The Wicked Ways of a Duke

by Laura Lee Guhrke

  He began to stroke her with his tongue, causing that indescribable pleasure to come over her once again, even hotter, even stronger, than before. Waves and waves of it, until she thought she would die.

  Rhys heard the words of love amid the incoherent cries of passion that came from her, and the mingled sounds filled him with a satisfaction he’d never felt in his life before. God, she was sweet. So, so sweet.

  He didn’t know what had compelled him to demand her declaration of love so relentlessly, for he didn’t much believe in love anymore, especially when, cynical bastard that he was, he suspected her feelings stemmed from the bliss of her first sexual experiences.

  But even if her love wasn’t really genuine, he’d needed to hear it, here at this place where there had been no love, only sick and twisted imitations of it. He’d wanted to hear it from her, for she was sweet and fresh and wholly unaware of the dark corruptions of his boyhood. Because she smelled fresh and sweet and safe like lavender, and because in the soft, genuine goodness of her, he had perhaps found a refuge far better than his childhood hiding place had ever been.

  His body was screaming for release, but he held back, wanting to please her so she would tell him again that she loved him, and when she did, he savored it along with her climax as a drowning man savors a gasp of oxygen.

  But finally he could hold back no longer, and he straightened, tearing at his trousers, undoing buttons with desperate haste. He was rock hard, wanting her so badly that he feared he might actually spill himself too soon, something he hadn’t done since he was a skinny lad of fifteen bouncing his first mistress.

  Rhys turned her body lengthwise on the table, then hoisted himself up, bringing his body fully over hers and bracing his weight on his arms. “Prudence,” he said, reminding himself she was a virgin, thinking to warn her what to expect, wanting to go slow, but the feel of her, velvety hot and wet, against the tip of his penis was such an erotic sensation, he knew there was no time for gentleness or warnings. With one hard thrust, he entered her.

  She cried out again, and this time he knew it was not with pleasure. Cursing himself, he kissed her, smothering the sound of her pain with his mouth, hating that he’d caused it, even as he relished the virginal tightness of her.

  She turned her head, burying her face against his neck with a sob as her arms came up around his neck. He began kissing her everywhere he could—her face, her neck, her ear, her hair—as if that could somehow make up for the taking of her innocence. And when her legs wrapped around him and she began arching beneath him, pulling him deeper into her, lust inflamed him, burning away any momentary guilt.

  He began moving, rocking his body against hers, trying to go slow, but the feel of her tight around him was so delicious, he couldn’t contain his moves. He lost himself in the softness of her, his thrusts deep and forceful even as he tried to tell her how luscious she was. He touched her breasts, kissed her face, murmuring words to arouse and reassure her, but he didn’t even knowing what he was saying, because he was beyond any sort of control. And when he finally climaxed, the pleasure was so intense it was like pain, shattering him into thousands of infinitesimal pieces.

  Even afterward, as the throes of orgasm faded away and he collapsed atop her in blessed release, he could not stop wanting to hear those words from her again.

  “Love me?” he whispered, nuzzling her throat.

  “Yes,” she whispered, her fingertips caressing his face.

  He lifted himself above her, kissed her, nipping her lower lip between both of his. “Say it again.”

  She began to laugh. “I love you.”

  He laughed, too, laughed, by God, in this place, where he’d never laughed in his entire life.

  A wave of satisfaction rose up inside him, a wave so powerful it hurt deep in his chest. He kissed her again, hard, then slid his arms beneath her and held her tight, and he didn’t care if her words stemmed from naive infatuation or not. He didn’t care that he’d ceased to believe in love a long time ago and that even if it were real, he was utterly undeserving of it. All he cared about was that those words from her lips silenced all the ghosts that haunted him. At least for now.

  Chapter 14

  Rumor has it the Duke of St. Cyres and his bride will make their home at St. Cyres Castle after the wedding. Miss Abernathy’s American millions will no doubt go a long way toward making a silk purse out of that sow’s ear.

