When the Duke Was Wicked

by Lorraine Heath

  “We all die.” Thunder sounded, the timing ominous, as though to punctuate her words. “You could walk outside and be struck by lightning. There are no guarantees. But Graves thinks it unlikely that I’ll have to deal with it again.”

  Lovingdon strode around the room. She was surprised that he didn’t go out into the rain.

  “How could I not know that this happened to you?”

  “The timing of it, I suppose.” She licked her lips. “It was a little over two years ago. You were in the depths of grief and despair. And it’s not as though we took out an advert. Mother and I went to the country, said we were taking a long holiday. I don’t think anyone thought anything of it. She and I have always been close. Our going away together wasn’t unusual. As I said by the river, it’s not something that’s shouted about. If people discuss it at all, it’s in whispers.”

  She didn’t know why she didn’t cover herself up. Only she, Graves, her mother, and Felicity had ever seen her scars. That Lovingdon wasn’t casting up his accounts gave her hope that perhaps another man might not be repelled either. He dropped down in front of her.

  “I’m so sorry, Grace.” He raised a hand, lowered it, lifted his gaze to hers. “I feel as though I should have done something.”

  “You’re doing something now. Assisting me in finding love. I know if a man asks for my hand that I shall have to tell him, but I don’t know exactly when I should, or how. I must know that he loves me. I must trust him implicitly. I don’t want all of London to know. This is personal, private. And then I think, ‘What should it matter?’ Lady Sybil told me that Fitzsimmons only ever lifts the hem of her nightdress, that he never unbuttons it, never seems to care much about anything other than what’s between her legs. So perhaps my husband would never know. If he’s only interested in the lower portions—”

  “If he loves you, Grace, he’ll want to see all of you.”

  The problem with his honesty was that he told her things she’d rather not know. “I feared as much.”

  “You shouldn’t fear it, because if he loves you, it won’t matter.”

  “How can it not?”

  “It won’t.” Gently, like a summer breeze wafting over a lake, he parted the material farther. “Is it painful?”

  “Not very.” She shook her head slightly. “Sometimes it pulls. It looks much worse than it is. Looks ghastly, actually.”

  “No . . . no.” He lowered his gaze, then slowly began lowering his head. “If he loves you, he’ll find every aspect of you beautiful.”

  But how could he? She didn’t utter the words, fearful that he would think she was fishing for compliments. She didn’t like being needy or unsure. She had always known her own mind. It was the minds of men that she didn’t quite understand. Every time she thought she had them figured out, they surprised her.

  Just as Lovingdon surprised the hell out of her now. He laid his lips against the ropy scars. She couldn’t feel his touch, but she could see it, the light pressing that didn’t smash his mouth. The gentleness of it, the reverence.

  His mouth glided up until she felt the heat of it on her collarbone, then her neck. Then his lips were against hers, sipping at the corners. One of his hands came to the back of her head, holding her in place before his mouth smashed hers, his tongue urging her to part her lips, which she did gladly.

  With a groan, he delved swiftly and deeply. She forgot about her scars, her imperfections, her fears of disappointing. All she knew was the hunger of his kiss, the urgency of their mating mouths.

  He dragged his lips along the sensitive flesh just under her chin, his tongue tasting until he reached the shell of her ear. “Little Rose,” he rasped, “never doubt that you’re beautiful. I’m going to show you how beautiful.”

  With hardly any effort at all he lifted her into his arms and carried her to the bed. He laid her down gently. There was more darkness than light here, shadows providing a welcoming cover from his gaze. He walked away, and when he returned brought the glow of the lamp with him and set it on the table beside the bed.

  “I’m not going to let you hide from me,” he said.

  “Lady Sybil says it’s done in the dark.”

  “Lady Sybil is married to a buffoon.”

  Sitting on the edge of the bed, he took his fingers on a journey through her hair, discovering and removing the pins that had refused to take flight as she’d run to the cottage. He fanned out the strands. They were relatively dry thanks to the protection of his jacket.

