Deepest Desires of a Wicked Duke

by Sharon Page

  She pulled away from him. “No! You wouldn’t have done that. You would have preferred to go to brothels and had your naughty parties. I wouldn’t have kept you interested.”

  “Yes, you would.”

  She shook her head fiercely. “It’s too late. Too wretchedly late.”

  She started for the door.

  “Before you go storming away, Portia, you need to read this.” Sin drew the sealed note addressed to her out of the pocket of his waistcoat and handed it to her. “I was given a note by the butler, from our host, Lord Genvere. Enclosed in mine was this note, addressed to you.”

  “I don’t know Lord Genvere. . . .” She tore it open. “Goodness, what is this? It makes no sense at all. “It says: ‘I know all your sins—’ ”

  “ ‘They will soon be revealed. And you will pay for your crime,’ ” he finished.

  “How did you know?”

  “Mine said the same. This note means our host must be responsible for bringing you here. He’s not coming until tomorrow morning. I don’t care for Genvere’s sense of humor.”

  “I no longer think this could be a joke.” She pointed to the bottom of her note. Unlike his, hers had a smear of color on the paper. A thick, inconsistent line of dull red-brown ink. No, not ink. Blood. As if the writer had wanted to punctuate the message with a fierce underline of blood.

  “This is a threat,” she whispered.

  7

  I made a hell of a mistake. I should have married you and dedicated my life to giving you pleasure.

  Portia kept hearing his words in her head. Each one punctuated by the thrumming beat of her heart as she walked downstairs.

  She should have been thinking of the horrible note she’d received. The bloody print on it. The threat. Sinclair had believed it was paint, not blood. But she suspected he was lying to keep her from being afraid.

  The threat made him become terribly protective and insist she should stay locked in the bedroom. She’d insisted it was all the more reason to go downstairs.

  Finally, he had relented. Sinclair said he was reluctant to leave her alone, even if locked in her room, because she could be in further danger. He wanted her where he could see her.

  Really, how dare he think he had to give her permission! He had surrendered that right on the night he had broken their engagement.

  On the other hand, the thought of someone cutting a finger to draw a line of blood made her worry. It seemed . . . mad.

  Still, the uppermost thought on her mind was what he’d said. I should have married you.

  Too late, too late, too late, she thought, and swept downstairs.

  She turned the corner at the bottom of the steps, waiting for an orgy to leap out at her.

  One didn’t exactly, but there, beneath the stairs, a courtesan was playfully spanking the tight bottom of a dark-haired gentleman who looked like a grown-up, stubble-covered version of a naughty little boy.

  He was the one who’d been in the bedroom with the voluptuous blonde. But this woman was quite different. Tall, dark-haired, dressed in a gown that would have made a duchess weep with envy. How could this woman be a courtesan? She looked more regal than the Princess.

  “You shouldn’t be watching that.” Behind her, the duke’s voice was curt, low.

  Exasperation—and a strange wound-up tension—made her snap, “Why not? They are fully dressed and she is spanking him the way she would discipline a little boy. That I have seen before.”

  Sinclair had just teased her with the life she could have had. Hinted at the pleasure she could have spent ten years enjoying—her whole, entire youth. But she would never have that life. Never know that pleasure.

  She was nine-and-twenty. Portia had given up on love, on making love. She’d pushed aside marriage as impossible. As for children . . . that was a thought guaranteed to bring her to tears if she didn’t remain staunchly stoic.

  Drat him. Of course her tongue was sharp.

  “Not that I condone that in our foundling home,” she continued briskly. “There is no corporal punishment allowed. But really—why on earth would he find it pleasurable to be treated like a misbehaved toddler?”

  Sinclair stood at her side, watching the spanking from under thick, dark brown, curling lashes. Tension was written in his expression—in the lines around his mouth, the way his eyes narrowed. “That I can’t explain for you,” he said.

  A gong rang at that moment.

  “What does that signify? What are people about to do?” She looked around, heart pounding. Did they all race to a bed?

  “It signifies dinner, love.”

  “Dinner? They have dinner?”

  He shook his head, looking bemused. “You thought they just had sex and never stopped to eat?”