  —Talk of the Town, 1894

  She was gone when he awakened. He didn’t know how long he’d been asleep, but it had to have been at least several hours, for when he glanced at the window, he could see that it was twilight. He rolled onto his back, grimacing at the hardness of the table and the stiffness in his body from lying on it for so long.

  He stared up at the rafters. They were bare, not laden with bunches of lavender as he remembered them. But then, it was only May, and he and Thomas had come to Winter Park in June, after school had ended.

  Evelyn had loathed the smell of lavender and hadn’t ever come here, making this stone cottage a refuge of sorts. But boys couldn’t spend their nights in the lavender house. They were supposed to sleep in the nursery, after high tea and playtime with Uncle Evelyn.

  Memories of the summer he’d spent here heaved up from deep down where he’d buried them all so long ago, memories of boot heels coming up the nursery stairs, of high tea and Animal Grab.

  Best not to think of those things. As he had so many times before, Rhys shoved the horror of that boyhood summer out of his mind and strove to regain his balance. He closed his eyes and took deep breaths, taking refuge from all that was sordid in his past by thinking of Prudence.

  She was so lovely. An image of her came to mind, of her round, pretty face and big dark eyes. She’d wanted him to tell her what had happened here. How could he? She was so blissfully unaware of how ugly the world was, how could he tell her about the sordid nightmare of that summer? She was so innocent.

  At least she had been, until he’d taken her innocence and given her pain. He knew all about both of those, and guilt nudged him. But then he remembered how she had wrapped her arms around his neck and welcomed him so sweetly, and he couldn’t sustain remorse for what he’d done.

  He took deep breaths, drinking in the scent of lavender as he imagined kissing her hair, and a feeling of peace settled over him, keeping the ghosts away until he once again fell asleep.

  Rhys did not come to dinner. In fact, he did not return to the house at all that night, and did not sleep in the master’s bedchamber. These facts, and the mystery of his whereabouts, had been much discussed belowstairs in the morning, Prudence’s maid informed her, Mr. Fane having been ever so concerned about the matter. The housekeeper had been the one to put Mr. Fane’s mind at ease, telling him at breakfast that the master was likely sleeping in the lavender house, for he and his brother had often done that as boys the summer they lived here. Upon investigation, Mr. Fane had discovered the housekeeper’s guess to be an accurate one.

  “Though what he slept on, miss, I’ve no idea,” Woddell said, pushing a hairpin into the intricate knot of Prudence’s hair. “Mr. Fane said there wasn’t even a cot out there. Just a hard stone floor and an old table.”

  Prudence vividly remembered that table and the extraordinary things that had happened on it—how he kissed her and touched her in the most intimate places, how he demanded that she declare her love for him aloud, remembered his body on top of hers and the feel of him as he pushed that hard part of himself inside her.

  That had not been quite as enjoyable as the other things he’d done, she was forced to admit, flinching a little on the vanity seat, for she was still sore where his body had invaded hers. But he had kissed her face and hair afterward, and the pain was forgotten, replaced by a passionate tenderness like nothing she’d ever felt in her life before.

  Prudence closed her eyes, savoring again those special moments when she had stroked his hair and held him in her arms. Even now she felt herself blushi
ng at the memory of his body on top of hers. Even now she could remember every word he’d said in the throes of his passion—how he loved her and how beautiful she was and how perfect her body. Those moments had filled her with a happiness even stronger than the exquisite physical sensations he’d given her, for she knew that in those moments, he had achieved what he’d been seeking—a way to forget. Just what it was he was seeking to forget, she did not know, but she promised they wouldn’t discuss it and had to be content to simply hold him in her arms afterward and stroke his hair as the sun set and he fell asleep. She’d wanted to stay with him, but the absence of both of them for too long would have caused Aunt Edith to search for her. They weren’t married yet, and fear of discovery had finally impelled her to depart from the lavender house, leaving Rhys to sleep in the only part of this cold, cold place that he could seem to tolerate.

