When the Duke Was Wicked

by Lorraine Heath

  Lovingdon stood in the doorway of an exclusive drawing room that catered to the needs of the elite. The girls were clean and the clientele wealthy. Business was handled most discretely. Wine flowed into goblets as smoothly as women floated around the dimly lit room. Candles provided a soft glow, the flickering flames causing light to dance with the shadows, swirling them around bodies. Intriguing. Revealing, hiding.

  A Titan of a woman approached him. Plenty of her to hold on to. She wasn’t his usual fare. She wasn’t dark-haired or dark-eyed. Her hair was a fiery red that he suspected was not the result of Nature. But he didn’t care.

  When she neared, he grabbed her hand. “You’ll do nicely.” And in the back of his mind he wondered when he had become content with someone who would “do.”

  Unlike Grace, who wanted sweet words and love, this woman required nothing more than knowing she was the one chosen for the moment. He would make it well worth her time, not only with the pleasure but also with the coins that would follow. Theirs would be a brief but honest relationship.

  He escorted her out of the room and up the stairs that led to the bedchambers. At the landing, he continued on down the hallways to the room she indicated.

  After opening the door, he stepped back to allow the woman to precede him. Her silky covering outlined her broad hips and floated around her legs as she swayed provocatively with her movements. Everything about her was designed to entice. She knew what she was and was comfortable with it.

  Shutting the door, he needed only two strides to have her in his arms, his lips nibbling her throat. She smelled of vanilla, tasted of oranges.

  “I know about you, Your Grace,” she said in a raspy voice, arching her head back so he had easier access to the long length of her throat. “You don’t bother with kissing.”

  “No.”

  “I could make you change your mind.”

  “I doubt it.”

  Beneath his hands, her skin was soft and warm, but it didn’t tremble or quake. She didn’t sigh with longing. She skimmed her hands over him, but they didn’t dig into him as though if she could she would press him into her until they could no longer tell where one of them began and the other ended.

  He inhaled her fragrance again, and it struck him that it was wrong. It wasn’t rose and lavender. He could trail his mouth over her but she would not taste of rum, she wouldn’t taste of desire.

  She would taste of boredom.

  Briskly, he moved away from her, marched to the window and gazed out on the night, on a street that would lead to his residence, that would eventually lead to Grace’s.

  “Did I do something wrong?” she asked.

  “No.” But neither had she done anything right. She wasn’t what he wanted. Not tonight. And what he wanted he could not have.

  Grace deserved love, and he didn’t love her. He wasn’t sure exactly why she plagued him or what he was feeling, but he knew what it was to love. The torment he was experiencing now was nothing more than lust and frustration.

  “Shall I send up a different girl?” she asked.

  He was struck by how easily interchangeable they all were. Perhaps it was time he took on a mistress, a woman who would know and meet his expectations. He looked back at the woman standing uncertainly near him, knowing he would be sending her an extremely expensive bauble on the morrow to make amends for his disinterest tonight.

  He slowly shook his head. “No, I don’t want another girl.”

  “But you don’t appear to want me either.”

  “It’s not a question of want. I just shouldn’t have come here.”

  A slow knowing smile crept over her face. “Another is always a poor substitute for the one we truly want.”

  He was not at all pleased that somehow he had failed at keeping his thoughts to himself. Crossing his arms over his chest, he leaned back against the wall. “And who do you want?”

  “Who every woman wants. A man who will appreciate me.”

  Curled on her side on her bed, Grace stroked Lancelot, but thought of Lovingdon. She felt beautiful with him. She forgot about her scars and imperfections. She became lost in the sensations he elicited with such ease. The moment his lips touched hers, the rest of the world ceased to exist. It was only the two of them, him giving so much, her receiving. She hoped in the receiving that she was giving as well.

  She considered slipping out of the residence, going to his, and doing what she might to bring him pleasure, without receiving it herself. But she knew danger rested on that path. She might give her heart to him completely, but he could no longer give his heart at all.

  She thought of all his pronouncements.

  He’ll know your favorite flower.

  He’ll gaze into your eyes.

  He’ll care about what you’re saying.

  Lovingdon did those things, but then he also did the blackguard things—kissing her at every opportunity, bringing her pleasure . . .

  Why would only blackguards do those things? It seemed like a man in love would as well.

  Was it possible that he cared for her more than she realized, more than he realized?

  Chapter 12

  As Grace sat on the blanket, sketching the swans on the lake, she decided that she very much enjoyed Vexley’s company. He seemed not to have a care in the world. He wasn’t brooding or irascible. He didn’t seek to teach her lessons, no matter that she had implied she wanted those lessons from Lovingdon.

  Vexley had invited her to picnic with him. Sitting beneath a nearby tree, Felicity was serving as chaperone. Not that one was really needed here at the park. A good many people were about. Vexley could not take advantage—

  And neither could she.

  She pretended to be fascinated by the swans, because she found herself spending far too much time studying his mouth, striving to envision it moving over hers. It was no hardship whatsoever whenever she thought of Lovingdon, but with Vexley she couldn’t quite see it. He had thin lips. The upper tended to disappear when he smiled, which he did quite often. Would it disappear when he kissed or would it become plumper?

