Dangerous Duke

by Scott, Scarlett

  “Indeed, Your Grace,” Great Aunt Hortense intervened. “Thank you for your efforts. Perhaps, however, you may be better served to remain in a different portion of the house, where your presence will not cause undue stress to the household.”

  “Forgive me,” Strathmore said gallantly. “I had not realized my presence would be a hindrance. I rather thought I was doing Lady Violet a favor.”

  Violet’s brows raised, her alarmed gaze shooting back to his.

  But she need not have feared, for he preferred subtlety. He liked to tease and drop innuendos like crumbs. In truth, he had done her no favors today. All he had done was show her how thin her connection to the man she intended to marry was.

  All he had done was force her to realize she could be on the precipice of making the biggest mistake of her life.

  The moment the thought hit her, she banished it. How unworthy. How awful. Charles loved her. Charles would do anything for her. Charles…

  Oh, blast.

  Charles could not hold a candle to the Duke of Strathmore, and it was as plain as the nose upon her face. Her wanton embrace with the duke had proven as much, and there was no going back from where she had already been.

  “It is most kind of His Grace,” Violet forced herself to say to her very disapproving Great Aunt Hortense. “Please, Aunt. His Grace was merely offering to test my design so I can be certain the gift for Lord Almsley will be worthy of him.”

  She noted the manner in which Strathmore clutched the seed purse, his fingers clenched in a tight grip. His jaw was rigid, his blue gaze unyielding. He was strong, tall, formidable.

  “I shall take my leave,” he said, surprising Violet with his sudden intent to defect.

  She frowned, for the chamber already seemed to have lost its luster at the prospect of his imminent departure. His presence owned the room, reaching her where she stood, making her hot. Making her weak.

  He bowed exquisitely.

  Violet watched him stride from the chamber, and she could not deny her gaze was riveted upon his long legs, his broad shoulders, and his firm bottom. It seemed almost a dream he had pressed his mouth to hers. That his tongue had been inside her mouth. That she had tasted him, and he had tasted her.

  She swallowed against a rush of unfamiliar sensations.

  Great Aunt Hortense was watching as well, her lips compressed into a fine line of disapproval, even after the door had closed upon the duke and Violet’s seed purse both.

  “Horrid man, though he may be a duke,” her aunt said dismissively. “You can be thankful you have a betrothed as wonderful as the Earl of Almsley, my dear. Mark my words, you will be best served to keep your distance from Strathmore. No good can come of any association with him, however distant.”

  “Yes of course, Aunt,” she agreed by rote.

  But the truth of it was, everything in her was drawn to one man far more than the other. To the wrong man.

  Chapter Two

  He was unutterably pathetic.

  Scrubbing his hand over his face and heaving a massive sigh of disgust, Griffin stalked back to the chamber he had been assigned like the chastened lad he was, holding—of all goddamn things—a crocheted seed pouch fashioned for another man. To be precise, it had been fashioned for the horridly boring, woefully inadequate, Earl of Flowerpot, who had dared to snare Lady Violet’s hand.

  Yes, she had crocheted the earl a seed pouch, as if it were an item a man would ordinarily require.

  Jesus.

  Griffin did not even know what to do with such a thing, for it resembled a reticule more than anything else, and he had no knowledge of any gentleman who bothered himself with seeds.

  Christ knew he was too damned busy to concern himself with such trifling matters as plants, particularly now he found himself mired in his current predicament. Namely, being a prisoner.

  A glorified prisoner.

  Or, as the Duke of Arden had so glibly phrased it, an honored guest.

  “Honored my arse,” he muttered. “Guest my arse as well.”

  He reached his chamber and slipped inside. It was well-appointed and large, but it was not home. He missed his billiards room and his servants who knew how to anticipate his eccentricities and whims. He missed his coffee, brewed specifically to his preferences. Even his bloody butler, who always seemed to be frowning at him with repressed condemnation.

  He missed freedom, and that was that.

