The Dangerous Duke

by Christine Wells

  He raised his brows. “But of course. If that is your wish.” He infused his tone with doubt and had the satisfaction of seeing that familiar blush stain her cheeks and the fair skin of her throat.

  She still looked uncertain, as if she didn’t trust him, yet good breeding prevented her doubting him openly.

  He paused, clasping his hands behind his back and looking thoughtful. “It might be difficult to keep my word, however.”

  Her gaze flew to his. “You wouldn’t!”

  He continued to look thoughtful, ignoring her nervous interjection. “I am here to protect you. What if the house catches fire? What if government agents break in and kidnap you, or worse? No, on second thought, I cannot give you my word to stay away from your bath. In fact, the more I think about it, the more I’m persuaded it’s my duty to stay with you.”

  She looked as horrified as a virgin on her wedding night. “No!”

  “I’d turn my back, of course,” he went on, playing with her. “And believe me, that would tax my powers far more than yours.”

  Her nostrils flared. She took a step towards him, hazel eyes shooting sparks. She looked like she might actually strike. Now, that would be interesting.

  A lady to the last, she clenched her hands into fists and controlled her impulse. “If you refuse me privacy, I won’t bathe at all.”

  “Cutting off your nose to spite your face, aren’t you? I’d be ready to wager you’re longing for a bathe after that tumble you took. So soothing, the hot water sliding over your skin . . .”

  Her freezing gaze made him want to strip her and haul her over his shoulder to the bath. The hot water would soon warm her. And if that didn’t work, he could certainly assist the process.

  Between rigid lips, she said, “I can make do with the wash stand. Now, go away!”

  The tiniest break in her voice caught him by surprise. A pang of remorse struck him. Of course, this had been a game to him, and a delightful one, but she was a woman and completely in his power. She’d had a difficult time. Reluctantly, he acknowledged it was unfair to taunt her.

  He held up his hands in a conciliatory gesture. “Very well. I give you my word I shan’t enter the bathroom with you in it. Even if flaming rafters fall around my ears, I shall leave you to burn before I break my vow. Satisfied?”

  She watched him for a moment, her eyes still wide. Then she nodded.

  “I’ll leave you to bathe, then.” At the door, he turned back with a smile. “And I won’t even imagine what you look like while you do it.”

  He closed the door on her outraged gasp.

  BLISS.

  Kate lowered herself into the bathtub and breathed a long sigh of relief. The water cushioned, soothed, and warmed her body. Her many aches and pains after that ill-advised leap from the carriage had plagued her throughout the morning’s drive, though she’d done her best to conceal her discomfort.

  Typical Lyle. He’d noticed and offered her an inducement she couldn’t refuse. When she got out, she’d think about how to get back to London. Right now, she’d simply sink into peace.

  She smiled at the maid who attended her, a quiet girl, far more efficient than Sukey. “You may go. I’ll call when I require assistance.”

  Kate slid down further, watching the linen shift she wore lift and balloon with water. Ordinarily, she wouldn’t choose to wear a shift while bathing, but she didn’t quite trust Lyle to stay away.

  She sighed. Never mind that now. The duke’s image receded as she abandoned herself to sensual pleasure of an innocent kind.

  The bathroom was small and cozy, with a thick, patterned carpet on the floor and a bright fire in the hearth. She could stay there for hours and not get cold.

  Such luxury! She’d see about installing a room like this at home. Now there was piped water to be had in London, separate bathrooms were the rage in wealthy households.

  She laid her head back and contemplated the calico curtain surrounding her. An ingenious invention, designed to ward off stray drafts. Lavender-scented steam rose and furled upwards, funneling through the small opening at the top of the tentlike structure, to curl around the moldings in the plaster ceiling.

  She parted the curtain a little way with a languid hand. On a small table beside the bath stood a glass vial of oil— presumably the lavender scent that seemed to exercise such a calming effect on her senses—a scrubbing brush, a small cake of soap, and a flannel.

  Kate took the soap and ran it idly up her arm, watching the bubble-edged lather trail along her skin. On her shoulder, a purple-and-red bruise bloomed around the strap of her shift.

