivered, then swiftly dove in, immersing himself. That had the desired effect, and he promptly threw himself into the methodical act of stroking his way halfway across the lake, then back to the shore. The sun was rising higher, birds calling all around him. The beauty of the countryside was undeniable. A welcome peace from the bustle and cacophony of London streets. How strange it would be to return there. It was where he belonged, he knew. But Brinton Manor had begun, in its own strange way, to feel a bit like home as well.

  Invigorated from his swim and pleased at the distraction it had provided, he waded from the water. And that was when a feminine gasp invaded the quiet, telling him he was not alone. He turned in the direction of the sound to find Elysande standing on the edge of the grouping of trees.

  She was wearing a simple morning gown of light blue, her dark hair confined in a plain chignon, a jaunty little hat perched on her head. The sight of her had his heart thundering in his chest.

  “Elysande,” he said, forgetting for a moment that he was naked. “I thought you were still asleep.”

  Her wide eyes and parted lips, along with the direction of her stare, sweeping over him in thorough fashion, reminded him. Hudson cupped his hands over himself and moved swiftly for the pile of clothing awaiting him.

  “I have a habit of rising early,” she said crisply, “and I thought to do a bit of exploring before breakfast. Do forgive me for intruding. I shall go.”

  Her dulcet tones settled somewhere in his belly like a hot coal. Curse it. Why had she appeared to ruin the calming effect of the water? And why could he not dress himself with sufficient haste? Ordinarily, he brought a towel with him for after his swims, but this morning, he had been too distracted to arm himself with the proper provisions. That meant stuffing his wet limbs into his smalls, which was no easy feat as the garment attempted to cling to his bloody knees.

  “You are not intruding,” he called to her as he struggled. “Nor is there any need for you to go.”

  How silly it was, rushing to hide himself from the woman he had married. She was his wife. Over the course of their marriage, she would see him naked. After this interminable three months was at an end.

  Three months, less one day.

  His concern for her modesty was new. But then, he had never had the time to dally with innocents, and nor would he have done so. His whole life had been devoted to Scotland Yard and his cases. His preference in female companionship had heretofore been knowledgeable widows unafraid to embrace their desires. Encounters were rendered so much easier.

  “You are certain?” She sounded hesitant. Almost guilty.

  He wondered just how long she had been watching him and how much she had seen.

  “Quite,” he reassured her.

  When he was finally covered, he took up his trousers and pulled them on as well before turning back to where she had been standing. She was no longer there, however. Instead, she had drawn nearer. She was approaching him now, eyes devouring his chest and lowering to the place where his hideous scar dwelled, a reminder of the day he had discovered an appreciation for his own mortality.

  Her swift inhalation told him the moment she spotted the jagged and puckered flesh.

  “You were injured.”

  It was a statement rather than a question.

  He nodded. “Some years ago now.”

  She stopped when she was in perilous proximity to him, the brim of her hat shading her face yet doing nothing to detract from her loveliness. The chapeau was bedecked in flowers and ribbons, but the effect was one of quiet elegance instead of ostentatious command. His fingers longed to pluck it from her hair, remove her pins, and send those chestnut locks raining down her shoulders.

  She reached for him, and soft fingertips traveled tentatively over his scar. He held still for her examination. Some of the sensation was gone from the healed skin. In certain places, he could feel the silken whisper of her touch and in others only light, hesitant pressure.

  “What happened?” she asked quietly.

  His heart was pounding faster now, and his body’s reaction to her nearness was as swift as it was alarming. “I was stabbed when I was too persistent for a man who had murdered his wife.”

  She gasped. “A murderer?”

  If only she knew what he had witnessed in his years at Scotland Yard. But then, no. It was far better she did not. There were sights and smells which haunted, which never left a man, not for as long as he lived.

  “I followed him into a darkened alley,” he explained. “I was younger then, and I had yet to realize I was not immortal. I also believed there was no man I could not bring to his knees, no criminal I could not catch
and see in prison.”

  He had been overly confident as he had raced after his quarry, and he had paid the price. But ultimately, the man who had stabbed him had forfeited his own life.

  “This was during your work as an inspector for Scotland Yard?” She removed her touch with an almost guilty jerk, her gaze returning to his.

