The Desires of a Duke: Historical Romance Collection

by Darcy Burke

  “Why are you here?” he demanded.

  She dragged her gaze up. Strathaven’s pets were aptly named after the companions of the mythical Ares. With his face set in harsh lines, his eyes cold and glittering, the duke looked every bit as ruthless as the God of War.

  Pulling back her shoulders, she said, “We have unfinished business to discuss.”

  “Is that so?” He took a casual sip from the glass he held.

  While his indifference grated, she reminded herself that she had wrongly accused him of murder, and thus probably didn’t deserve a warmer welcome ... even if they had shared a kiss. To a rake like Strathaven, such intimacies probably meant nothing. He probably kissed women like that all the time. Besides, she knew that his purpose in kissing her had been to demonstrate his superiority—and her inexperience—when it came to sexual matters.

  He’d succeeded spectacularly.

  Her lips pressed together. Fool me once.

  She’d learned her lesson. Even as she now recognized that her disturbing awareness of him was sensual in nature, she knew she was no wanton. ’Twas a boon, actually, that she’d gained a better understanding of carnal impulses. Knowledge was power. She now knew what to guard against.

  After all, attraction was just an appetite like any other. Curbing urges had never been a problem for her. During the years her family had been mired in poverty, there’d been plenty of times when she’d practiced stringent economies, chose practical options over indulgent ones.

  Just because one craves a piece of cake doesn’t mean one has to have one.

  Resolved, she said, “I wanted you to know that I withdrew my testimony today. I told the magistrates that I misjudged what I saw between you and Lady Osgood in the garden.”

  His dark eyelashes veiled his gaze. “Why?”

  “I was wrong,” she admitted. “About what I thought I saw. I came to offer my sincere apologies for the hardship I have caused you.”

  “My forgiveness. That is why you’ve come?” Sarcasm dripped from his voice.

  It wasn’t the only reason. In truth, she’d come with a proposition in mind.

  Anticipation took root as she considered her brilliant plan to grow two trees from one seed. She could make things right with Strathaven and secure her own future. The proposal was perfect, would benefit all parties involved. She’d spent the last day strategizing how to broach the subject; she didn’t want to repeat her failed negotiations with Ambrose.

  Consequently, she said with care, “Actually, there is another reason as well.”

  “I thought so.” Strathaven’s mouth had a hard, cynical bent. He tossed back the contents of his glass and set it down with a clink on the desk before advancing toward her.

  Although her heart pounded like a drum, she held her ground. He stopped mere inches away, his hands on his lean hips, his booted legs set in an aggressive stance. His clean, spicy musk drifted to her, and her body reacted of its own accord. Her breathing quickened, her mouth pooling as the memory of his dark masculine flavor tingled over her tongue.

  One dark brow quirked. “Well, Miss Kent? If you’ve come to exact the devil’s price, you’d best get on with it.”

  Devil’s price? What is he talking about?

  She marshaled her wits. “I have a proposal to make, Your Grace. A plan that I believe will benefit both of us.”

  “Save your breath. You’ll get no offer from me.”

  She stared at him blankly. “An offer ... for what?”

  “Well, now, there are other kinds of offers, are there not?” His pale gaze roved insolently over her. “I didn’t think you were in the market for that sort of arrangement, Miss Kent.”

  His meaning sunk in.

  “You’re either foxed or mad,” she said in outrage. “I wouldn’t marry you—much less consider the other ... Not if we were the last two people on this earth! It’s absurd to even suggest—”

  “On that we agree.” His freezing accents cut her off. “So what is this proposal of yours?”

  Her fists balled at his unbelievable arrogance. “I’m offering to help you find the murderer, you conceited nodcock!”

  “What?” he bit out.

  “You heard me.” She tilted her chin up. “Since I got you embroiled in scandal, I’m going to help you get out of it. By conducting an investigation into who killed Lady Osgood.”

  Chapter 10

  For once in his life, he had no words. None.

  The chit rendered him utterly speechless.