  “And His Grace told Mr. Fane we’ll be leaving today for Hazelwood, wherever that is,” Woddell said, recalling Prudence to the present conversation. “He had Mr. Fane make the arrangements for the train. We’re to be packed and ready by three o’clock, he told me.”

  Prudence nodded, not at all surprised by this news, and very much relieved. “I’ll be glad to be gone from here, Woddell,” she said. “Very glad.”

  Oh, God, I hate this house. I hate it.

  His words echoed back to her, and she shivered, “But why?” she whispered. “What happened here?”

  “Beg your pardon, miss?” Woddell paused in her task of dressing her mistress’s hair and ducked her head to meet her gaze in the mirror.

  Prudence gave a dismissive wave of her hand. “Nothing, Woddell. I was thinking out loud. That is all.”

  Satisfied, the maid tucked one last pin into the chignon and started for the dressing room.

  Lost in thought, Prudence scarcely noticed. Whatever the cause of his antipathy for Winter Park, she knew his mother had something to do with it. Lady Edward was an ice queen if ever there was one. So different from her own mother, who had always been full of laughter and warmth and love. Prudence could not imagine Lady Edward ever laughing or being loving toward anyone. The late duke, too, was part of the puzzle. And what of Rhys’s brother who had died?

  “Would you like to wear the beige traveling suit today, miss?” Woddell asked, interrupting her speculations. “Or the buffalo red?”

  “The red,” she said, and stood up. “Definitely the red.”

  Wearing his favorite color was a woefully inadequate method of comfort, she thought, but at the moment, it was the only one she had.

  During the two weeks that followed their departure from Winter Park, Rhys strove to regain his equilibrium. Though the other estates had no nightmarish memories, he found other, less expected ghosts waiting for him.

  As they toured the various estates, Rhys’s initial emotion was embarrassment. Things were every bit as dire as he’d been told, worse than he had described to Prudence, and painful to view with her relations, who knew damn good and well why he was marrying their niece and their resentment was palpable. Stephen, as promised, said nothing, but Edith could not resist commenting on the condition of the properties. He told himself he shouldn’t care what they thought, but thick as his skin was, he was bothered by Feathergill’s silent condemnation and his wife’s snide little jabs more than he cared to admit.

  Stripped of their furnishings and valuables over the years, ignored and eventually abandoned, none of the houses were fit to live in, except by the mice, beetles, and other vermin who had taken up residence. The De Winter family had once been one of the most powerful in Britain, with an aristocratic lineage dating back to Edward I, but in the rotting timbers of Hazelwood, the crumbling brick of Seton Place, and the wild, unkept landscape around Aubry Hill, only the echoes of that lineage remained.

  Of all the estates, St. Cyres Castle proved to be in the worst condition. As their carriage pulled into the rutted, weed-choked drive and he saw the broken windows and rusted gates of the fortified manor house that had been his home as a small boy, he thought of his father, who had loved this house, and his embarrassment deepened into shame.

  When he and Prudence paused in the Baron’s Hall of the original keep, where cobwebs decorated the elaborately carved stone mantel of the massive fireplace and only the discolorations on the whitewashed walls marked where the arms and weapons of his ancestors had hung, he could almost feel his father turning over in his grave.

  This is what it’s all come to, Papa, he thought, lowering his gaze to the stone floor beneath his feet, a floor first laid in 1298. Five worthless piles of stones and weeds scattered across central England. It saddened him, and he didn’t even know why, for he’d long ago turned his back on all of it and thought he’d ceased to care.

  In the distance, Edith’s high, arch voice and her husband’s deeper replies echoed faintly to the keep from another wing of the house, but past their voices, he heard other echoes. He heard his father, telling animated tales of the family history to him and Thomas by that massive fireplace late into the night. He heard the sounds of wooden swords and cricket bats as his father played with them. He heard the laughter of two carefree, innocent boys who had played here with no idea what awaited them when their father died. Such a long, long time ago. He put his head in his hands.

  “Rhys, what’s wrong?”

