The Wicked Ways of a Duke

by Laura Lee Guhrke

  She tilted her head to one side, studying him. “They might question us when we get back to the inn, so we might have to lie a little.” She gave him a dubious look. “You can manage that, can’t you?”

  He kept a straight face and leaned closer. “I shall endeavor to be convincing.”

  Her concerned expression vanished. “Good. These rules about chaperones are so silly, and Aunt Edith is so punctilious about it, but we do need to steal a little time for ourselves on occasion.”

  “I couldn’t agree more.” His gaze slid down over the pin tucks of her shirtfront, caught the shadowy profile of her breasts beneath the cotton. Just that was enough to arouse him, and he began to envision her pale pink aureoles and tiny, jutting nipples; pure imagination, of course. He knew Prudence well enough to know she had on layers and layers of underclothes. There would be yards of muslin he’d have to wade through to touch her bare skin, satin ribbons to untie, silver hooks and fabric-covered buttons to unfasten, lacy garters and silk stockings to pull off…. As he thought of removing those garments one by one, his body began to burn. He set aside his fishing rod, then moved closer, ducking his head beneath the brim of her straw boater to kiss her ear.

  “Rhys,” she admonished, shrugging her shoulder with a glance around, “that isn’t what I had in mind.”

  “No?” He took her fishing rod out of her hands. “All this privacy and you’re going to let it go to waste?”

  She blushed, but was laughing as he leaned over her to set her fishing rod at her side. “You are a wicked man.”

  “Yes,” he agreed, and pressed a quick kiss to her mouth. Then he lifted his hands to pull out her hat pin and remove her straw boater. “I warned you I was.”

  He dropped the enameled pin into the crown and set the hat aside. As he kissed her again, he grasped her shoulders and began to push her backward into the grass. To his surprise, she resisted, and he was forced to pause. “What’s wrong?”

  “We can’t,” she protested, her blush deepening, her body stiff. “It’s broad daylight.”

  “That didn’t stop us before.” Those words did not seem to relax her, and he sensed that some slow, serious persuasion would be needed. He began pressing light kisses to her face. “Why let it stop us now?”

  “But…before…at Winter Park…we had…we had shelter.” Her cheeks were scarlet now, but he wasn’t about to let maidenly modesty interfere with something as delightful as a tumble in the grass. He slid one hand into the knot of her hair and pulled gently, tilting her head back, then began to kiss her neck above the collar of her shirtwaist.

  “Be-Besides,” she went on, flattening her palms against his chest as if to push him away, “that isn’t why I wanted us to have privacy. I wanted us to talk.”

  “Talk?” With a feeling of dread, he stilled, his lips against the side of her throat. “What about?”

  “Nothing in particular. I thought we could get to know each other a little better.”

  He lifted his head, sure he couldn’t have heard correctly. “You mean we sent Fane into the village for rods and tackle, thought up elaborate alibis to give your aunt and uncle to account for our whereabouts, and came here by separate routes for the purpose of being alone, and you want to make conversation?”

  “Yes. We’ve known each other such a short time, and we need to become better acquainted.”

  Rhys had no intention of making conversation and every intention of making love, but it was clear that some talking as well as some persuasion was necessary before he could bring her around to his way of thinking.

  He bent his head again to kiss her throat and lifted his free hand to give her prim little necktie a tug. “Why don’t you introduce a topic?” he suggested, beginning to unbutton her collar as he ran his tongue along the side of her neck.

  She stirred a little, and when she spoke, her voice had a breathy catch to it he found quite encouraging. “Rhys, what is a duchess supposed to do, exactly?”

  His fingers slid into the opening of her blouse just above the lacy top of her corset cover. Her skin felt like warm silk. “What do you mean?”

  She pushed him back so she could look at him. “When I’m your wife, I shall be a duchess, and I want to do it properly. Only I don’t quite know how.” A tiny frown knit her dark brows. “I should so hate to make a blunder of it.”

