Deepest Desires of a Wicked Duke

by Sharon Page

  “I can’t sleep. And I won’t leave you down here alone—not when the person who did that could be lying in wait.”

  The fist stopped grinding. He snapped his head around to look at her. “What do you intend to do, Portia?”

  “First, I am going to do this—” She stalked to the unlit fireplace and grabbed the poker. Made of heavy brass, it was a cold weight in her hand.

  “You’re going to protect yourself with a fireplace poker?”

  “I don’t see why that won’t work. Now I am going to help you. I’m going to help you tend to Willoughby. Then find out the truth.”

  “Tend to him?”

  “Do stop repeating everything I say as if it’s shocking. I don’t think I’m shocking you.”

  “You’d be surprised,” he said.

  “Well, we—we can’t just leave Lord Willoughby there.”

  Sinclair scrubbed his jaw. “I’ll get the butler to help me move the body.”

  Another flash of lightning made her almost leap out of her skin. Instinctively she swung the poker. Sinclair stepped back abruptly. “Careful with that thing, love.”

  Love. That name had irritated her before. Now it made her think again of what he’d said. That he regretted what he’d done.

  Bother. He could call her “love” all he wanted. She was not going to let it affect her.

  The silver-blue burst of lightning had stolen her ability to see in the dark. Now she couldn’t see anything outside the windows. Just her reflection in the glass.

  She swallowed. “Do you think there are other people on this island? That someone came up to the house, found him outside, and robbed him?”

  “I don’t know, Portia. I don’t know why anyone would have gone out to the terrace tonight, in a storm, without good reason.”

  “Maybe he went out for a breath of air after the . . . the things he was doing.”

  Sinclair shook his head. “I don’t believe that’s likely.”

  “We should lock the terrace door.”

  “Agreed,” he said. He crossed over and did that. She felt safer once he tried the handle and checked it was locked.

  But then, Viscount Sandhurst had died in the house. And Sinclair had believed he was poisoned.

  Could that really be true? Or was it an attack of his heart?

  But the author of the letters had foreseen it. And knew almost exactly when the young viscount was going to die.

  That had to be murder, didn’t it?

  Was it Sadie and she had actually smothered a grown man with her bosom? And was lying to cover up her deliberate crime . . . ?

  Portia almost let out a desperate, nervous giggle. That was madness. Sadie, a criminal who had engineered the viscount’s death? Why even would she do it? She seemed desperate to snare a man’s attention, not murder him so he would be unable to give her money and gifts.

  Portia looked up. Sinclair had gone back to the body. He’d lifted the coat and looked at the face again. By the light of the lamp, she saw him grimace.

  He dropped the coat.

  “I’m sorry,” she said.

  Willoughby had worked to break up their engagement, but he hadn’t deserved such a horrible death.

  “Sorry about what, love?” Sinclair looked up.

  “I did not hold him in high regard,” she said softly, “but I know he was your very good friend.”

  He frowned. “He was once. Our friendship ended when we faced each other over dueling pistols. I shot wide. He didn’t.”

  “Good heavens, he shot you?”

  “Obviously not fatally.” He smiled, a small upturn of his lips that disappeared quickly.

  “That is not the point. What on earth did you fight about?”

  His broad shoulders shrugged. “He’s dead now. It’s of no consequence.”

  “Was it over a woman?”

  He didn’t answer, but she saw it in his dark brown eyes. It was. She felt it again—the agonizing twist of jealousy.

  “Was it a courtesan?” she asked softly. “Who was she?”

  What woman had he risked his life over? When he had so easily left her, who was the woman who had been worth his life in a duel?

  Slowly, Sinclair walked back to her. He moved with grace, as always, but his expression was stark.

  He came to her until they were only inches away. Until she had to crane her neck to meet his gaze. He was so close she could see droplets of water that still dripped from his hair.

  The hard anger gleaming in his eyes made her take a half step back.