  After all the worry of the past few days—over Stephen, the kidnapping, the sick anticipation of Lyle’s next move in this seductive game they played—a drugging weariness spread through her limbs. She would think about how to escape the duke tomorrow. First, she needed to recruit her strength for what might lie ahead.

  Ah! She was exhausted. She could almost . . . fall . . .

  Even as her eyelids drifted shut, Kate sensed someone’s presence. She opened her eyes a crack, dreamily expecting the intruder to be the maid with a can of hot water.

  But the shadow rippling across the calico curtain was too large to be a maid.

  MAX smiled to himself. He’d pushed his luck a little too far in Lady Kate’s bedchamber, perhaps. If he made any more jokes about guarding her from harm, she might soon realize that she wasn’t in danger at all.

  He stood at a window and gazed out at the rolling green countryside, now hazed with a light fall of rain. He’d know what to do with this place once this business was over. He enjoyed hunting—the physicality, the exhilaration of it. The thrill of the chase. Ah, yes. Hunting, spying, and women— all pursuits he’d enjoyed at one time or another.

  Would he know what to do with himself when it was all over? Well, he would have the estate to occupy him and all of the other holdings he’d inherited according to the entail. That was a challenging enough responsibility for any man. The Duke of Lyle had fingers in many pies, from coal mines in Wales to this gem in the heart of Melton country.

  How long would he keep Lady Kate here? An interesting question. He’d dispatched his ransom note to the Reverend Holt with Perry on the boy’s return from delivering Lady Kate’s maid back to London.

  What if the answer he sought arrived tomorrow? Would he leave Lady Kate while he investigated Holt’s information, or let the reverend gentleman rot in prison a day or two longer than necessary while he got to know his captive better?

  His lips twisted with rueful self-knowledge. He was no saint, particularly where Lady Kate was concerned. Perhaps he needn’t choose. Holt might hold out a little longer. Percy might be delayed.

  He started as a sudden burst of rain clattered like a handful of pebbles thrown against the window. As the fat drops hit the glass and drizzled down the pane, he imagined the cascade of steaming water down a slender, white back . . .

  He’d said he wouldn’t picture Lady Kate in her bath, hadn’t he? Max shrugged with a sense of inevitability.

  He’d lied.

  But he was well punished for such indulgence. The images that flitted across his mind merely tantalized him. They wouldn’t harm her because she’d never know of them anyway. He’d no intention of breaking his word to her about giving her privacy. Until she started to trust him a little he’d get nowhere with his plans for her.

  Still, there wasn’t much time. He’d only have Lady Kate to himself for a few days. If he didn’t move quickly she’d go back to her settled, sophisticated, oddly spotless life and forget he existed. Uneasily, he realized he’d have a far more difficult time forgetting her.

  Restless, he turned from the window and glanced at the ormolu clock on the mantelpiece. He was hungry; he should take steps to make himself presentable and join Lady Kate in the light meal he’d ordered for her when she emerged from her bath.

  Another image flashed across his mind—Lady Kate, rising from the tub like Venus, water cascading ov
er those firm, high breasts, streaming down her lithe flanks. The urge to join her there, to fulfill every sensual promise he’d left unspoken, gripped him in a way that demanded immediate response.

  From the beginning of their acquaintance, he’d wanted her, and the desire had grown to outright need.

  He’d given his word he wouldn’t disturb her.

  Word of a gentleman. He growled, moving towards the door.

  It had been a long time since he’d considered himself a gentleman.

  LYLE! Gasping, Kate hugged her body, covering the essential parts where the fabric of her shift clung and revealed her shape.

  Her heart bounded, kicking her pulse to a frantic pace. In the space of a few seconds, contradictory emotions passed through her. Outrage that he’d invaded her privacy, alarm, apprehension, and a perverse, terrified excitement so intense it almost sickened her.

  She heard the swish of the curtain parting behind her. She made as if to turn around, but large hands bracketed her head, holding it still with gentle but insistent pressure.