  Her own swelled considerably when Lovingdon gave attention to her mouth. It was just that he was so thorough. Whether he was kissing her slowly and provocatively or with a ravishing hunger, he was never brief. He lingered, he sipped, he came back for more. He had done her a great disservice by demonstrating how a man who loved her would kiss her. How could any man measure up to that?

  How could she survive a kiss that was not a demonstration but was instigated by love? It would contain an emotional richness, delve deeper—

  “You have the most lovely blush.”

  Familiar with the sight of her blushes, she suspected it wasn’t lovely, but it no doubt encompassed most of her body, reflecting the path her thoughts had wandered onto. She also suspected with his comment that the rosy hue was darkening. She forced herself to smile at him and not let on that she was embarrassed to be caught musing about things she ought not. “I’ve grown a little warm.”

  Understatement.

  “You’re a very good artist,” he said. He was resting up on an elbow, peering over at the sketchpad on her lap.

  “I inherited my father’s talent for putting images on paper. Although he prefers oils, I like pencils.”

  “Most ladies do needlework.”

  “Is that what you expect your wife to do?”

  “I expect her to do anything she likes.”

  She wondered if he intended to stand by those words or if they were just meant to lure her in. Why could she not take them at face value?

  “She will be a most fortunate woman,” she said. “Some husbands have keen expectations.”

  Sybil’s had, although Grace had seen her the day before and all continued to remain calm within her household. Lovingdon’s influence had made a difference. Would Vexley step up to assist her friends if they were in need of help?

  “I want the sort of marriage my father had,” Vexley said. “Very amiable, no disc
ord.”

  Amiable might be pleasant but it could also be quite boring. She thought of how she could speak honestly and openly with Lovingdon. She couldn’t imagine posing the same sort of questions to Vexley, nor could she imagine Vexley responding with Lovingdon’s candidness. That was what she desired: someone with whom she could be completely herself.

  Out of the corner of her eye she caught sight of Lady Cornelia walking with Lord Ambrose. Arms linked, they were both smiling. Grace took satisfaction in her role as matchmaker for them.

  “That’s an odd couple,” Vexley said, and she glanced over to see that he was looking in the same direction that she’d been.

  “They seem to get along famously.” As though to prove her point, at that moment Lady Cornelia’s laughter floated toward her.

  “Her dowry won’t allow them to live with any sort of largesse.”

  During all of his courtship, Vexley had never once mentioned the assets he would gain with marriage to her. She had begun to lure herself into believing that it wasn’t important to him—or at least not more important than her.

  “And will mine allow you to live more in the manner to which you desire?” she asked.

  The change in his features was subtle but she knew he had realized his mistake. “I was only talking about them.” Reaching out, he took her hand. While his was warm, his touch was not as powerful as Lovingdon’s. As much as she wished she didn’t, she felt Lovingdon’s touch all through her body, no matter how slight, how unintentional. “Things are very different between you and I. We are well-suited, dowry be damned.”

  “So would we still be here had I no dowry?”

  “Without doubt.”

  Yet, she doubted. Blast it all.

  The mood of their outing changed. He read her poetry, but the poems weren’t written by her favorite poet. They wandered among the trees and along the lake, never touching. She wanted the inadvertent placing of a hand on the small of her back. She didn’t care how inappropriate it might be. He talked at her, not to her. He never sought her opinion. She would not have cared if he asked her what color she thought the sky was. She was merely seeking some evidence that he cared about what she thought.

  When she spoke softly, he didn’t lean in. He merely responded with, “Quite right.”

  Which didn’t seem right at all considering her comment had been that she thought she had spotted a whale in the pond. Not that she had, of course. She’d simply been testing his interest, and discovered it lacking.

  She’d had such high hopes for the afternoon, but found herself quite relieved when he returned her to the residence with the promise of seeing her at her family’s estate later in the week.

  When she walked into the foyer, she heard voices coming from the front parlor, one much deeper, one that sent fissures of pleasure spiraling through her. Cursing Lovingdon soundly for affecting her at all, she strolled into the room to find her mother serving tea to the duke.

  Very slowly, he shifted his gaze to her, and she felt as though she’d been smashed in the ribs with Drake’s cricket bat. In a smooth, feral way, Lovingdon unfolded his body from the chair.

  Her mother glanced over. “Oh, you’re here. Lovingdon was just telling me about a lecture on the American hummingbird that he’s taking his sister to this evening. He thought you might be keen to learn about it.”

  “I believe you’ll find a lecture far more interesting than an exhibit,” he drawled laconically, and she couldn’t help but believe there was more to his invitation than her mother realized.

  “I thought you’d come around regarding the merits of exhibits,” Grace said. Had he not purchased the red glass? Had she not found him studying it? Warmth swept through her with the thoughts of how much he had seemed to appreciate it—had appreciated her—that night.

  “They have their place, but I prefer the opportunity to listen as knowledge is shared.”