  He was already furious at himself over the way he’d lost control at Andromeda’s. He’d brought Miss Kent there to teach her a lesson, to show her the full extent of her ignorance. Devil take it, she ought to have fainted after a minute or two. Or slapped his bloody face.

  Instead, she’d tempted him ... melted for him.

  He still couldn’t believe that he’d kissed her, couldn’t believe how close he’d come to doing much more. If the bawd hadn’t interrupted, he might have found himself well and truly caught in the Parson’s snare for even his tarnished sense of honor wouldn’t permit him to deflower a virgin without accepting the consequences.

  He’d assumed that she’d come tonight to demand that he pay the matrimonial piper. The notion of being manipulated by her feminine wiles had enraged him. Savagely, he’d recalled how Laura had seduced him with virginal glances and shy smiles. Aye, he’d paid dearly for losing his head over a so-called innocent, and he’d sworn never to do it again.

  But apparently Miss Kent wasn’t interested in marrying him.

  This ought to have improved his disposition. For some reason, it infuriated him more.

  What does the chit have up her sleeve?

  ’Twas best to know one’s adversary. Waving a hand to the divan by the fire, he said caustically, “By all means, shower me with your pearls of wisdom.”

  With a huff, she went and perched on the cushions. He followed and took the adjacent wingchair. Despite his suspiciousness, he couldn’t help but notice how her velvet cloak set off her creamy skin and rosy lips—lips that he’d sampled. She’d tasted as delicious as she smelled, like an apple tart, wholesome and spicy sweet ...

  “I have a plan,” she announced, and he instantly grew warier. “For the last several months, I have been working at Kent and Associates, and I’ve learned something of the trade.”

  What the devil?

  He stared at her. “You have been employed ... as an investigator?”

  She cleared her throat. “Not exactly. I was assisting my brother in more of, er, an organizational capacity. I have, however, learned the ins and outs of detection work. In fact, I recently solved a case on my own.”

  The chit was unbelievable. Cracked. Possibly unhinged.

  “As a female investigator,” she went on in a determined manner, “I may be uniquely positioned to assist you.”

  Specific positions in which she could assist him flitted through his head.

  Scowling, he said, “That is the most demented thing I’ve ever heard. What special female talents do you bring to bear, Miss Kent? Your skill wielding a reticule as a weapon? Or perhaps your remarkable ability to jump to the wrong conclusions?”

  “I already apologized for my mistake and have rectified it with the magistrates.” She narrowed her eyes at him. “Are you always this difficult when someone tries to help you?”

  “I wouldn’t know. I’ve never had the experience,” he said shortly.

  He didn’t trust it either. The only one who’d ever tried to do anything for him was the dowager duchess, and he didn’t know which had been more stifling, his illness or Aunt Patrice’s overbearing anxiety.

  “That can’t be true,” Miss Kent said with a frown. “Everyone has relied upon another at some point. What about your mama?”

  “She died when I was young,” he said curtly.

  “Your papa then—”

  “I do not discuss my family.”

  She looked as if she might argue ... and apparently thou
ght better of it. “Well, I am trying to help you,” she said, “and I’ve been thinking: according to the papers, Lady Clara was poisoned. Poison is oft said to be a woman’s weapon. Given that the victim was a woman as well, it seems that a female perspective is warranted in this case, don’t you agree?”

  He couldn’t resist bursting her little bubble. “The poison wasn’t intended for Clara. It was in my whiskey. She had the misfortune of drinking with me.”

  She blinked. “You were poisoned too? But you’re ... not dead.”

  “Disappointed?” he said acidly.

  “The papers never mentioned—”

  “The fewer who know the better. I don’t want the integrity of the investigation tainted.”

  Miss Kent’s gaze widened, firelight dancing in the faceted depths. Most brown eyes he’d encountered gave the impression of opacity, but not hers: they were as clear and dark as the finest tea, reflecting her rippling emotions.

  “This changes everything,” she said.

  “It changes nothing where you’re concerned,” he said with emphasis. “You’re not to get involved. In fact, I want you as uninvolved in my life as possible.”