  A large presence loomed behind her. She sensed his weight and substance, though she couldn’t see.

  Kate wanted to cry out, but her voice wouldn’t cooperate. He didn’t speak, either, just cradled her head in his large hands, letting her anticipation build.

  Was this some kind of game? She didn’t like it, but her body reacted. Heat pooled low in her belly. Her breath stuttered and came in short pants.

  “No!” But the word passed her lips as a whisper.

  His grip on her head shifted lower, She tried to scramble up, reaching for the calico curtain to cover herself, but he slammed her back against the high lip of the tub.

  Her shoulders took most of the impact but pain lanced her head where it connected with the metal. The shock of such brutal force paralyzed her.

  Hands descended to her throat, caressing it almost lovingly, as if he hadn’t hurt her at all. Shame swept over her. For a few instants, this encounter had excited her, but no more. Tears started to her eyes.

  She couldn’t look at him, too humiliated to cry out for help. What would they do, anyway? They thought he was her husband. He could do what he liked to her and no one in this household would dare interfere. Foolish to come to this place as his false bride. Foolish not to try to escape.

  Desperately, she whispered, “Don’t. Please don’t.”

  As if her words acted as the trigger, his hands tightened around her throat.

  It’s not Lyle.

  The instant she realized, panic swept over her in a blinding rush. She screamed, struggling and flailing her arms. She knocked the table flying and the glass vial smashed on the floor as the hands gripped her.

  Jagged agony ripped through her throat. She gasped, desperate to drag air into her lungs, but those merciless hands slowly constricted her air passage. Kate clawed at them, desperate to ease their grip, but in vain.

  She kicked and thrashed harder, twisting and sliding in the water, commanding all her strength to fight certain death. Her lungs heaved and the blood drummed a deep tattoo in her head. Her vision blurred, washed with a thousand pinpricks of light.

  This was it, the end. Nameless regret flooded her, an emotion so powerful, for an instant it overwhelmed her physical pain.

  Blackness edged her vision, pulling her under. Unimaginable pain. Her lungs were about to burst.

  Suddenly, the chokehold on her throat vanished. She flopped like a rag doll into the water, barely retaining the strength to keep her head above the sloshing waves.

  Lyle erupted into the room, moving faster than she’d ever seen a man move before.

  His sharp eyes swiftly assessed her. “Are you all right?” At her slight nod, he added, “Which way?”

  Gasping, unable to speak at first, she shook her head. She hadn’t seen where her attacker had gone. She didn’t care.

  “Lyle!” she croaked. But she spoke to thin air.

  Tenderly, she brushed her fingertips over the painful spot on the back of her head. There was a lump. Her throat felt like it was filled with shards of glass. Every swallow was agony.

  She sat, trembling uncontrollably, her mind flashing with scenes of the attack. The water had grown tepid. She’d soaked in this bath for a long time, yet she didn’t feel clean.

  Cupping shaking hands together, she scooped up some water and splashed her face, then buried it in her hands. She needed to get out, but she was shaking so hard and so drained by her fight with death that she didn’t know if she had the strength.

  It took a long time to summon the will to move. Gingerly, she lifted herself out of the tub, shivering despite the fire and the room’s warmth. She felt weary, like an old woman, wrung out.

  Someone had tried to kill her.

  She wrapped a towel around herself and sank to the floor, shaking. She couldn’t stop.

  When Lyle returned, Kate was still huddled in the corner of the room, hugging her knees. And very, very cold.

  He took one look at her and scooped her into his arms, as if she weighed nothing at all. His warmth barely penetrated her icy skin, but his arms around her felt strong and safe.

  He strode out and down the corridor to her bedchamber, setting her down gently on the hearth rug by the fire.

  “You’ve had a shock,” he said. “Here, drink this.”

  His deep, quiet voice steadied her a little. She opened her eyes, which were now level with a pair of highly polished top boots and trailed her gaze upwards.

  She saw that he held out a silver flask to her, but she couldn’t lift her hand out of the enveloping towel to grasp the neat little container. He knelt beside her and raised the flask to her lips, placing his free hand behind her head to steady her. She winced.