  “Will had deliberately ruined a young woman,” he said, bitterly. “He pursued her, made her believe he was in love with her. She was a rich merchant’s daughter, a naïve and pretty young heiress. She fell for him, went to bed with him. The moment after, he broke it off with her. Her father had died, leaving her a fortune, but she had no strong family to pressure Willoughby into marriage.”

  “So you tried to.”

  “What I did was a damn stupid thing. The indiscretion could have been covered up. By dueling with him, I made the girl’s disgrace public. She . . . she took her own life. And the fault was mine.”

  The emptiness with which he spoke stunned her. “You tried to help, Sinclair—”

  “Portia, I don’t know if that was the real reason I dueled with him.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Will made a game of conning innocent girls, getting them into his bed, then abandoning them. He made wagers with his bas—I mean, his friends. I was angry that he was so callous and I called him out. But maybe I did it because I wanted vengeance for being lured to brothels, for his part in ending our engagement. It was stupid, because the fault was mine.”

  She drew in a deep breath. She knew it was true, but the pain in his eyes touched her heart. “What happened between us is not of consequence. You did champion that poor girl. You risked your life to force Willoughby to do the honorable thing. That makes you the hero—”

  “Angel, of all people, you know I am not heroic.”

  She didn’t know what to say.

  “Do heroes break women’s hearts and hold orgies?”

  “No,” she said. “I suppose not.”

  “Exactly. But I am aware of when a man needs to take action.” Lifting a brow, he looked toward the door.

  Then she knew. “You’re going out there? In the storm?”

  “To hunt. I don’t know if I’ll find anyone out there, but the other option is that someone in this house killed Willoughby.”

  Rain again lashed the panes of the doors. Portia clutched the fireplace poker. “Whoever wrote these notes must have done it. Sadie was alone with Sandhurst.”

  “You think Sadie a murderess?” His brows shot up.

  “I don’t know. It seems madness. But she could have fed him something or given him a drink once they were together.”

  “I saw no used glassware near him. And he didn’t go into the drawing room.”

  She stared at him. The fact that he had thought to look surprised her.

  “I don’t see how he was poisoned during dinner, if in fact, he was,” Sinclair continued. “No one else was near his plate or glass. The butler or footman could have given him an individual serving of food that was poisoned, I guess. Sandhurst left before port was served. He could have had a doctored drink before dinner. There could have been poison in the brandy in his bedchamber. Or Sadie could have done it.”

  Then he added, “But it would have been impossible for Sadie to overpower and attack Will.”

  Portia nodded. That did seem logical. She looked up at the ceiling. Above her were all the bedchambers. “Still, it had to be someone . . . here. In this house. One of the guests. Or one of the servants.”

  “Not necessarily. It could be someone not in the house. Someone hiding on the island. This mysterious host of ours, for instance.”

  “If it was someone outside. . . .” An idea hit her. One she wanted to grasp at. “Perhaps it was someone else who lives o
n the island. Who found Willoughby and decided to attack and rob him.” But that would not explain Sandhurst’s death.

  “No one else lives on this island. That was what I was told, when I was searching for you, asking fishermen on the quay.”

  “You were searching for me? Before you reached the island?”

  “I was sent a note that told me you’d been kidnapped. It was the only reason I came to this place—I was told you were in danger.”

  He’d only come here for her? That thought rushed through her, intense as lightning.

  He’d come close to her, and she was enveloped in awareness of him.

  “What do you think, Portia? To have found Will in a thunderstorm outdoors, the killer had to know where to look. That’s why my suspicions lean toward our unknown host. Someone brought us all here for some purpose.”

  He was telling her of his thoughts. Wanting her opinion. “Wasn’t the orgy the purpose?”

  “That’s what we all thought. Now two of us are dead.” He rubbed his jaw again. “I wonder if our host has arrived and he’s hiding somewhere out there.” He sighed. “It’s time I went out and looked.”

  “I’m coming with you. With the fireplace poker.”

