The Desires of a Duke: Historical Romance Collection

by Darcy Burke

She gritted her teeth at his cool correction. “The point is, Your Grace, I heard you assaulting this lady and—”

  “You have no idea what you heard.” The duke’s mouth formed a humorless smile. “Now run along, pet, and leave us be.”

  Pet? As if she were a spaniel trained to do his bidding? Before she could summon a scathing reply, the lady gripped her arm.

  “Strathaven is right,” the redhead pleaded. “Nothing happened.”

  “But he tied you up and was about to ... hurt you.” Had the rogue meant to beat the woman—rape her? Both? Quelling a shudder, Emma said, “If you’re afraid, you needn’t be. My brother is a former member of the Thames River Police, and he knows the Chief Magistrate of Bow Street personally—”

  “No.” Her face draining of color, the lady whispered, “I implore you, Miss Kent. If anyone catches wind of this, I’ll be ruined. Lord Osgood, my husband … he’ll never forgive me.” Her voice hitched on a sob. “There cannot be a scandal.”

  “Surely if you explain to your husband—”

  “My reputation will be destroyed. I would rather die.” Tears streamed down Lady Osgood’s beautiful face, her fingers digging painfully into Emma’s flesh. “If you truly wish to help me, swear on everything you hold dear that you’ll never breathe word of this matter.”

  Emma hesitated, darted a glance at Strathaven. He’d propped one velvet-clad shoulder against a gazebo post, his pose utterly unconcerned. Frustration smoldered in her chest. It wasn’t fair that Lady Osgood had to worry about her reputation whilst he didn’t have to answer for his misdeeds. Why should he get away with assault just because he was a man—a duke?

  ’Twas injustice of the worst sort.

  “Promise me, Miss Kent.” Lady Osgood fell to her knees.

  Shocked, Emma tried to pull the other up. “Please don’t—”

  “I shan’t move until you give me your word.” More tears slid over the lady’s sculpted cheekbones, her lips trembling. “If you don’t, I shall be forced to do something drastic. I’d rather end it all than—”

  “I won’t tell anyone,” Emma said desperately. “Please get up.”

  “Truly?” Lady Osgood whispered. “You swear it—on everything you hold dear?”

  With lingering reluctance, Emma gave a nod.

  Lady Osgood rose, her gaze flitting to Strathaven. Emma couldn’t decipher the duke’s expression. What hold did he have over the lady? Would he threaten or hurt her in the future?

  “Stay away from her,” Emma warned, “or I will see justice done.”

  Lightning flashed in the duke’s gaze, his expression that of a wrathful god ready to wage war. The air seemed to crackle with his aggression. Swiftly, Emma took Lady Osgood by the arm and dragged her back toward the house. As they traversed the twisting maze, Emma’s heart thudded, sweat dampening her unmentionables even as she kept a quick, determined pace.

  With an adversary like Strathaven, it was best to keep going and never look back.

  Chapter 2

  “You’re not angry with me, are you, darling?” a husky feminine voice asked.

  Alaric James Alexander McLeod, the eighth Duke of Strathaven, cast a cool glance over at Lady Clara Osgood. They were alone in his private cottage in St. John’s Wood, and she was naked, waiting on her hands and knees on the black satin sheets. For their mutual pleasure, he’d kept her in that pose while he disrobed. He was taking his time about it, noting how she shivered at the sound of his garments being removed, her bottom angling subtly and suggestively higher in the air.

  Clara enjoyed assuming an obedient role in their bed sport. As he was an unquestionably dominant lover, this had made for a good fit ... for a while, at least. He was aware of his restlessness, the ennui that remained untouched by the games he and Clara played. Less than a month into their affaire, he was already tiring of her company.

  “Why would I be angry?” he inquired.

  “Because of what happened in Lady Buckley’s garden.” Looking over her bare shoulder, Clara aimed a pout at him. “How could I have predicted that our game would be interrupted by a countrified chit? And I could hardly admit it was a game—I do have my reputation to protect.”

  “Appearances are everything,” he said in sardonic tones.

  He didn’t fault Clara for not spelling out the truth of the situation to the intrepid interloper. His first marriage had taught him not to expect integrity from the fair sex. Although Laura had been dead for over two years, her shining blond hair and beautiful, spiteful face blazed in his mind’s eye before he snuffed the image out. The past was done with, and he would never repeat those mistakes again.