  “Don’t worry, it’s only brandy.”

  “No, it’s my head,” she whispered hoarsely.

  His fingertips tilted her head forward, gently searching her scalp through her hair. “A nasty bump. We shall have to see what we can do about that. In the meantime, drink. And then we shall have to get you dry or you’ll catch your death by cold rather than strangulation.”

  Kate was in no condition to quibble, so she obediently took a series of slow, painful sips of the fiery liquid from the duke’s flask.

  It burned her throat almost unbearably, but the warmth stole through her body, tracing a path down to her stomach and spreading along her limbs to her fingertips and toes.

  The pain in her head intensified, as if something beat a cudgel inside her skull. She winced, repressing a whimper.

  Lyle spoke. “I’ll ask the housekeeper to prepare a tisane. In the meantime, let’s get you dry.”

  “No.” But she was far too weak and numb to put up a decent fight. Gently, but with a determination that allowed for no argument, the duke helped her to stand.

  “Tell me what happened.” He set about toweling her dry, or at least, drying the parts of her that weren’t covered with a sopping wet shift. “I’ll work as quickly as I can.”

  Kate tried to remove her mind from the room, tried to pretend it was Sukey drying her legs with such brisk efficiency, rubbing the towel with firm pressure down her arms, traveling with gossamer lightness over the bruises.

  But he was too large a presence, both figuratively and literally, to imagine away. Those big hands, so gentle. The concentration with which he performed his task.

  Kate clenched her teeth to stop them chattering. Part of her wanted Lyle to go away. But she needed to get dry, as he said, and she didn’t want a stranger with her now.

  Lyle made an impatient noise and pinched a fold of her shift between finger and thumb, peeling it away from her leg. “I shall have to take this off you.”

  She twitched it from his hand. “Do it . . . myself.”

  Kate swallowed hard and reached for the towel. But when he gave it to her, she was shaking so much, she dropped it on the floor. She gave a hoarse cry, frustrated at her uselessness.

  “Did you catch him?” she whisp
ered.

  MAX picked up the towel and shook his head. He had a hard time looking her in the eye. “George is scouring the grounds, but there are any number of hiding places and avenues of escape. Pretty cool, to come right into the lion’s den. He must be mad or foolhardy, and I don’t know which would be worse.”

  Thank God he hadn’t listened to the promptings of his better self and stayed away from her. She’d very nearly . . .

  He closed his eyes, clamping his lips together so he wouldn’t let out a roar of guilt and shame.

  He’d managed to deal with the situation with his customary efficiency, but blind fury still raged under his calm surface. At this unknown assassin, but mostly at himself, for failing to prevent the attack.

  He didn’t make mistakes. The way one stayed alive, the way one got the job done in his line of work was to keep ahead of the adversary every step of the way. How had he missed the signs?

  Was his desire for this woman dulling his instincts? Blinding him to everything but the need to lure her to his bed?

  If he’d treated this like any other case, the attack wouldn’t have happened. If he’d been able to control his lust better, she wouldn’t be sporting those livid marks around her graceful throat.

  He took a deep breath, trying to calm himself.

  God, he was a beast. Even now, he wanted her. That lovely body still quivered with distress, and all he wanted to do was to make it quiver with an entirely different emotion.

  He watched her, trembling from head to foot, her hair darkened by damp and hanging in rats tails around that piquant face, and a sickening wave of shame broke in his chest. Her eyes were slightly dazed with the aftermath of fighting for her life. Soon, real terror would set in.

  The trained professional said now was his best chance to question her, but the man was strangely reluctant.

  Another nail in the coffin of objectivity. He couldn’t treat Kate like any other witness, no matter how much he wanted to block these ridiculous feelings he had for her.

  He could pinpoint the exact moment the reality of her near escape came home to her. She gave a sobbing gasp. A shudder ran through her frame. He saw her shoulders tense as she fought it. She was trying to maintain the appearance of calm in front of him, but it was damnably difficult. Her sheer courage was worse reproach than tears and recriminations.