  Keeping her away from him, he concluded, was the only way to preserve his sanity. Emma Kent possessed an uncanny talent for pushing him to his limits. Her willfulness was infuriating—and bloody arousing. He wanted to shake some sense into her. He wanted to yank her into his arms, taste her honeyed surrender again ...

  She leapt to her feet, which obliged him to rise as well. He suppressed a grimace as his stiffening cock butted against his trousers. Praise God his shirt covered the bulge.

  “But you could still be in danger!” She bit her lip, pacing in front of the divan. “This is my fault. I misled the magistrates into focusing on you instead of the true killer.”

  Her concern was ... befuddling. In his extensive experience with the fair sex, he couldn’t recall a single instance where a woman had been answerable for her actions. Where a female had shown a sense of honor and fair play. As he recalled Laura’s tears and denials, her baseless accusations, his jaw tautened.

  “Actions have been taken,” he said abruptly. “I’ve hired investigators.”

  “You’ve spoken to Mr. McLeod and my brother?”

  The last thing he wanted was to be in Will’s debt. “There are other agencies in town.”

  “But none as accomplished as Kent and Associates. They’re the best.” Her head canted to one side. “Why wouldn’t you trust your own brother?”

  Because I don’t deserve to.

  “It is none of your concern,” he said irritably.

  “Can’t we let bygones be bygones? If your life is in peril, we must work together—”

  “There is no we, Miss Kent.”

  “I am sincerely sorry for my mistake.” Her eyes pleaded with him. Just as he began to thaw slightly, she added, “And it is not as if you’re entirely in the right. You did kidnap and drag me to Andromeda’s after all.”

  “I did that because you were too pigheaded to accept the truth,” he gritted out.

  “And I gave the testimony because you were too arrogant to explain what really happened.” She had the temerity to lift her chin. “When it all boils down, I’d say we’re equally in the wrong, wouldn’t you?”

  His grip on his temper slipped. “Like hell we are. You spied on me and falsely accused me of murder. Then you instigated that kiss—”

  “What?” she said indignantly. “You’re the one who started it.”

  “You licked your damned lip in invitation!”

  “If I did so, ’twas because of nerves. Unlike you, I’m not accustomed to debauchery.”

  Her prim, virtuous reply caused the pressure in his veins to shoot up. A muscle by his left eye twitched. “Nerves my arse,” he said. “If you possess any, they are clearly made of iron. The truth is you were bloody eager for my kiss.”

  Uncertainty flitted through her eyes—the first of it that he’d seen from the bullheaded chit.

  She recovered quickly. “Circumstances being what they were, it is understandable that we were both somewhat overwrought. What’s done is done, however. There’s no sense arguing about it,” she said in annoyingly brisk tones. “If your reluctance to accept my help stems from fear that we’ll end up in another compromising situation, I can assure you that will never happen again.”

  Her naive confidence, the flippant way in which she dismissed the attraction between them fueled his need to prove how wrong she was. The termagant needed a lesson, and he needed to rid himself of her once and for all. He knew exactly how to accomplish both goals.

  Kill two birds with one stone.

  “You think you can control yourself around me?” he said silkily.

  “Of course. And there’s naught to control. Truly.”

  The slight wobble in that last word betrayed her.

  “So if I were to sit on that wingchair right now,”—his gaze directed to the furnishing in question—“with you on my lap and my mouth on yours, you’d be indifferent?”

  “Don’t be ridiculous.”

  He stalked toward her, and she retreated immediately. When the back of her knees hit the wingchair, she lost her balance, her bottom smacking softly against the leather seat. He planted his hands on the back of the chair, caging yet not touching her.

  Leaning down, he mocked, “Then don’t be a liar. You said you had full control of yourself around me.”

  “I do. In that hypothetical scenario, I would be trying to get away from you,” she shot back.

  “What if I held you tight, kissed you deeper, licked your sweet lips until you let me in?”

  Her cheeks turned rosy. “I—I’d bite your tongue!”