  It had been foolish of him to be lured out into the garden by Clara and her little “surprise.” He’d let boredom get the better of him. Jaded curiosity had prompted him to see just how far she’d go to incite his lust. In truth, he hadn’t been all that impressed or aroused by her antics. Ropes and blindfolds—symbols only, with no inherent appeal. Not when the heart of challenge was missing.

  For Clara had no real spirit to submit … unlike Emma Kent.

  From the moment she’d tumbled into him, the obstinate miss had captured his attention. It wasn’t just her looks, which were fresh and wholesomely pretty rather than beautiful in any classical sense. Her dark sable tresses complemented her cameo skin and clean features. Her eyes were a sparkling, clear brown and had a slight feline tilt at the corners. Petite and curvy, she’d felt soft as a kitten, too.

  The memory sizzled through his blood. Aye, she was a toothsome lass, but more than that it had been the way she’d melted, for an instant, in his arms. That moment of exquisite, instinctive surrender—which he’d wager his stables on that she hadn’t even recognized as such—had betrayed unplumbed depths of feminine passion.

  He’d turned hard immediately.

  Yet he wasn’t a fool. He’d learned long ago to stay away from virgins.

  A good thing, too. As fate would have it, he knew of Miss Kent’s brother and his private enquiry firm. From all accounts, Ambrose Kent was an honorable fellow and a true crusader for justice. It seemed the apple didn’t fall far from the family tree. Miss Kent practically gleamed with virtue, her “rescue” of Clara both valiant and reckless.

  Assaulting Clara, indeed.

  For an instant, he considered what might happen if Miss Kent followed through with her threat to report him to the magistrates. He dismissed the notion. No miss would go so far as to involve herself in a scandal. In his experience, women had a habit of saying one thing and doing another. She wouldn’t dare take him on—he was a duke.

  You’re nothing. A deficient weakling. How I regret taking you in.

  With indifference borne of habit, Alaric brushed aside the old duke’s scorn. Instead, he imagined the magistrates’ reaction if Miss Kent did go to them with her half-baked accusations, and his lips curled with derision. They would laugh their heads off to hear a sexual game being reported as a crime. The chit’s innocence was absurd ... and perversely intriguing. As he removed his trousers, his erection bobbed in agreement. His smile grew self-mocking.

  Wasn’t it just like him to get aroused by defiance?

  “Strathaven.” Clara’s throaty plea drew him back to the task at hand. “How long are you going to make me wait? I’m mad for you, darling.”

  “Do you get to dictate events?” he said.

  “No. Are you going to ... punish me?”

  He didn’t miss the hopeful edge to her question. Nor the way her slim thighs trembled, spreading wider to show him the swollen lips of her sex. Fully disrobed, he went to the bed. He drew a finger through her soaked thatch, and Clara arched her spine, moaning.

  “What did you have in mind?” he inquired.

  “Well, I have been naughty.” Tossing her red curls over her shoulder, she fluttered her eyelashes at him. “A spanking, perhaps?”

  Because she asked, he would not indulge her. He could have concocted his own version of retribution for Clara, a way to extend
their sexual play, but he found he didn’t have the desire to draw things out tonight. She was wet and ready. He gripped her narrow hips, pushed her knees farther apart, and drove his cock into her cunt as she squealed in surprise.

  He regulated the tempo of fucking. He knew what Clara liked; after all, she made little secret of it, being as noisy during the act as he was silent. As she begged for harder and deeper, he kept his thrusts measured and shallow, holding her climax from her, building it with methodical precision. As his body mastered Clara’s, his mind was drawn inexorably back to Miss Kent.

  Her simple dress had clung with subtle eroticism to her curves, its blush color evoking images of the skin beneath the fabric. His pulse quickened as he imagined her enticingly full breasts beneath him, jiggling as he plowed her. Her nipples would be a plump dusky rose to match her impudent lips. Gripping her sweetly rounded hips, he would tame her with pleasure, pound her tight, wet quim until she screamed her surrender …

  The pressure in his bollocks startled him. A warning sizzle shot up his shaft.