  Folding his hands around her neck, he eased them down to her shoulders, then slid them down her arms, taking her chemise with them. She considered protesting, and yet when she saw his concentration, words failed her and she couldn’t look away.

  She saw anger at what she’d suffered; she saw sorrow, but she also saw wonder. The wonder stole her voice, her breath, her worries. During all the times when she envisioned revealing herself to a man, not once had she ever imagined that he would gaze on her with wonder reflected in his eyes.

  When all her undergarments were gone, he retrieved the quilt he’d taken to the fireplace earlier and very gently dried whatever raindrops remained on her skin.

  “I won’t break, you know,” she said.

  His eyes met hers. “You are like blown glass, to be appreciated for your beauty, touched with care. Admired. So fair.” He shifted his gaze down. “Except where you’re red.”

  “It’s not right for you to be able to look at all of me when I can see so little of you.”

  “You tempt me, Little Rose. If I remove my clothes, you won’t leave here a virgin.”

  “I don’t want to.” Sitting up, she began unfastening the buttons on his shirt. “You tempt me as well.”

  When the last button was undone, he reached up and over his shoulders, grabbed the back of his shirt and pulled it over his head to unveil the smattering of hair on his chest and the sculpted muscles that revealed his life of debauchery included some sort of strenuous activities.

  He was perfection, and he desired her.

  She knew because she could see the bulge straining against his britches. His arousal.

  Leaning in, he took her mouth tenderly, sweetly, exploring at his leisure as though he had never explored it before, as though the shape of it, the taste of it, were all new discoveries to be savored. It was only a kiss and yet it quite undid her.

  He guided her back down to the pillows, then stood, and began giving the buttons of his trousers their freedom. One, two—

  Her gaze shot up to his eyes, the smoldering depths, watching her as she watched him. By the time she dropped her gaze, his task was done, his clothes on the floor—

  “Amazing how your body reacts when there is a woman in a bed—”

  “It doesn’t react this way for every woman I see in a bed. It’s actually quite particular.”

  Stretching out beside her, he threaded his fingers through her hair. She heard thunder, or perhaps it was her own heart beating. The rain pounded the roof, creating a more intimate cocoon. When she had envisioned her first time with a man, she had not imagined this feeling of being whole and complete. He gazed down on her as though there were no imperfections, no scars. Through his eyes she felt remarkably lovely, not at all self-conscious, not at all wanting to cover up and hide.

  As his mouth once again blanketed hers, he made her want to be bold, allowed her to be her true self, someone who had never retreated from adventure. What an adventure he was taking her on.

  His mouth and hands explored while hers did the same. His skin was hot and slick to the touch, salty to the taste. His muscles coiled and undulated beneath her palms. He guided and encouraged her to touch him intimately, and the heat of him increased her fervor. They were like two flames, a conflagration dancing and writhing and generating more heat, building a bolder fire that ignited passion. She thought she might come away from this as little more than a cinder—

  And then she realized that she would come away from this as beautiful hand-
blown glass, shaped and molded with care, with precision, with love. For surely only someone who loved her would devote so much attention to every aspect of her. He left no part of her unkissed, no part uncaressed.

  He suckled her solitary breast and she nearly bucked off the bed with the pleasure of it. She threaded her fingers through his hair, held him there while his tongue lathed over the tiny pearl.

  Then he skimmed his mouth over to the other side, bringing the sensations with him. They were phantom sensations, she thought, because he could only run his tongue over scars, but having a sense of what she should have felt, she felt it now.

  Even if it was only in her mind, she didn’t care, as he was creating other feelings elsewhere, across her hips, between her thighs, stroking, stroking, urging—

  Pleasure escalated. He moved between her legs, wedging himself at her apex. She could feel him nudging at her entry. She skimmed her fingers over his damp chest, his breaths coming short and hard, his heart beating out a steady tattoo. Holding her gaze, he began inching himself in.