  He began to shake his head, but she marched to the door. “You are not leaving me in here all alone.”

  He rolled his eyes to the ceiling. “You will get soaked to the skin, Portia.”

  “As will you.” She said archly, “You do remember I wanted to marry you once. I don’t now, but I still would be hurt—heartbroken—if anything happened to you.”

  Then he said the most shocking thing, just before opening the glass door and stepping out onto the rain-swept terrace. “You give me hope, angel.”

  “Please cease to say things like that,” she said, following him out.

  As she passed through the open terrace door, she walked into the sudden embrace of his tailcoat, which he’d worn under the great coat he’d draped on Willoughby.

  Sinclair drew his warm coat around her. But despite being swathed in his great coat, her face was almost instantly wet. Her hair was quickly catching up. Already, it clung to her cheeks. Rain dripped from her eyelashes and pelted against her eyes.

  She’d thought the rain was coming down like a sweeping gray sheet. She’d been wrong. Rain seemed to drop in quantity, like an entire sea flooding the terrace from the heavens. His brown hair was plastered to his brow. His shirt, where not covered by waistcoat, went transparent.

  Completely. It clung to his shoulders, his biceps, his forearms, like a teasing veil revealing hints of bronzed skin and dustings of chocolate-brown hair.

  “You can’t give me your coat,” she protested. “You’ll be soaked.”

  “Look down, Portia.”

  Confused, holding his coat on her shoulders with one hand, she did. She had run out in the borrowed white nightdress without even thinking. Rain. White fabric. His shirt looked positively proper in comparison to the way her nightgown’s skirt clung to her legs. She could see the pink skin of her thighs through the clinging fabric. Tummy, bosom—wet fabric clung to every curve she had, revealing all. Her nipples were visible. Almost. A little longer in the rain and she might as well have been naked.

  “Oh.”

  Then, realizing he could see all, she went, “Oh,” and pulled the coat tighter.

  He held out his hand to take hers.

  “I can’t. Between holding your coat and the poker, I haven’t got any free hands.”

  “Wait here, then,” he said. Then he turned and he was gone, running across the stone terrace in the rain. She could barely see him. There was some light spilling from the house. The stone terrace was large and rimmed with a carved stone balustrade. Ornamental vases of stone held flowers. Beyond the terrace, there was a stretch of lawns, but then there was the rough, craggy surface of the island, all mounded rock and small shrubs. That disappeared into darkness. Over the drumming rain, Portia faintly heard the crash of waves. The winds of the storm would be driving the seawater hard against the rocks.

  There were some trees, but they were stunted, lichen-covered things with black trunks and twisted limbs and few leaves. No one could be hiding up in one of them, she was sure. And why would someone, in all this cold, pounding rain?

  Holding the poker up, she hurried out after him. It was so hard to see she almost stumbled over him. He was crouched on one knee, running his bare hand over the grass.

  She bent over. “What are you looking for?”

  “Any kind of clue. Something left behind by Will’s attacker.”

  She peered down at the wet flags. An uneven line of darkness ran along the stones, moving with the rain. Oh heavens, that was blood. “I don’t see a thing.”

  “Neither do I.” He stood, straightening to his full height right beside her.

  There was something about the sight of him wet—

  She didn’t know what it was. The way his hair was sleek and shiny. He flicked his hair to send it flying back, away from her so she wasn’t hit by the spray. Droplets ran along his lips.

  He must look rather like this after a bath—

  A man had been killed! And she was certainly never going see the Duke of Sinclair after he had bathed. A wife barely even did such a thing—

  It was the things he said. They made the daftest thoughts come into her head.

  She was never going to marry the Duke of Sinclair.

  He turned and strode toward the end of the terrace. She wanted to shout to him, but she was afraid of alerting someone. A killer, for example.

  He paused, waiting for her to catch up. As she hurried to him, she saw him look down at her legs. She felt the fabric clinging to her. He looked pained.