  He felt Prudence’s hand on his arm and lifted his head. “Nothing,” he answered, rubbing his hands over his face. “I was just remembering…things.”

  He didn’t look at her but could feel her gaze resting on him, and he struggled for something to say. “There was a red carpet in here,” he said, gesturing to the floor in front of the fireplace. “On rainy days, my brother and I would lie here on our stomachs by the fire and listen to my father tell stories.”

  She smiled, glancing around. “This was the house you lived in as a boy?”

  “Until I was eleven. That’s when…” He paused, staring at the massive fireplace. “That’s when my father died, and my brother and I were sent away to school. I haven’t been back here since.”

  She looked at him, head tilted to one side. “Did you like it here?”

  He was surprised by the question, for he couldn’t recall ever thinking of the ducal estates in terms of his personal preferences. They had always belonged to Evelyn, and now they were burdens, responsibilities, debts. “I don’t quite know what you mean.”

  Prudence walked up to him and took his hands in hers. “We have to decide which of these houses is to be our home. Where we’ll raise our children. Do you like it here?”

  He stirred, uneasy. He’d had vague ideas of them living abroad, traveling to America and Europe, seasons in London on occasion. He hadn’t thought about children at all, and certainly not about settling in one place to raise them. “I like it well enough, I suppose.”

  “When you lived here, were you happy?”

  Happy? He pulled his hands from hers and walked to one of the windows. Propping a shoulder against the frame, he looked through the jagged, broken remnants of diamond-shaped glass panes installed when Elizabeth had been queen.

  What would his life have been like if his father had lived? he wondered, staring out at an expanse of weedy turf, seeing a man and two boys fencing with wooden swords and shields, pretending to be knights of old. He hadn’t known then, of course, that his father’s restless, energetic temperament and insomnia stemmed mainly from the cocaine that eventually took his life.

  He could still remember the rage that filled him when his mother shared that little tidbit with him a few years later, rage toward the man who had died and abandoned them to Evelyn for the sake of his cocaine habit.

  On the other hand, Rhys reflected, he’d been terribly fond of absinthe in his Paris days, so who was he to judge? Staring out the window at the field where he and Thomas had spent so many happy days with their father, hearing the laughter that had echoed through this house so long ago, he found himself unable to summon the anger he’d once
felt.

  His father, he realized now, had loved them. Not even knowing for certain if they were truly his own sons, he had loved them and cared for them. Rhys closed his eyes as something hot and tight squeezed his chest. He’d forgotten, in all the shit that had come after, he’d forgotten that. He’d forgotten about love and affection and what it was like to be happy.

  “You are very quiet,” Prudence said, and came to stand by his side. “What are you thinking about?”

  “Look there,” he said, pointing to the lawn spread out between two overgrown knot gardens. “That’s where my father taught us how to fence and how to play cricket. And beyond that, in the distance, do you see that crag sticking up on the hill? On the other side of it is the lake where he taught us how to fish.”

  “Perfect,” she said, and grabbed his hand. “Come on.”

  “Where are we going?” he asked as she pulled him toward the door.

  “We are going fishing.”

  An hour later Rhys was sitting on a grassy bank by the lake where he hadn’t fished since he was a boy. But instead of his father and brother, the company was quite different this time—different, and thoroughly delectable.

  He glanced sideways at the woman seated beside him on the grass. She looked as fresh and pretty as the spring day in her green and white skirt, crisp cotton shirtwaist, and boater hat of white straw. “So,” he murmured, “you left poor Woddell to explain your disappearance to your aunt?”

  “I have not disappeared.” She turned her head to look at him, all wide-eyed innocence. “I am wandering about the house, making lists of furnishings to buy. Where are you?”

  “I am working very hard. I’m studying the condition of the farms. At least that’s the story Fane is telling. He is a most excellent valet, by the way—trustworthy, loyal, and a very good liar.”

  “What about you? Are you a good liar?”

  His heart skipped a beat at that question, but he forced himself to look at her. “What do you mean?”