  “Tell me if it hurts,” he commanded.

  As though she would, as though she would ruin this moment of their joining with complaints or whimpers. She’d endured much worse. He was slow, but determined, stretching her.

  “You’re so damned hot,” he growled.

  Fire, she thought, we’re fire, shaping something beautiful and wonderful here.

  He sighed with deep satisfaction. Her body curled and tightened around him. Yes, this was love, this melding that made it impossible to tell where she ended and he began.

  He slid out, slipped back in. Short thrusts, hard thrusts, teasing ones, determined ones. All the while he caressed and kissed and whispered that she was beautiful, perfect, enticing.

  Enticing. She liked it the best, because it meant he wanted her, wanted to be part of her. His tempo gained momentum, the deep thrusts dominated. Liquid sensations began swirling through her. Heating, cooling, taking shape into something that could not be denied.

  She dug her fingers into his shoulders, scraped them down his back, curled them into his firm buttocks. They moved in unison as one.

  Her sighs turned to cries as the pleasure intensified. Fire consumed her as the sensations exploded, ripping through her and then bringing her back, gasping, stunned, and utterly replete.

  Above her, Lovingdon grunted, withdrew, and spilled his hot seed on her thigh. Breathing heavily, he bowed his head. She combed her fingers into his damp hair.

  She never wanted to stop touching him, she never wanted them to leave this bed.

  After cleaning her and himself up, Lovingdon lay on his side and trailed a finger along a scar, then circled it around her breast. He thought he’d always been there for her, but when she had needed him most, he was secluded in mourning, devastated, thinking that no one else had pain as great as his.

  For the past two years he had convinced himself that he alone suffered. He had wrapped himself in a shroud of anguish. Breaking out of the tight cocoon was not turning him into something beautiful now, but perhaps it was making him stronger. Not that he would have ever willingly traded Juliette and Margaret for strength. He would have never let them go, but sometimes life didn’t come with choices.

  If Grace never found a man who loved her, who would appreciate her, he had wanted her to experience lovemaking at its finest. Two years of debauchery had taught him a great deal, and he’d wanted to share the lessons with her. At least that’s what he told himself. In truth, thought and reasoning played no part in what had just transpired.

  “I think Fitzsimmons is doing it wrong,” she said quietly.

  He peered into her eyes. “When you’re in a man’s bed, it’s bad form to mention another man.”

  She smiled, the mischievous smile that always enthralled him. “I don’t intend to make a habit of visiting different men’s beds. Only my husband’s. It’s only that I think Sybil would have told me if she had experienced anything close to resembling what just transpired between us.”

  “Not all men care about the lady in their bed to such an extent.”

  “You care about me?”

  “I do, very much, yes.”

  She studied him as though he hadn’t said quite enough. He hoped his next words offered reassurance. “The storm has passed. It’ll be light soon. We should get back to the manor so I can tidy up before asking your father for your hand in marriage.”

  She blinked, opened her mouth, closed it, furrowed her brow. “I beg your pardon?”

  “I’ve compromised you, Grace. You can’t possibly think that I’m going to shirk my responsibility here.”

  She quickly moved away from him, sat up, grabbed the quilt and covered herself from chin to toe. “Your responsibility?”

  “Yes.”

  “Do you love me?”

  “In a manner of speaking.”

  The fire in her blue eyes would melt glass. “A manner of speaking. Do give details on the manner, here.”

  “You know very well, as we’ve discussed it, I have limits regarding what I will allow myself to feel, especially in regard to—” He dropped his gaze to her chest.

  “What does that look mean?”

  He did not want to travel there. He did not. “You have no guarantee that the malignancy won’t return. You can’t guarantee that you’ll survive another bout of it.” He came up off the bed in a blind rage that took him a moment to get under control. The thought of her dying—he cared for her, yes. Losing her would be painful, but he would not allow her to own his heart and soul. If the disease came upon her again, he wouldn’t be able to save her, just as he’d been unable to save Juliette. To lose Grace under those circumstances would send him straight to Bedlam.