  “Yes. A long time ago now, as I said.”

  “It was dangerous.” She frowned at him.

  “Some days more than others.” He shrugged, aware of the warmth of the sun breaking free of the clouds and landing on his bare back. “I managed.”

  “Did you capture the man responsible and send him to prison?” she asked.

  If only he had.

  That day was not one he preferred to remember. The horrors he had witnessed…they were not fit topics for mixed conversation, and there was no reason for him to be discussing the past with his wife. Likely, she would be shocked. Horrified. He knew he was not like most men, and he would do best to remind her of that, not just himself.

  “No,” he said honestly, the foray into his past forcing him to reconcile the man he had once been with the man she thought him to be. “I killed him.”

  She stiffened, her lips parting.

  He imagined he read disgust in the depths of her eyes. Horror. And he told himself it did not matter. He could not change his past for this woman, and nor would he wish to. He had always been proud of the time he had spent with Scotland Yard and the work he had done.

  What response had he expected from her? Applause? Christ, he was stupid. And weak for revealing so much.

  “I told you,” he bit out. “You didn’t marry a lord, Elysande. I am nothing like the former Duke of Wycombe.”

  “And I am glad of it,” she said firmly, staying him with a hand on his arm when he would have turned away from her and gone back to his stack of abandoned garments. “Tell me, Hudson. If you had to kill a man, you must have had good reason. And if he injured you first, I cannot fathom a better one. Your life was in peril.”

  Yes, it had been. Henry White had been desperate. He had known he was going to rot away in prison for his crime or otherwise meet a grim end. And he had been determined to do everything in his power to avoid that outcome. Even if it had meant killing the arrogant young Scotland Yard detective who had chased after him.

  Recalling that day curdled the warmth of the sun and her nearness with a vicious chill. Bile rose in his throat. He did not want to think of this now. The scar had remained, the only reminder he could not scrub from himself when the blood was long gone.

  “He was going to kill me,” he acknowledged bitterly past the knot rising in his throat. “I had no choice.”

  Spare words. All he could manage.

  “I am glad you fought,” she said softly, the hand on his arm stroking upward until it curled around his bicep. “If you had not, you would not be here.”

  Her easy acceptance, her understanding, her touch…the compassion in her expression rather than pity…moved him. A sudden rush of gratitude hit him in the chest, sending the chill away. Deep breaths. Slow and steady. The demons of the past could not claim him. He was in the Buckinghamshire countryside, beneath the sun, standing before the woman he had married. No longer in London, a detective no more.

  “Thank you.” His voice was thick as he struggled to convey his thoughts and emotions. “For understanding.”

  She was still clutching him, holding him there. And a new awareness flared between them. He could see it reflected in her gaze. He very much wanted to kiss her. But there was the matter of the three bloody months he had promised. To say nothing of one kiss not being enough.

  “I wish to know about who you are,” she said simply, “about what has made you into the man you have become.”

  It required every bit of control he possessed to keep from pulling her into his arms, holding her against his chest, covering her mouth with his. “Take care in what you wish for. The man I have become is not worthy of you.”

  Their disparity had occurred to him before, of course. Whilst he was the descendant of a duke, he had been raised to believe himself a common man. She, however, had always been a lady. But there was a different incongruence, aside from the obvious. She was an innocent young lady who had led a relatively sheltered life buoyed by the indulgences of her aristocratic parents. He had not been innocent since he had been fifteen and a far more sophisticated older woman had taken him into her boudoir and told him what she wanted him to do to her. He had witnessed depravity, death, and crime. The seediest corners of London were known to him. He had no business being either a duke or this woman’s husband.

  And yet, here he was.

  “Not worthy of me?” She tipped her head back, the shadow on her delicate features disappearing. Sun kissed her cheeks and lips, sparkled in her gaze. “What pedestal must you place me upon to suppose so?”

  Her other hand curled around his right arm. That touch was a brand. Keeping himself from grabbing hold of her waist and hauling her into him to kiss her breathless grew more impossible with every moment.

  “Not a pedestal. But we are cut from different cloth, the two of us.”

  “Perhaps,” she said calmly. “And perhaps not.”

