Sinful in Scarlet: The Brothers Duke: Book One

by Felicia Greene

  He reached downward. Just a few clumsy, ardent adjustments, complete with a gasp from Dorothea, and his aching cock was free of his breeches. Dorothea took it in her hand immediately; Thomas bit back a grunt as the pleasure of her touch blazed through him like wildfire. Yes, like this, her stroking him, one of his hands on her breasts, the other… yes, there, at her entrance, the wet silken heat of her that made him tremble from root to tip.

  Dorothea’s cry was the most beautiful thing he’d ever heard as he began to stroke her. The way she bucked against him as he pleasured her, natural and greedy, was more erotic than the most depraved tricks any brothel could provide–and oh, the way she gripped his hair when he brought his mouth to her breast, found her nipple and sucked.

  Unparalleled. All of it was beyond compare. All of it was Dorothea Radcliffe–the woman was meant to be here just as she was now, and he was meant to be in service to her.

  Such thoughts were meant to frighten a single man of considerable fortune. But Thomas had never been an ordinary man. Something had always been missing… and now, here and now, he could give it name and form. He lavished attention on her, his tongue tight to her breasts, his hand hot with her desire as he stroked the flushed, secret lips at the meeting of her thighs.

  ‘Oh, Thomas.’ Dorothea’s murmur was thick with confused, pleasurable frustration. ‘I–something’s happening to me.’ She ran her hand along the length of Thomas’s cock; he gasped, briefly seeing stars. ‘What’s happening?’

  ‘Keep doing that.’ He could do this forever. ‘Keep doing that, and I’ll show you.’

  It felt like being dipped in gold. As if every part of her had become precious, sanctified, by the sheer strength of the pleasure that had come over her in deep, overwhelming waves. Waves that hadn’t drowned her, no—they had lifted her, as if she had flown.

  Astonishing. Dorothea lay with her head against Thomas’s chest, watching clouds sail majestically by the window as her breath slowly returned to normal.

  After a long stretch of peaceful silence, the clouds began to bore her. Not wishing to distract Thomas from his own, presumably tranquil reflections, Dorothea let her gaze drift to the bookshelf that stood at one end of the room.

  How majestic all of the leather-bound books looked. Even the magnifying glass had a gentlemanly charm to it, as did the small brass cow, and… and…

  … and the open box containing a pair of gloves?

  Those gloves weren’t gentlemanly. Not in the slightest. They were elegantly feminine, finished with a luxurious flair that caught Dorothea’s attention immediately.

  They were made for a woman. No doubt about that. Shutting her eyes, determined to stop ugly thoughts from arising, Dorothea winced as Lady Beatrice’s words flowered in her mind.

  When one thinks of Thomas Duke and that actress…

  She shouldn’t say anything at all. It would ruin the moment. But—but the moment was already ruined now, the sly voice of suspicion in her head, and Dorothea knew that saying something was unavoidable. ‘Thomas?’

  Thomas’s voice was thick with contentment. ‘Yes?’

  ‘A small clarification.’

  ‘Anything.’

  There was no way to say it politely. A bantering tone could sound aggressive if she pitched her voice incorrectly, and a hurt tone would only make him concerned… but she couldn’t simply say nothing at all. ‘Are you desperately in love with an actress named Claire Neve?’

  ‘… I beg your pardon?’

  ‘Claire Neve. She’s an actress.’ Dorothea spoke quickly, not wanting to look at Thomas. ‘And someone told me you’re desperately in love with her.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘No-one of import.’ How nice that felt to say, now that Lady Beatrice couldn’t hear her. ‘I’m sure it’s only gossip–’

  ‘It’s bollocks, is what it is. Complete bollocks.’

  ‘That’s what I thought, of course–’

  ‘But you didn’t think that. If you hadn’t believed it, you wouldn’t have asked me.’ Thomas’s voice rang with hurt. ‘But it’s bollocks, as I said. You can consider the matter closed.’

  Consider the matter closed?

  Dorothea bit her lip. Almost every fibre of her being told her to keep quiet, or apologise again. But the core of her, wounded by Thomas’s tone and more than aware that she hadn’t deserved to be spoken too so shortly, refused to keep silent.

  How long as it been since she’d felt truly courageous? A long time. How irritating that courage had only arrived with anger. She pulled away, folding her arms as she forced herself to look at Thomas directly.

  ‘Don’t speak to me that way.’ She stared, unblinking. ‘Don’t.’

  Thomas looked shocked. ‘In what way?’

  ‘In a—in a cruel, dismissive way.’ Lord, it was difficult to speak to him like this. Speak to anyone like this. ‘I believe you completely. There’s nothing wrong, however, with confirming the falsity of something you already think is untrue.’