  He faced her. “You will be happy. And this between us”—he moved his hand back and forth between them—“it’s good. We can make this work without the necessity of falling in love.”

  Staring at him, she shook her head. “I can’t make it work without falling in love. I won’t. I deserve a man who cares if I die.”

  “I’ll care. Of course I’ll care. I just won’t—”

  “As much as you did when Juliette died.”

  “I can’t go through that pain again. I won’t.”

  “Go to the devil, Lovingdon.” She came off the bed in a majestic sweep of bedclothes wrapped around her. She stood before him, her shoulders back, her chin level, a queen sorely disappointed in her subject. “Get dressed and get out. I’ll see myself to the manor without you in tow when I’m good and ready.”

  “I’m not allowing you to traipse about unprotected.”

  “Good God, Lovingdon, I’ve traipsed about these grounds unprotected most of my life. I don’t want you about. And don’t you dare ask my father for my hand. I shan’t marry you.”

  “You won’t have a choice when I tell him what transpired here.”

  “You won’t tell him.” She turned her back on him.

  He wanted to go to her, comfort her, but she was right. She deserved a man willing to give her his heart. He wasn’t that man. He’d known all along he wasn’t that man. It didn’t stop him from admiring her, desiring her. But he would not force marriage on her.

  In silence, he snatched up his clothes and hastily drew them on, barely bothering with the buttons on his shirt. With his waistcoat balled in his fist, he headed for the door. “I’ve left my jacket so you can at least have some protection from the early morning chill.”

  He opened the door.

  “It was you,” she called out softly. “You I fell in love with once. You who broke my heart at such a tender age. And now you’ve gone and done it again.”

  And with those simple words she eviscerated him.

  She didn’t know how long she sat in the cottage. Without looking back, he’d slammed the door in his wake. She didn’t know why she’d confessed what she had.

  Well, she certainly wasn’t going to sit here all night feeling sorry for herself. She thought about trying
to sketch. She had been working on a story told through pictures of a bunny who had lost an ear and feared no other rabbit would ever love him, because he was scarred and different. She thought she would have it published as a children’s book, but at the moment she didn’t care about the damn bunny.

  She hurt too much to care about anything.

  Why had she thought he would open his heart to her, that he would think for a single moment that he could have with her what he’d had with Juliette?

  But at least for a few moments with him she’d felt beautiful again.

  Somewhere a man existed who would love her, appreciate her, and find her beautiful. But her father had it right. She hadn’t found love where she’d been searching for it. Perhaps the key was to stop searching.

  She thought of the butterflies she’d chased as a girl, and how she never caught a single one. One afternoon she wanted to hold one so desperately that she’d run herself ragged, until she finally collapsed on the cool grass, breathing heavily, too exhausted to move. She’d felt it. The tiniest touch on the back of her hand. When she looked, she’d seen the orange and black wings, opening and closing in delicate rhythm. A butterfly was taking its rest near her thumb. She could have captured it with ease.

  Instead she let it go. She had to do the same with Lovingdon. He’d had his love, short-lived but intense. He was content to live out the remainder of his life with the memory of it. Just as she had been with her singular butterfly. Some experiences were not meant to be repeated.

  She’d been a fool for thinking otherwise. She would tell him so when next their paths crossed. She valued his friendship. It was enough. She didn’t require more.

  With a sigh, Grace stepped outside. The moon was hidden behind dark clouds and the rain had begun to fall again. She should delay, she thought, but was anxious to be home. Besides, she knew the path well.

  She had taken but two steps when soft linen covered her mouth. Startled, she inhaled deeply, breathed in a familiar sweet fragrance that she associated with fear, with pain, with loss. Dr. Graves had used it as he prepared her for surgery.

  She started to fight, tried to fight, but the drug was already taking effect. Her limbs were too heavy to move. Her knees began to buckle. She was aware of someone lifting her.