  “Ah, but then I’d have to punish you.” He let his words sink in, saw her pupils dilating—not with fear, but ... arousal. Devil and damn. His trousers grew instantly tighter.

  “You wouldn’t dare.” She didn’t sound so full of conviction now.

  “To the contrary, pet, I dare most anything,” he purred. “Now you saw quite the variety of punishments at Andromeda’s; I wonder which you would most prefer? For instance, would you enjoy being bound and helpless as I took my pleasure? As I touched and kissed you however, wherever, I wanted to?”

  A choked breath left her. Beneath her cloak, her bosom surged.

  “Perhaps you’d like to pleasure me,” he said thoughtfully. “On your knees, taking everything I give you.” His cockstand, already turgid, pulsed at the idea—and even more so when her teeth sank into her lower lip. Sweat dampened his collar; he forced himself to finish what he’d begun. “But I think you’d most like being turned over on my knee. Raising your pretty bottom up for me.”

  His senses flooded with the beauty of that image: her supple, white skin beneath his palm, her beauty entirely in his hands. He knew she was not a miss of half-measures; when Emma Kent submitted, she would give ... everything. Heat sizzled through his veins, and he burned to know the generosity of her ardor, to show her ecstasy that she’d never known before.

  In a hoarse voice, he continued, “You could let go of fear and worry, Emma. Put yourself into my keeping.” He cupped her downy cheek, her quiver travelling straight to his prick. “You could trust me to give you everything you need.”

  She made a strangled sound, and he saw his own dark desire mirrored in her eyes. Her cheeks were flushed with arousal rather than disgust. She swayed toward him, her breath panting through her lips, her passion like a seed poised to sprout through virginal inhibitions ...

  Virgin—a trap.

  His mind sounded the alarm over his roaring lust. Laura seemed sweet and passionate, and she played you for a fool. His gut clenched as her betrayals flooded him, the humiliating memories. The loss ...

  Never again.

  Control is everything.

  Somehow, he mastered himself. Pushing away from the wingchair, he straightened and lifted a brow. “Well, pet? Are you unaffected now? In complete co
ntrol?”

  She blinked, paling as the words struck home. “You’re a bastard,” she whispered.

  “I’m honest,” he corrected coolly. “This is what will happen if you play games with me. Now this is your last warning: stop meddling or face the consequences.”

  She shot to her feet. “Fine. If you wind up dead, see if I give a farthing!”

  Phobos and Deimos leapt up, ready to give chase to her departing figure.

  “Stay,” Alaric commanded.

  The deerhounds came over to him, whining at the loss of a visitor.

  “Trust me, lads,” he said darkly. “It has to be this way.”

  Despite his victory over the indomitable chit, Alaric felt bedeviled with restlessness. The dark fantasies he’d used to warn off Miss Kent continued to plague his lustful imagination. Visions of her kneeling in front of him, her lips parting so sweetly as he fed her every inch of his throbbing shaft ...

  He paced the library like a damned prisoner in his own house. Either he could go upstairs and frig himself like a blasted greenling or he could find some distraction. His club—that was the ticket. He hadn’t gone to White’s since Clara’s death, and his continued absence would add fuel to the gossip.

  Best to nip it in the bud. He had naught to hide.

  Summoning his carriage, he made the short trip over to St. James Street.

  As Alaric entered White’s, that bastion of male comfort, all eyes turned to him. The scent of leather and cigar smoke curled in his nostrils as he returned cold stares and polite greetings in equal measure. Nothing like strife to separate friends from foes. He made mental note of who fell on which side: the Scot in him valued loyalty above all else.

  “Strathaven, I am surprised to see you here.”

  At the pompous drawl, Alaric turned to see the Earl of Mercer approaching, accompanied by his usual pack of dandies. With his wheat-colored hair immaculately pomaded and his trim figure clad in embroidered velvet, Mercer was a handsome Pink of Fashion. He was also a snob, the kind of fellow whose sole purpose in life appeared to be flaunting his wealth and position—neither of which he’d earned—and spewing “wit” with his viper’s tongue.