  She sounded so worried, he couldn’t help laughing. “Darling, most duchesses are like most dukes. And marquesses and earls, etcetera, etcetera. We don’t do anything. We lead terribly lazy lives in which we give and attend fabulous parties, gamble away our fortunes—if we have them—eat outrageously rich food, drink excessive amounts of champagne and port, travel the world, accumulate massive amounts of debt, and engage in outrageous exploits. All because the lot of us suffer from terminal ennui.”

  “I’m serious.”

  “So am I.” He kissed her as he brushed the fingers of one hand back and forth across her collarbone and caressed the nape of her neck with the other. “Peers are the lilies of the field, my sweet,” he said against her mouth. “We toil not, neither do we spin.”

  She leaned back a little, her weight on her arms, looking at him with a troubled expression. “Is that what we are going to do, Rhys? Be lilies of the field?”

  That was what he’d had in mind, but he could see from her expression that that idea did not appeal to her. And there was all the ducal responsibility drivel he’d stuffed her head with that day in Little Russell Street. “Of course we shan’t be idle,” he assured her solemnly. “We shall…um…do good works.”

  “What good works?”

  “Charities, of course.” He pulled her shirtwaist wide open and returned his attention to the delectable task of kissing her neck. “We have heaps of money,” he went on, tasting his way down to the satin and lace just above her breasts. “I promise we shall give plenty away to those less fortunate.”

  He opened his hand over her breast, shaping it against his palm. Her fingers curled around his forearm but she didn’t try to stop him as he cupped and shaped it through the stiff fabric of her corset. “What charities did you have in mind?” she asked, her breathing uneven and quick.

  “Any you like. Hospitals, Salvation Army, military widows…” He paused and lifted his head to press a quick kiss to her nose. “Affordable living quarters for girl-bachelor seamstresses.”

  “I’d like to do something for my friends at the lodging house in Little Russell Street.”

  Her voice had a breathless catch to it he found very promising. “Anything for your friends,” he said, and lowered his head, nuzzling the shadowy cleft between her breasts.

  She stirred with a little moan. “I thought…umm…I thought, perhaps, we could help them somehow.” She gasped as he kissed the luscious swell of her breast just above the edge of her corset. “But they are so proud, they won’t take money.”

  “We’ll find another way,” he promised, and turned his head to place a kiss just above her other breast. “So they won’t think it’s charity.”

  This time when he pushed her down into the grass, she sank beneath him without resistance. “Can we help orphaned children, too?”

  “Absolutely.” He opened his mouth over hers and slid his hand beneath her skirt. Through a thin layer of muslin he could feel the underlying heat of her body, and his desire burned even hotter in response. He deepened the kiss, savoring the lush taste of her mouth as he worked his hand beneath one leg of her drawers. When he slipped two fingers beneath the edge of her stocking above her garter and touched her there, the feel of her warm, silken skin nearly drove him mad.

  He broke the kiss with a groan and once again began to kiss his way downward to her breasts, tasting her in small nibbles. At the same time, he caressed the sensitive skin at the back of her knee in lazy little circles.

  She lifted her hands, raking her fingers through his hair, her body stirring restlessly beneath him, soft little moans issuing from her throat.

  He savored the er
otic sounds of her agitation, knowing she was as aroused as he. But he also remembered how he’d hurt her the first time, and he was determined that this time she would feel only pleasure. He withdrew his hand from beneath her skirts and finished unbuttoning her shirtwaist. He wanted to remove the garment altogether, but she protested so much that he left it on. When it came to her corset, however, he ignored her protests and some bit of nonsense she said about being too chubby without it.

  “You’re perfect,” he told her firmly, and kissed her. “Luscious. Dancers at the Moulin Rouge would be as green as in that painting we saw—green with jealousy—if they saw you. And besides,” he added, rolling her onto her side to loosen her stays, “a woman can’t make love properly in one of these.” With the stays loosened, he was able to unfasten the front hooks and remove the satin and lace contraption altogether, tossing it aside into the grass as he once again rolled her onto her back. He leaned over her, his weight on his forearm, and dipped his head to kiss her neck.