  And still, she remained, touching him. Tempting him. A slight breeze rose, and her scent wrapped around him, sweet and light and floral. The need to touch her in return was so forceful, it was an ache in his fingertips.

  “I should dress,” he forced out.

  The moment was effectively fractured. She released him with so much haste, he would have suspected his flesh had burned hers had he not known the difference. Her cheeks were flushed pink.

  “I must apologize for keeping you and for prying into your past.” Her voice was cool now. Perfectly polite.

  But there was a brittle quality lingering beneath that he did not miss.

  He had hurt her feelings. Embarrassed her. Chased her away.

  And all because he did not dare trust himself enough to resist her.

  “You have no need to offer apology,” he hastened to assure her. “We are husband and wife now.”

  Although they were not living as husband and wife. Nor would they for some time. That rankled more than it should.

  She shook her head. “I ought not to have intruded.”

  “It is your right.”

  “I had not expected to find you…” Her words trailed off as her gaze swept down his form. “I had not supposed you would be naked.”

  Despite the dampness of his smalls and trousers, the effect of her brown-and-gold stare on him was undeniable. He could only hope she would not take note. “I will endeavor to swim in something more suitable next time.”

  “You do not have to on my account.”

  There was that persistent desire, boiling hotter still. He should turn his back to her, continue dressing, carry on with his day. However, the connection between them remained. He did not want to see her go.

  “Are you saying you liked what you saw?” he teased.

  Yes, he, who was as hardhearted as his surname Stone implied, was teasing. Flirting. Standing there with the woman he had not wanted to marry, bare-chested and barefoot, daring her to admit she had enjoyed the sight of him nude as he’d emerged from the lake.

  More foolish behavior. More recklessness. He scarcely recognized himself.

  “I am,” she admitted softly, a small smile curving her kissable lips. “You are quite a handsome man, as I’m certain you are already aware.”

  She thought him handsome. It was not as if Hudson had not known women found him pleasing in appearance—he had never lacked for feminine companionship. But somehow, hearing it from Elysande mattered in a new and different way.

  She was his wife.

  It was still startling to look upon her and think that word. To comprehend the utter change in circumstance.

  “It only matters that you find me so,” he told her. “You are uncommonly lovely yourself, Elysande.”

>   “Thank you.” Her gaze slipped from his. “I should leave you to your morning rituals.”

  She turned to go, severing the moment.

  “Elysande,” he called, his legs propelling him toward her as if they possessed a will of their own.

  She spun about and came rushing back to him. They collided with more force than he had anticipated, and he snaked an arm around her waist to steady them both. She reached for him, rising on her toes, and sealed her lips to his.

  She was kissing her husband. Her mouth was on his. And he…

  He was kissing her too. Slipping that full lower lip of his between hers, angling his head, deepening the kiss.

  Elysande could not even blame her actions on wine. She hadn’t touched a drop of the stuff since the Sauternes of the evening before. No, she was kissing Hudson because she wanted to. Because when she had rounded the grouping of trees on the path by the lake and seen him, tall and masculine and utterly naked, striding from the water, she had been entranced. Her heart had leapt. An ache had bloomed between her thighs and spread to every part of her body.

  Longing.

  Desire.

  She had not been prepared to feel such a potent surge of awareness for her husband.

  But she did.

  It was powerful. Consuming. A conflagration lit from within, and she was helpless to stop it.

  Her hands were on his shoulders, and his skin was damp. Muscles moved, hinting at his strength. Touching him only served to heighten the sensations, which were so new, bursting to life. His lips responded to hers, deepening the kiss, urging her to open so that his tongue could slip inside to coax hers.

  The intimacy of the act took her by surprise, but the invasion was uniquely pleasant. He tasted of his morning tea and the sweetness of bergamot, and she wanted more. Tentatively, she copied him, running her tongue against his. He made a moan of approval, and then his hands were coasting all over her body. Over her waist, then higher, cupping her breast through the fabric of her morning gown and the barrier of her corset.

  She longed to feel his bare hand there. What would it be like to be equally divested of her clothing? To lie with this man and have his touch on her body? On a frustrated groan of her own, she sank her fingers into his hair, which was still quite wet from his swim. The cool softness of it was a welcome distraction from the fires of desire threatening to overwhelm her.