  She couldn’t be sure, but she thought she caught an undercurrent to his words, a warning. Had she somehow managed to upset him? That seemed unlikely as she’d not seen him since Minerva’s party. But something was amiss. If she were smart, she would no doubt decline the invitation, but when it came to Lovingdon, she’d never been terribly brilliant. She suspected she might regret the evening, but then she decided it was better to regret doing something than not doing it. She’d once thought there were a great many things that she’d never have the opportunity to do. She wasn’t going to shy away from experiences simply because she wasn’t certain how they might end.

  “I’d be delighted to go. May I have some time to dress properly for the occasion?”

  “Take all the time you require.”

  The undercurrent became a raging river of fury. Or at least that was the sense Grace had as Lovingdon’s coach traveled through the city. Glaring out the window, he sat opposite her, his back straight and stiff. Had she brought her parasol, she might have whacked him on the head with it.

  She was acutely aware of the direction in which they traveled—the incorrect one. “Are we not stopping off to retrieve Minerva?” she asked.

  “No.”

  “Are we going to a lecture?”

  “I haven’t decided.”

  “So you lied to my mother? For what purpose?”

  His gaze landed on her then with the full weight of it taking her by surprise. He was fairly smoldering. “To get you into my carriage alone. Men lie. Often. When they want something.”

  “And you want something?”

  “I want you to stay clear of Vexley. I’ve already told you that he doesn’t love you.”

  “I like Vexley.”

  “So you’re going to ignore my advice? Why ask me for it if you’re going to discount it? My time is valuable—”

  “So valuable that you’ve hardly given me any, in spite of your promise to be more involved. You didn’t attend the ball last night. Are you even going to bother with our affair at Mabry Manor?”

  He returned his attention to the passing scenery visible through the window. “I haven’t decided.”

  “It seems there is quite a bit you haven’t decided.” She sighed. “Come to Mabry Manor, stay a few days, make your observations, give me a report. I shan’t bother you anymore after that.”

  “You’re not bothering me now.”

  “I find that difficult to believe considering how disgruntled you sound.”

  A corner of his mouth quirked up. She longed to hear him laugh. “Come early. We’ll go riding,” she said.

  “How will that help you find a husband?”

  Maybe it would help her find her friend. “Blast it all, Lovingdon, don’t be so cantankerous. Come to our estate, and I promise you can do it without making observations or presenting me with a report. Just enjoy yourself. When was the last time you truly enjoyed yourself?”

  He was enjoying himself at that very moment, dammit all. He’d never had harsh words with Juliette. They’d never argued. She’d never been short with him or looked as though she were on the verge of reaching across the expanse separating them in order to give him a good hard shake.

  It was odd that igniting a fire within Grace was such fun. He was riding through the park when he spotted her with that scapegrace Vexley. He almost interrupted them there and then, probably should have, but he feared he would come across as some sort of jealous lover. He wasn’t jealous, not at all. He was simply disappointed she didn’t have the cunning to see Vexley for what he was—completely undeserving of her.

  The problem was that he had yet to meet a man whom he thought was deserving of her. He didn’t like imagining her laughing with some other fellow, sharing exhibits with him, growing warm beneath his touch, saying his name on a soft moan as passion burned through her.

  “Did he kiss you?” he asked, immediately hating that he posed the question.

  She appeared surprised. “Vexley? Of course not. He’s a perfect gentleman.” She released a great huff of air. “The trouble is that I’m not certain I want a per
fect gentleman. None of the gents courting me excite me the way that you do.”

  An inappropriate fissure of pleasure shot through him with her admission.

  “I spend far too much time thinking of red vases and what transpired near one,” she said. “I think of your kisses and wonder if all men kiss with as much enthusiasm.”

  “I assure you that if he loves you, he’ll kiss you with more enthusiasm.”

  “And if I love him—”

  He stiffened in surprise as she breached the distance separating them and sat beside him. She grazed her hand along his cheek, his jaw. When had she removed her gloves? “I’ll want to kiss him, won’t I?”

  “Naturally.”

  “I’ll want him to be keen on having me kiss him again, so I’ll want to ensure that I do it in such a way that he’ll be unable to resist begging for more. Mayhap I should practice with someone for whom I haven’t a care.” She leaned in.

  “Grace,” he cautioned.

  “What’s the matter, Lovingdon? Afraid you’ll be enticed into wanting more?”

  He was already enticed. What he feared was that he might not be able to resist taking more than she was offering. “You play with fire, m’lady.”

  “I’m not afraid of getting burned. Are you?”

  It wasn’t the burn she should fear but the aftermath, for it could be painful indeed. But before he could even think of a way in which to explain that to her, she had covered his mouth with hers as though she owned every inch of it, inside and out.

  Practice, indeed. If he hadn’t experienced her enthusiasm the first time he kissed her, he might well believe she had spent considerable time practicing, but passion seemed to be such a natural part of her. What amazed him was how well she managed to hold it in check. When she released it, God help the man she loved. At that moment, however, God help him.

  He knew he should show shock at her boldness, but too much honesty resided within their friendship for him to feign surprise or castigate her for doing what he had been contemplating since he first saw her with Vexley. Publicly claiming her mouth, however, would have resulted in her having the one thing she didn’t want: a husband incapable of loving her.