  Her skin was hot, rosy with embarrassment, and she buried her face against the side of his neck as if trying to hide. “Oh, Rhys, don’t,” she whispered, shoving uselessly at his hand as he began to unbutton the front of her chemise. “Somebody might see us.”

  He laughed at that; he couldn’t help it. But when she demanded to know what was so amusing, he shook his head, suppressed his laughter, and did not point out that when two people were rolling around in the grass, anyone watching would know precisely what they were doing, clothes or not. To distract her from all the spinsterish embarrassment, he began kissing her again, working his way slowly downward.

  She was so lovely, half dressed like this, all pink and white and plump, her bare skin peeking here and there from beneath delicious bits of lace and muslin. He lifted himself above her, bracing his weight on one arm as he used the other to pull back the edges of her chemise, exposing her breasts to his gaze.

  His throat went dry at the sight. “Perfect,” he told her again, shaping her breasts with his hands, embracing them, relishing the feel of her erect nipples against his palms. He breathed in feminine warmth and scent as he toyed with her breasts, using his mouth and his fingers to tease and play. When he suckled her, working her nipple gently with his mouth and tongue, his own body felt the erotic answering pull.

  She was shivering beneath him now, all embarrassment forgotten in the flush of arousal. He was not very cool himself; in fact, his whole body burned to have her. But he strove to keep his own desire in check.

  He slipped his hand beneath her skirt and petticoat, gliding it upward along the plane of her thigh and across her hip to the place he wanted most to touch. When he shifted his hand and cupped her mound, her hips tilted up, pressing into that touch with gratifying eagerness. Slowly, gently, he pushed the tip of one finger past the slit of her drawers and into her tight sheath.

  She was wet, deliciously ready, and he could no longer resist the need to be inside her.

  “Come on top of me,” he told her, rolling onto his back, and when she complied, he pulled her skirts up to keep them out of the way and spread her legs over his hips. He then reached between their bodies and hooked one thumb in the opening of her drawers, ripping the thin lawn fabric farther apart to give himself greater access. Gently, he spread her labia with his fingers and thrust upward with his hips, entering her fully.

  She sucked in a deep gasp, and he went still. “Did I hurt you?” he asked, dreading that he had.

  But she shook her head from side to side so emphatically that her hair came tumbling down to tickle his face. “No. Oh, no.”

  Relief flooded through him, followed at once by desperate, hungry need. She was so tight and slick, and she felt so delicious, he had to have more. He thrust up again, wanting to increase the pace, but her body moved on top of his with the awkwardness of her inexperience, and he knew he had to wait yet a little longer. He sucked in deep, steadying breaths to tamp down his own desire, holding back so he could show her how to take what she needed from him.

  “Sit up and brace your weight on my shoulders,” he told her, and when she did, he grasped her hips and lifted his own, pushing up in a slow, flexing move. Then he did it again, and then again, teaching her the rhythm, accustoming her to the feel of him inside her. Each tiny thrust was a lash of pure torture that forced a groan from his lips, but the torture was worth it.

  He kept his eyes open and watched her as he stroked her clitoris with his thumb and stoked the flames of her lust. He watched her as she took the lead, guiding his hand with her own without even realizing it, her body moving on top of his in a demand that set the pace for them both. He watched her, and as he did, he knew he would never see anything in his life lovelier than her face.

  She was blushing, her skin awash with a tint of soft pink in the afternoon sunlight. Her forehead glistened with a fine patina of sweat. Her eyes were closed, her dark lashes like tiny fans against her cheeks. Her lips were parted, and between soft, panting cries, she kept touching them with her tongue. Her expression was one of such erotic concentration, with everything in her striving to reach climax, it made him smile. And when she came, in wave after wave, her hand over his, her body clenching around his penis in convulsions that went on and on and on, he felt a pleasure greater than any he had ever known before.

  And afterward, when she lay in the crook of his arm, nuzzled her face against his neck and whispered, “I love you,” the warmth that washed over him thawed the icy chill in his soul as the gut-twisting heat of Parisian absinthe and the blistering summer sunshine of Italy had never been able to do.