  “Yes, ram me with your big cock!” Moaning, Clara ground against him, meeting his thrusts. “I’m going to spend—”

  What would Miss Kent be like in her crisis? Would she beg for her release? More likely than not the little termagant would demand it. Well, if she was a good lass, he would give it to her. He saw her big brown eyes melting with desire, heard her breathless voice chanting his name as he drilled himself inside her snug sheath, deeper and deeper still, taking what was his, what she’d never given to any man before ...

  He gritted his teeth, held on until his partner reached her zenith. Only then did he join her, shuddering, biting back an involuntary groan. He disengaged himself moments later, physically spent ... and flummoxed by his fantasy. By its nature and intensity.

  Emma Kent is trouble. Put her out of your mind.

  He exhaled and forced himself to do just that.

  Tying on his robe, he went to pour himself his routine nightcap. The single dram of Tobermary whiskey before bed was an indulgence. He’d suffered from a digestive ailment in his youth, and physicians had diagnosed him with everything from sensitive nerves to an imbalance of humors. One quack had gone so far as to accuse him of faking his symptoms.

  That verdict had earned Alaric countless beatings from the old duke, followed by periods of enforced starvation to rid him of his “deviousness.”

  That hadn’t helped his illness.

  It wasn’t until after his guardian’s death that he’d managed to conquer the disease. At Oxford, he’d met a pugilism instructor who’d not only helped him to hone his physical condition but also placed him on a diet used by fighters to build muscle and endurance. To this day, Alaric’s daily regimen included exercise and eating healthful foods.

  He’d be damned if he lost control over his body—over his life—ever again.

  Clara raised herself languidly against the headboard, stretching like a cat. “After a tup like that, I need something more fortifying than ratafia,” she said with sultry satisfaction. “I believe I’ll join you in that nasty stuff you prefer.”

  Wordlessly, he brought her a glass. As Clara sipped on her whiskey, he settled into the leather wingback by the fire. Clara’s main drawback was her tendency to linger after their purpose together was done.

  “What did you think of Miss Kent?” she said.

  Though the muscles of his belly tensed, Alaric flicked a glance over. “Not much.”

  “I found her rather amusing myself. A provincial little mouse and Good Samaritan rolled into one.” Clara’s smile had a razor’s edge. “Do you know that she continued to pester me about reporting you to the magistrates?”

  This didn’t surprise him. Miss Kent had struck him as both virtuous and determined: a troublesome combination if ever there was one.

  “I’m sure you managed to dissuade her. Your turn as the browbeaten wife was quite affecting. Comparable to the great Mrs. Siddons, I should say.”

  “’Twas no act. Osgood is frightfully afraid of scandal,” Clara said petulantly. “He doesn’t care what I do—only that no one knows about it. He’s such a bore.”

  “Who makes up for it with jewels and a generous allowance.” Alaric’s lips twisted in a cynical smile. “You signed on for your marriage, my dear.”

  Clara made a moue. Finishing her drink, she strutted naked over to the cabinet of spirits. His brows raised as she helped herself to another generous helping of the whiskey and tossed it back. Good God, he hoped she didn’t plan on getting a trifle disguised. He would never be rid of her then.

  Clara dribbled more amber liquid into her glass, spilling some in the process. “Speaking of marriage, how is your wife hunting coming along?”

  “Fine,” he said curtly.

  “All those ladies pining to be the next bride of the Devil Duke.” Clara waved her glass drunkenly. “They’re even willing to accept your scandalous requirements.”

  In his rounds of the marriage mart, he’d made his prerequisite clear: no virgins need apply. Nothing was more deceptive than innocence, and he wasn’t going to replicate the disaster of his first marriage. This time, there would be no talk of love, an emotion that he neither wished for nor was capable of. His next duchess would be worldly, prepared to give him what he wanted: an heir and complete obedience—in and out of bed. In return, she would want for nothing, would have everything his wealth and status could provide.

  A fair exchange, all in all.

  Alaric flicked lint off the sleeve of his robe. “I believe in making expectations clear.”

  I’ll not be betrayed again.

  “You’re quite the challenge, you know. Rich, handsome—and then there’s that legendary cold heart of yours. All the ladies dream of making you fall in love with them.”