  He had been invited by force, and should he choose to leave, he would instead be ushered to the nearest prison cell. No one had said it yet, for he was a peer of the realm, and though his service to the Crown was currently mired in shadow, accusation, and erroneous assumptions of guilt, he had indeed served faithfully for the last fifteen years.

  In essence, his history as a savage murderer, and the accidental circumstance of his birth, were the only two things keeping him from gaol.

  Rich, that.

  Today, of all days, his self-loathing had reached an extraordinary crescendo.

  He had been a devoted servant to the Special League, a secret formation of the Home Office, since he had been sworn into its ranks as a green lad. A fortnight had passed since the League’s leader, the Duke of Carlisle, had stepped down from his post. And in that fortnight, all hell had been unleashed in a torrent of fury and mayhem.

  Arden had supplanted Carlisle, but he had also launched a new campaign based on Carlisle’s last. A campaign intended to weed traitors from amongst the ranks of the League. Carlisle’s investigations had proven the League contained members who had fed information to their bitterest enemies. Namely, to the Fenians, the rabid villains so obsessed with gaining Irish Home Rule, they were willing to commit any crime to obtain it.

  One of those informants was known by the Fenians as The Gryphon.

  Griffin and The Gryphon.

  True, he could not fault Arden for making the obvious connection. But he could fault him for refusing to dismiss it. And then for pursuing it instead. As for the bastard who had planted incriminating documents in his home without him being the wiser? Griffin had a slow and steady torture in mind for him, beginning with fingernail removal.

  A knock at his door startled him from his roiling thoughts. Likely the timid manservant, Edwards, who had been assigned him, for even Griffin’s own domestics were suspect. Arden was nothing if not a thorough arsehole. And a relentless one.

  “Enter,” he called.

  The door opened a scant few inches. Likely, the hesitant sod was cowering on the other side of the portal. Ever since making the fellow’s acquaintance, Griffin had been garnering immense joy from toying with him.

  A man had to have something to keep himself occupied with whilst he was imprisoned. Something other than kissing the Duke of Arden’s luscious sister.

  Griffin frowned. “Excellent timing, Edwards. I need to hone my knife throwing skills. Come and stand against this wall, won’t you? I promise I have good aim.”

  A dark head popped around the door, the hauntingly lovely face of Lady Violet appearing. “Knife throwing?”

  “A joke.” He passed a hand over his face. “A bloody poor one, much like you appearing at my bedchamber door. Flee while you still can, my lady.”

  Instead of heeding his advice, she stepped inside with so much haste, her skirts swayed about her and nearly got caught in the door as she snapped it quietly shut. She spun back to him, eyes wide.

  “Do you truly throw knives?”

  Christ.

  Did all the world think him a disreputable savage?

  “No. Now be gone from here. Return to Aunt Horrible, won’t you? Leave a man to his misery.”

  Her lips pursed, making him want to kiss them again. How soft and full and warm they had been beneath his, how responsive. He could not remove the memory from his mouth now, and it settled there, sparking, tingling. His lips wanted more of hers beneath them.

  He was perverse, and he knew it. The last woman in the world he ought to lust after was Arden’s sister. He
could not afford to ruin any woman, let alone the sister of his nemesis. Not to mention, she had a betrothed who played about in the dirt. A betrothed for whom she fashioned seed pouches.

  “Aunt Hortense is not always as given to tact as one would hope.” Lady Violet moved closer, an elegant swish over the carpet, stealing his attention. “Please do forgive her.”

  He snorted, feeling as far from elegant as one could possibly get. “How did you escape Aunt Horrible’s clutches with such ease? If that dragon comes bursting in behind you, I cannot promise I won’t practice my knife throwing skills after all.”

  Lady Violet stopped just within reach. “I told her I needed to conduct my daily Bible reading in my chamber.”

  Griffin studied her, wondering at the hidden facets beneath her prim exterior. “And then you came to mine instead.”

  “Yes.”