  “This is where we’ll live,” he said.

  And as he kissed her lavender-scented hair and listened to the songbirds in the leafy English elms over their heads, Rhys de Winter thought that perhaps his own April had come at last. He dared to believe that he had finally come home.

  Chapter 15

  Marriage is a solemn vow. Engagements, on the other hand, are made to be broken.

  —The Social Gazette, 1894

  Rhys proved to be a far better liar than Prudence would ever have imagined. He discussed the condition of the farms and the work to be done there with Uncle Stephen at dinner that evening in such detail, she was almost sure he’d actually been at the farms during the afternoon, the time she’d spent with him by the lake nothing more than a dream.

  A very carnal dream. Every time she thought about it, she felt her body heating with embarrassment. And excitement. And a longing for more.

  He wasn’t at breakfast the following morning, and the serving girl at the Black Swan who served them bacon and eggs told them that he’d breakfasted already and would be conducting estate business all day.

  “His Grace thought you might wish to shop in the High Street,” she explained, taking the lid off a warming dish of hot buttered toast, “but he went to the estate on horseback and left you the carriage, miss, on the chance you preferred to return to St. Cyres Castle instead.”

  “Excellent. Thank you.” Prudence reached for a slice of toast as the servant bobbed a curtsy and departed the dining room. “I’m so glad he left me the carriage, for I do want to go back to the house today.”

  “Go back to that horrid place?” Edith set down her teacup and looked at Prudence askance. “Whatever for?”

  “That horrid place is to be my home, Aunt. The duke and I have decided to make St. Cyres Castle our primary residence, and there’s much to do.”

  “Better to live at Winter Park,” Stephen said, helping himself to more kidneys. “Closer to London, and that house is in much better condition.”

  Prudence thought of Rhys’s face the afternoon they’d had tea with his mother, and she knew they would never live at Winter Park. “We want to live at St. Cyres Castle.”

  “Live at that drafty old place? But how silly.” Edith gave a tinkling little laugh. “Why, it will be months before you can even move in. Not to mention the cost of repairs!”

  Prudence smiled. “Then it’
s a fortunate thing I shall have such a large income, isn’t it?”

  Edith made a sound of exasperation. “It is a complete waste of money.”

  “Perhaps. But…” She paused over her eggs and bacon, her eyes wide as she looked at her aunt. “It is my money to waste, isn’t it?”

  “Of course it’s your money,” Stephen put in, his voice hearty and soothing. “Of course it is.”

  Prudence resumed eating. “Besides, I am sure Rhys will be very judicious in how the money is spent.”

  “I daresay he will,” Edith snapped, “since he needs most of your income to pay his debts. And finance his gambling habit, and pay for his women—”

  “That will be enough, Edith,” Stephen cut in, giving his wife a long, hard stare. “We talked about this, remember? Prudence has made her choice, and we must accept it.”

  “Oh, I don’t understand you anymore, Stephen, I really don’t!” Edith cried, dropping her knife and fork into her plate with a clatter. “That Prudence has agreed to marry that man is incomprehensible enough, but that you should take his side and abandon poor Robert, who is to receive only—”

  “I think I’ve had enough breakfast.” Prudence tossed aside her serviette and rose to her feet, knowing if she stayed here any longer, there would be a row, and she was in too good a mood to let Edith ruin it. “I am going back to St. Cyres Castle. Alone,” she added as her aunt started to rise.

  A few seconds later she was out the door, but the arguing voices of her aunt and uncle followed her all the way down the corridor.

  “He’ll leave us to starve in the hedgerows once he’s married her, Stephen! And there you sit, doing nothing about it. Oh, Prudence is blind, blind! And so are you, apparently.”

  “I hardly think we’ll starve. The duke has agreed to give us twenty thousand pounds a year, a very generous sum.”

  “Generous? How can you say so? Why twenty thousand is nothing to what he’ll receive. As Prudence’s husband, he’ll have it all, though he hasn’t done a thing to deserve it, the conniving fortune hunter.”