  “Do they?” he said indifferently.

  Clara smirked. “They don’t know the hot-blooded man I know.”

  Actually, she didn’t know him at all. He didn’t bother to disabuse her of the notion.

  “The topic grows tiresome.” His temples were becoming tight.

  “I wish I wasn’t married to Osgood,” Clara said suddenly. “Then I’d be free to marry you.”

  Alaric stilled in his seat, the ticking of the ormolu clock uncomfortably loud in the silence. He did not wish to show her disrespect, but he would not lie. The possibility had never crossed his mind.

  Clara’s brittle laugh broke the silence. “Don’t look so horrified, Strathaven—I was just jesting. I have no need of another husband. Speaking of whom,” she said, her words slurring, “I still have a few hours before Osgood returns home from his evening’s depravity.”

  Alaric had no desire to couple again with her tonight. It struck him that he felt more than tired. He was oddly off-balance, his mind cloudy. His stomach suddenly churned, and the sharp, familiar wrenching cut short his breath. Memories flooded him: bedclothes twisted and damp with his disgrace, the stifling sickroom, vile medicines poured down his throat …

  What the devil? It can’t be. I haven’t been ill in years.

  Fighting panic, he blinked at his glass. The crystal facets winked in a dizzying manner. The whiskey? It had never affected him this way before. His forehead burned; his palms were clammy.

  “Strathaven, I don’t ... feel well ...”

  He could barely make out Clara’s mumbled words. Her image suddenly split into two, a disorienting blur of red hair and lips. Her arm swept out, knocking the whiskey decanter to the ground with a smash. She followed, collapsing in a heap.

  “Clara!” Alaric stumbled to his feet. He took one step, and pain tore at his midsection, the world spinning. The floor hurtled up toward him, and he tumbled into a pit of darkness.

  A gull’s shrill cry stirred him.

  Sleepily, Alaric burrowed deeper into the sandy mattress. He was in his cave, the secret grotto he’d discovered along the loch’s sandy shores, and here he was safe. Here, the illness that twisted his stomach into agonizin
g knots, that weakened his muscles and earned him the duke’s disgust, seemed to fade for a short while.

  Alone, things were better.

  But the duchess … she would worry. Flit about her gilt and velvet-lined sitting room like a canary trapped in a cage. He felt her small hands fluttering over his hot forehead and cheeks, bathing him in cool water. Making it better. Making it worse …

  Mama, why did you leave me? Da, why did you make me go?

  Seabirds shrieked—or was it Laura? Her tantrums lashed at him even in his cave, no escape from her mad accusations, her volatile behavior. God, he wanted only to rest, yet her screaming grew louder—

  He jolted awake, blinking. No Laura and not the loch … a room? The cottage—why was he lying on the floor? The ormolu clock was chirping with mad insistence. He drew his hands over his face, and they came away slick with sweat. Groggily, he pushed himself to sitting, orienting himself. His gaze circled the room—and shock slammed into him.

  “Clara?” He stumbled to his feet. Staggered over.

  She lay splayed on the floor like a washed up mermaid, her hair a stiff red fan littered with shards of the decanter. Her wide, unblinking eyes stared up at him. She didn’t respond—it was clear she never would.

  Chapter 3

  Two days later, Emma left her bedchamber just after dawn. Living in Town hadn’t changed her habit of rising with the sun. Unfortunately, she felt less than bright-eyed; for the last two nights, her sleep had been plagued by vague, menacing dreams. In the light of day, the worries took explicit shape.

  Was I right not to report Strathaven to the proper authorities? What if something happens to Lady Osgood? By keeping silent, am I colluding with a terrible injustice?

  Anxiety quickened her pulse, yet there was nothing she could do about it now. She’d given Lady Osgood her promise, and a Kent never went back on her word. She could only pray that she’d chosen the right course of action.

  Releasing a breath, Emma descended the sweeping staircase. The tranquil house meant that her three younger sisters were still asleep; since moving into Ambrose and Marianne’s Mayfair residence, Dorothea, Violet, and Polly had adapted quickly to their new lives. Emma couldn’t say the same. As she passed the priceless paintings and exotic furnishings, she felt as out of place as a tin cup next to a fine Limoges setting.