  “What’s wrong?” she asked, as she reached him. “You look as if in agony.”

  “I am. Seeing you in a skin-tight, wet white nightgown. This is punishment for every sin I’ve ever committed. To discover how lovely you are, when I can’t touch.”

  “No, you can’t. At least, not my legs.” Touches were something she craved, but they were so very dangerous to her heart. “Are you really intending to search the island tonight?”

  He frowned. “That was my plan. Yet you make it sound idiotic.”

  “It’s pouring rain and pitch-dark. Would someone really be out here? If they are, they must have taken refuge.”

  “We’ll hunt for other buildings.” He took the poker from her hand and clasped her wrist.

  She felt safer being hand in hand with him. Though it spoke of joining, of partnership, and she fought to ignore that.

  He took her down the terrace and they followed the lawns toward the edge of a cliff—the end of the island, where the rock was a drop to the sea.

  Her slippers (also left for her, since she’d worn sensible half boots into the stews) squished with each step. That felt worse than wet clothes. They were also as slippery as metal runners on ice, and she was careful as she ventured near the edge of the cliff. Below, in great bursts of silvery white, waves crashed on the rocks, sending spray up to collide with the cascading rain.

  It might be June, but outside, wet to the skin, she found it freezing. Sinclair was looking below, over the edge of the cliff.

  “No one could be there, could they? They’d fall and be killed. It must be slippery and deadly on the rocks.”

  “True,” he murmured. She barely heard his deep, low voice over the rain. He held her hand tightly, and his was warm, despite the cold rain running between their palms. “We’ll work around to the house.”

  She had insisted on coming out with him, now she knew she’d been mad. She’d thought London rain—cold, dreary, and filled with the soot from all the fires—was awful. This rain felt like icy needles jabbing her. She sneezed.

  Brushing back his hair, the duke stopped. Looked down at her. “Damn, you’re soaked through and you’re going to catch cold. I need to get you back to the house.”

  Before she could protest—or even agree—he scooped h
er into his arms. The cold ridge of the poker was pressed between his palm and her bottom. But she barely noticed that. She couldn’t stop thinking: I’m in his arms, held tight against him.

  He carried her toward the house. She hated to give in and she was used to being tough, but for once in her life she wanted to be safe inside and dry. Well, as safe as she could be.

  How strong his arms were. She felt the hardness of them, his unyielding muscles pressing against her. His hands were splayed under her bottom. Even though she was very practical—she’d been raised to be practical—she couldn’t help but melt at being swept off her feet.

  They reached the terrace, then the doors, and he set her down. She skidded a little as wet slipper sole contacted even wetter smooth flagstone. Skidded and slid so she fell against him, dropping his coat—an accident. It meant her wet nightgown pressed right against him, with her in it.

  His hands went around her waist, drawing her close to him. The poker hit the flagstones with a clang. Another ridge, almost as hard as the poker, pressed to her from the front.

  His mouth touched hers. Warm lips caressed hers. As if ten years hadn’t happened—

  He pulled back. This time he was the one to do the sensible thing. “You need a hot bath. Then bed.”

  “A bath? It’s the middle of the night. The poor maid will be asleep. I can’t bear to wake her. I’ll towel off and be fine.” She stopped on the threshold of the door. Perhaps, inside, there was a murderer. Waiting. Or perhaps he was out here....

  “Do you really think there is someone hiding on the island?” she asked. “Or do you think it’s one of them? If Willoughby did awful things, like ruin women, perhaps one of those people wanted revenge.”

  “Possible. So it’s a good thing we’re sharing a bedroom tonight.”

  “What?”

  “You’ll sleep in the bed, after we’ve gotten you dried off. I’ll sleep on a chair. But with the door locked, I’ll know you’re safe.”

  Portia knew she would be safe, even locked in a bedroom with the notorious Duke of Sinclair. She knew he would be a perfect gentleman.

  But she had kissed him again. And, as wrong as it was, she’d wanted more than that brief, soft kiss.