  “Well, er—yes.”

  “No gentleman would put up with that. He expects to be well fed, and given damn good port as well.” Sinclair offered the crook of his arm. “We are supposed to go into dinner in order of precedence.”

  “And you are a duke.”

  “I am expected to escort one of the high-ranking women into the room. But I’m not letting another man lay his hands on you,” he growled.

  The guests were gathering, but Sinclair swept her into line before she had a chance to really look at them. One man went in before Sinclair, which meant he had to be at least a duke in ranking. He was the tall, broad-shouldered man with the unusual silver and black hair, and he was almost as handsome as Sinclair. Under long dark lashes, the man studied her curiously. His intense stare made her fear he could see through her mask.

  Impossible, of course. Or so she prayed.

  Sinclair called him “Saxonby,” nodding curtly. The other man returned the quick nod. Obviously they knew each other.

  She’d wondered how people greeted each other at orgies. Did they trade commentary about the weather before . . . before watching each other do something naughty to someone’s private bits?

  They were approaching the enormous dining table and the balding butler stepped in front of them.

  Sinclair growled—he seemed to be doing a lot of growling. “She sits beside me.”

  But the butler rushed in. “My apologies, Your Grace, but that is not possible. Seating has been arranged by Lord Genvere, based upon precedence.” The butler waved his hand and a handsome footman, dressed in livery, came forward to direct her to her seat.

  A footman, whose impassive expression kept changing into a smirk, led her to a chair positioned between two young men—a tall, slim man with golden blond hair, a baby nose, and huge blue eyes, and the raven-haired man who had been spanked. He possessed a gentleman’s jaded expression.

  With wide blue eyes, the blond man introduced himself by lifting her gloved hand—in fine white silk gloves—and bestowing a kiss. He smiled at her. His eyes shone at her. “I am Viscount Sandhurst.”

  Portia floundered. She couldn’t give her name, and she’d never thought of that. Sandhurst was young, but dressed in elegant, stunning clothes. Diamonds glittered on his buttons and gold thread adored his silk waistcoat.

  “I am Miss . . . Miss Love.”

  “What a delightful name.” Sandhurst grinned. “I saw you come downstairs with the Duke of Sinclair. Throws fantastic parties. I’ve never been, but I’ve wanted to go. Are you his special mistress? You are lovely.”

  “I—” Being Sinclair’s mistress would be safest, wouldn’t it? There was irony. “Yes, I am exclusive to him.”

  “A dashed shame. You have the prettiest lips I have ever seen.” He leaned close. His breath tickled her ear.

  Of course that was all of her face he could see. Should she run? No, she couldn’t do that. She couldn’t flee in a panic after only minutes here. However, she was used to dealing with unwanted male attention with a pistol. Here, she was devoid of weaponry.

  Young Sandhurst whispered, “I have to admit I’ve never been to one of these. To a scandalous party. What happens? How do people begin to have sex with each other? I feel
too dashed awkward, not knowing how to begin.”

  She had no idea. She could be truthful. But it was too tempting to make fun. How did people go from sitting calmly around a dinner table to doing carnal things . . . in a group? “I believe sometimes an announcement is made. Something like: ‘Begin Rutting in Three seconds.’ Then a countdown ensues. A horn might be blown, as if signaling a hunt.”

  “Ah.” He nodded. “I wonder what will be done here. Have you met our host?”

  Heavens, this young man was naïve. “No. Do you know Lord Genvere?” she asked.

  “Never met him. Dashed surprised to receive the invitation, but since I’ve been eager to attend a sex party, I accepted at once. At least he’s invited attractive guests.”

  She glanced around the table at the glittering crowd. Yes. And some he brought against their will.

  Soup was served. A lobster bisque, rich and velvety.

  She got that feeling—the prickling awareness that someone was watching her. Looking up, she met Sinclair’s intense, chocolate-brown eyes. He shot a glare at Sandhurst.

  She knew what she must do. Find out what she could from the young viscount. But how did she do it? She couldn’t ask: Did you kidnap me? This young man looked too callow to be a dastardly kidnapper with a warped sense of humor.

  She touched his wrist to get his attention.