  “To collect the seed pouch, I presume?” He dangled the offending bit of yarn from his fingers, extending it toward her. “Here you are then. I do apologize for absconding with the thing.”

  She frowned at the seed pouch, making no move to accept it. “That is not why I am here.”

  His cock twitched, foolish enough to hope her presence in his chamber and her pronouncement meant she had a far less innocent motive. But his head knew that was too much for which to hope. She was an innocent lady, not an experienced widow, as was ordinarily his consort of choice.

  He ground his jaw. “No? I would think you would have more of an affinity for a gewgaw you knitted for your future husband, Lord Horticulture.”

  “The seed pouch is crocheted, not knitted,” she corrected him in an arch tone. “And my future husband is Lord Almsley. I will thank you to refrain from further maligning him in my presence. Furthermore, I know I am wretched at crocheting. The seed pouch looks more like a reticule than anything, and though he loves me, I cannot fathom Charles making use of it.”

  Damn him if her referring to Lord Boring as Charles didn’t set his teeth on edge and send a fresh spike of something unwanted into his gut. Not jealousy. He had no reason for such a plebian emotion. Or any emotion, for that matter. He had been numb for as long as he could recall, and he would not have it any other way.

  He stepped closer to her, because he could not resist, still holding the seed pouch in question aloft. “First, I don’t care about the difference between crocheting and knitting. Second, I do not give a good goddamn what Lord Flowerpot’s name is. And third, the bloody thing looks exactly like a reticule. But I rather think a man like your betrothed would love such an accessory.”

  Her eyes narrowed. “You need not be such a surly beast. I rather liked you better before.”

  He could not stay his grin. “When I was kissing you? Never fear, my lady. You are not the first, and nor shall you be the last to succumb to my charms.”

  A flush stole over her cheeks, giving her away. “You are horrible, Your Grace.”

  “Always.”

  It was probably what had landed him here, in Purgatory. He could never still his tongue, and he had made no secret of his dislike for the Duke of Arden. To Griffin, the true leader of the Special League would always be the incomparable Duke of Carlisle. The man was a genius and an enigma, a trusted friend and true brother.

  The Duke of Arden was an arse and a fool, and a traitorous mutton-headed prig.

  “I came here with the notion of helping you,” Lady Violet said then, shocking him.

  What could this bright-eyed lovely innocent possibly offer him?

  “Helping me how?”

  He could think of a few ways in which she might offer assistance. Naked in his bed. Legs open wide. Or on her knees, that pretty mouth open for his cock.

  Damn.

  If Arden ever allowed Griffin to leave, he needed to visit the always accommodating Lady Willden. This inconvenient attraction to Lady Violet could easily be rectified by Henrietta’s lush body and wicked sense of adventure.

  Are you certain it could? whispered an insidious voice inside him.

  He tried to think of Henrietta’s face, but all he could see was the dark-haired beauty before him.

  “I can help you to investigate,” she said then, smiling as if she had just knitted—er, crocheted—him a bloody seed pouch.

  “Investigate,” he repeated.

  Was the woman mad? He studied her. She did not appear insane, though she was the sister of the Duke of Arden, so her blood was irrefutably tainted…

  “Yes. Investigate. I do believe I can elucidate as well as the next lady.”

  Her smile was a thing of beauty all its own, stealing his breath, holding him rapt.

  “Were you colluding with the Fenians?” she asked.

  He ground his teeth. This too was another thing that would require time for him to grow accustomed to—all the world knowing who and what he was. Under the auspices of the Duke of Carlisle, the Special League had been a shadowy branch of the Home Office, nonexistent to the general public.

  But the magnitude of the Fenian arrests made following Carlisle’s killing of John Mahoney—one of the most dangerous conspirators they had unearthed to date—had left the League exposed. The Times had caught wind of their involvement, and extensive articles had been published. The League was no longer a secret.

  And overnight, Griffin had become a traitor.

  And now, he was here, in a chamber that was not his, in the home of the Duke of Arden, facing that man’s sister, of all people.