  Sandhurst jerked around so quickly he almost knocked over his wineglass. She snapped her hand out and saved it.

  He was staring so intently at her, he hadn’t even noticed. “Yes, Miss Love?” he asked. He looked boyishly hopeful.

  With a pang, she remembered Sinclair as a young man of nineteen. He had been so boyishly gorgeous too.

  “Did you receive a note from our host? An odd and unsettling note?”

  “The note? I thought it was a hint we would be doing sinful things tonight. We will, won’t we?”

  A hint. She hadn’t thought that. But then this young man hadn’t been kidnapped and tied to a bed. Yet, that could have been a sick joke as well.

  “Did you know anything about my arrival?”

  “No, I wish I had. Of course, I guess you’re the property of Sinclair. And he’s known to be a crack shot.”

  “So am I,” murmured the black-haired man at her side. He leaned close to her, his lids half-covering his green eyes. “I can also boast the best endowment of any man here. I’ve seen my competition and it wilts before my impressive prick. I possess thirteen inches. In this instance, my dear, thirteen is very lucky.”

  He grinned. Smugly.

  Portia slowly put together the words he’d said. Prick. Endowment. Thirteen inches. Suddenly she knew what he meant.

  Her gaze went down. She couldn’t help it. She was utterly shocked. She used an inch ruler for school lessons and she knew how long one foot was. His was even longer . . . ?

  Heavens, what must such a thing look like, sticking out from him and swinging about—?

  “You have the most stunning eyes,” he murmured. “What do you really look like under that mask, Miss Love?”

  “Like myself,” she hedged.

  The man’s black brow lifted. She saw he had scars on his cheeks and down his jawline. From battle with Napoleon? Duels with rapiers? Fisticuffs? Or perhaps not so romantic—perhaps his valet was clumsy when he shaved.

  The man leaned closer. “I am an earl. I can be generous. Having found coal on my estate, I can be a damn sight more generous than Sinclair. I’m not afraid to fight for you, my dear. If I decide I want you.”

  If he decided—? Despite leaning close and trying to look down her bodice, he was also looking down his aquiline nose at her. Arrogant nuisance.

  “Perhaps you should not trouble yourself to decide.” She said it with complete sweetness. “The Duke of Sinclair is the most wonderful protector a girl could ever want. He is the perfect man. Generous and handsome. And he’s a duke. What girl would say no to a duke?”

  His eyes narrowed, and she felt a tiny triumph at pricking his arrogance a bit.

  “Most women do not say no to me,” he stated imperiously. “I can fuck you better than he can, I promise you. Meet me tonight. After you’ve been filled by my thick staff, you’ll never want any other man again.”

  Oh goodness. What in heaven’s name did she say? “I . . . I assure you that the Duke of Sinclair is like a stallion. An absolute stallion.”

  Thank heavens for the mask. Her face was so hot from blushing, she was actually perspiring.

  Portia was used to herding children, thus she was able to line up the guests in her mind. There were thirteen guests altogether—including her.

  Seven of the guests were gentlemen, all titled, ranging from dukes to viscounts. The eldest was a marquis who had to be over sixty. He bore a haughty expression and was still rather handsome, with a lean, straight form and thick white hair. He used a gold-topped stick for walking.

  There was another earl, a brawny middle-aged man with barrel chest and huge shoulders. He looked like a pugilist, a boxer, but dressed like a gentleman. He was handsome, but more grizzled with auburn-brown hair. Then the Earl of Rutledge, with his coal-black hair and emerald green eyes—and his colossal arrogance. The Viscount Sandhurst, obviously the youngest gentleman, who wore a wide-eyed expression and was thoroughly beautiful with his full lips and long, curling lashes. Sinclair and Saxonby, of course. There was another man with dark gold hair—darker than Sandhurst’s tresses—but she couldn’t see his face.

  And then there were the women. Portia was awfully curious about them—what kind of women attended orgies? Could a woman be behind her kidnapping?

  Five other women sat at the table. Five women, each completely different from the others. Portia watched all the women, straining to listen to their conversations.

  One of the women appeared to be a real lady of the ton. She had entered the dining room on Saxonby’s arm. Portia tried not to stare as she recognized the woman—the one who had cried out in ecstasy as she was made love to from behind by Saxonby. The lady possessed golden blond hair, large blue eyes, and a slender, but lovely figure clad in white silk. Portia felt a stab of jealousy as the woman leaned close to Sinclair and he turned at once to speak to her, their heads close together.

  Why should she care? It was all in the past, everything between her and Sinclair.

  Sandhurst leaned toward her. “She’s lovely, isn’t she? You’d never guess she was a widow. She’s barely twenty-three. She is Countess Linley.”

  Wonderful. A woman of Sinclair’s world exactly—titled, beautiful, and wanton.

  “The man she’s talking to now is the Duke of Saxonby. He’s one of the Wicked Dukes. But of course you know that—so is the Duke of Sinclair.”

  Portia looked up to realize Lady Linley had turned her attention to Saxonby. She felt foolishly relieved.

  She did know about the nickname, the Wicked Dukes. She’d read it in gossip columns. She would sneak peeks to see mention of Sinclair. Not that she would ever admit she did so. She did not want anyone to think she still cared.

  Because she did not still care, of course. She had just been curious.

  “Who are the others?” she asked. “I haven’t been introduced.”

  “This is Sadie, beside me,” he said. He ran his finger around his cravat as he looked at Sadie.

  “Miss Sadie?”

  “Miss Bradshaw, I guess,” he said, looking at her in confusion.

  But oddly, it bothered her that Sadie, even though she did look scandalous, did not even merit a proper introduction. Then she got rather a good look at Sadie and her dress.

  The bodice was . . . well, as good as transparent. The filmy red lace barely covered her large, tawny nipples, not that it mattered, since one could see the nipples’ shape and color through the fabric.

  Portia knew this was supposed to be an orgy, and she shouldn’t look disapproving if she was going to be disguised as Sinclair’s mistress. But she couldn’t help it.

  And deep down inside, s
he couldn’t stop remembering what Sadie’s breasts looked like naked, for she’d seen them engulfing the face of the Earl of Rutledge. Now she was putting them on display for everyone, even strangers.

  Portia felt disapproving, as one would expect.

  But she felt something surprising. She felt rather hot and tingling about the idea of sensuality being so open and free.

  What would it be like to be so bold?

  Exciting? It seemed frightening, yet that made her heart beat faster and it made her feel . . . hot and squishy. The same way she used to feel when Julian—Sinclair kissed her.

  Sadie was young—perhaps nineteen—with fluffy blond curls. As the course was cleared, Sadie leaned over toward the Viscount Sandhurst, lifted his hand, and slipped it somewhere down in her lap.

  He went red as a beetroot.

  A few moments later more food came, so Sandhurst had to use both his hands to eat. Sadie turned to her food, so Portia, blushing fiercely too, leaned to him. “What about the other women? Who are they?”

  She was squirming with embarrassment, but she had a mission. To find her kidnapper. To find out who had sent those eerie notes.

  “The older courtesan sitting beside the Duke of Sinclair is Harriet Barker.” The lad blushed even redder, now looking like a prize tomato.

  Harriet Barker wore so many diamonds, Portia was surprised she didn’t fall over from the weight. She wore black—pure black satin, cut low to reveal a cleavage like two plump pillows. Her hair was henna red. She had a beautiful face, but it was lined, and she wore rather a lot of rouge and lip color.

  “She looks like a madam,” Portia said. In the stews of London, She had seen a few madams trying to steal hapless young women off the streets.

  “She is a madam. I lost my virginity at her establishment.”

  Wine sputtered from Portia’s lips. Really, she thought she was naïve in this world. He was even worse.

  Across from the young courtesan Sadie, sat the elegant young woman who had spanked Rutledge. Portia thought she must be a lady, but her position at the table belied it. She was exotic and beautiful with dark eyes and she swept her lashes over them in a sultry way. Yet she could not be a lady, or she would be sitting much nearer to the dukes. Portia had heard of women called Incognitas. They were courtesans but were as well-dressed and well-mannered as ladies of the ton. So this woman was the Elegant Incognita.