  And he had kissed her, for Chrissake.

  She watched him expectantly, awaiting his response.

  “Of course I wasn’t colluding with the Fenians,” he snapped. “I told your brother the same.”

  She considered him for far longer than necessary, her gaze thorough, sweeping, contemplative. “I believe you,” she announced at last.

  “I am relieved.” He could not keep the sarcasm from his tone. Lady Violet West was a temptation he did not need. An irritant he had no use for. She somehow managed to burrow her way beneath his skin, precisely where he did not want her.

  And had managed to bluster her way into his chamber, also where he did not want her.

  “You needn’t be rude, you know.”

  What was it about her?

  She quite set his teeth on edge. She also stirred his prick. A most inconvenient combination, and more so for his peculiar predicament.

  He frowned. “This dialogue is at an end, Lady Violet. Go now before you do your reputation more harm than you have already done.”

  If anything, his words seemed to render the minx even more determined, for she did not bat a lash or move an inch.

  Her expression became mulish. “I am not leaving until you accept my assistance.”

  But she would find she was not the only one with tenacity.

  “Do not take umbrage, madam, but I would sooner swallow arsenic than accept the dubious aid of the sister of the man who is hell-bent upon ruining my life and my reputation.”

  The hoyden actually dared to laugh at him then. “Do cease being so melodramatic, Strathmore. No one is trying to ruin you, and there is no need to drink poison.”

  Irritation seared him. “Is this because I kissed you? A boring noddy like Lord Flowerpot is probably too busy mucking about in the dirt to kiss you properly, and now that you’ve realized what you’re missing, you cannot live without the promise of my lips upon yours.”

  To his extreme vexation, she only laughed harder.

  Laughed until tears streamed down her cheeks.

  Laughed until she doubled over, burying the hilarity in her purple silken skirts.

  He wondered if she dressed to complement her name each day, or if this afternoon was an aberration. And then he wondered why the devil he cared.

  Griffin waited for her to collect herself, but his patience was growing thin. Christ, it was already gone, and he could admit as much to himself. This business with Arden had worn him down to the bone.

  “I said I wished to help,” she said at
last, dabbing gingerly at her eyes with a scrap of lace that had materialized from some hidden place on her person. “You may keep your kisses, Duke. I have no need of them.”

  He would argue otherwise. She had been quite responsive to his kisses earlier, and not in the fashion of a woman who was regularly and thoroughly kissed, but in the manner of a lady who had just realized kissing could be a wondrous, deliciously wicked act.

  “Are you certain?” he could not keep himself from asking, stalking closer in spite of his best intentions. “It seems to me perhaps that is the real reason you have trespassed in my chamber, Lady Violet. Surely you know how wrong it is for you to be here alone with me.”

  “Yes.” All laughter fled her, her green eyes going wide. “My only intent is to offer my aid. Nothing more.”

  “Mm.” He stopped before her, testing her by daring to run his fingertips over her jaw, then down her throat. He slid his hand all the way to her nape, where her skin was hot and silken, and cupped the base of her skull. “Have you ever shot a pistol?”

  “No.” She was breathless as she answered.

  “Wielded a knife?”

  “No.”

  He lowered his head, bringing their lips painfully near. “Have you ever defused a bomb?”

  “No.” Her pupils had gone round and full, the color of inky midnight amidst verdant opulence.

  “Could you kill a man?”

  “For the right reasons,” she said.

  Her response, offered without pause, shocked him. Indeed, it gave him so much pause, he could not readily pose his next question. He simply stared at her, trying to understand the enigma before him, a woman who knitted—Christ, crocheted—seed pouches for her boring betrothed and yet said she would kill a man without the slightest hesitation.

  “How would you do it?” he asked.

  “A pistol, if I knew how to shoot one.” Her response was quick. “But if he was horrible and truly deserved it, poison instead. I concede the usefulness of your allusion.”

  Jesus, she was vengeful. He liked the way she thought.

  “What are the right reasons for killing?” he asked next.