  ‘You should trust me rather than believe the foolish opinions of others.’

  ‘With a pair of women’s gloves on your bookshelf? You don’t have sisters, Thomas.’ Dorothea took a deep breath, struggling to keep her composure. ‘I don’t believe you’re in love with an actress, and I certainly don’t believe you bought those gloves as a romantic present for a woman. No doubt I’ll enjoy the truth of it when you tell me, and we’ll laugh at my silliness. But one is allowed to wonder and ask as well as trust, particularly when one is—’

  ‘Those gloves are for you. And it certainly was a romantic present.’ Thomas stared at her, his voice cold. ‘But it appears you suspect me of foul conduct.

  Ah. Dorothea hung her head, a wave of shame flooding her. She waited for it to pass, leaving her with nothing but the urge to kneel, to apologise… but to her surprise, something quite different remained when the embarrassment was gone.

  Anger. Bright, quivering anger.

  How dare he? How dare he sweep back into her life, do things with her that could ruin her reputation in the blink of an eye, and then take umbrage when she lightly questioned his constancy? His sentiments, which he had never expressed to her without using a ridiculous analogy about—about a cloth duck!

  Glaring at Thomas, she leapt to her feet. She began to furiously adjust her gown, restoring herself to neat if imprecise decency as Thomas scrambled to his feet as well.

  ‘Well it’s rather poor of you to leave without—’

  ‘Thomas, if you tell me to apologise for something completely understandable, I will become even angrier than I already am. And I’m already very angry.’ Dorothea straightened the bodice of her gown with a stare that spat venom. ‘I refuse to apologise for a completely normal assumption.’

  ‘It cast a brutal aspersion on my character.’

  ‘It did no such thing! We had forgotten one another before yesterday—do you really think I would have been unable to bear an admission of sentiment in other places? It would have been—been painful, yes, but bearable! More than either of those things, it would have been understandable!’ Dorothea fastened her bonnet, her fingers trembling. ‘But you treat me like—like a harpy for not being able to read your mind!’

  ‘If ‘If you can’t judge my sentiments from my actions, Dorothea, then–’

  ‘You have spoken to no-one I know. You’ve made no attempt to court me in public or to compliment me in private beyond the joy of seeing me again. There has been no discussion of–of a future, if indeed there is one.’ Dorothea paused, sighing as she turned towards the door. ‘And I believe I wanted there to be one.’

  ‘Don’t you dare leave now, after saying–’

  ‘I have to leave now. You misunderstood my questioning so gravely, and have treated me so–so roughly, that the pleasure of our meeting is beginning to sour.’ Dorothea bit her lip, determined not to let the tears gathering in her eyes begin to fall. ‘I must ask you not to follow me. We have nothing useful to say to one another in this p
articular moment.’

  ‘You’re certainly unprepared to listen to even the simplest of statements!’

  His looked of wounded offence was almost laughable. Dorothea opened the door, the musty air of the corridor filling her nose. ‘You were a thoughtful child, Thomas. You used to have the capacity for self-reflection, from what I can remember. But then again—perhaps I’m remembering incorrectly. It was a long time ago, after all.’

  She shut the door before he could reply. Ignoring her urge to stand in the middle of the corridor and weep, more than aware that any pair of prying eyes could see her crying if they so chose, she walked to the front door and opened it before she could give into any of her weaker desires.

  The cold, chaotic air hit her like a slap. She swayed a little, knowing she had to look ashen, hoping for at least a few moments of quiet reflection before—’

  ‘There you are. Quite the most incapable companion I have ever had the displeasure of hiring.’

  If the universe looked upon her with any sort of kindness, it would have given her at least an hour alone with her frustration and sadness. Perhaps two, in a park where she could weep in the company of pigeons and other distressed women. But because the universe appeared to have fixed her with its beadiest, most unpleasant eye, it had presented her with the shrivelled, venomous apparition of Lady Beatrice before she had even succeeded in banishing Thomas’s ill-considered words from her mind.

  ‘I can only hope that you’ve conducted yourself in a manner befitting your status as my companion in your–well, I can only call it a holiday. Don’t expect to be paid for the hour you’ve missed.’ Lady Beatrice glared, the potency of her expression only slightly offset by the drooping feather in her bonnet. ‘Your complexion leads me to believe that you’ve been conducting yourself in a most unsavoury manner–have you been entering shops alone and bothering tradespeople?’

  A clear, shining vision came to Dorothea: Lady Beatrice disappearing suddenly, like a magic trick. When it failed to come to pass, she simply bowed her head in utter dejection.

  She didn’t have any fight left in her. She’d used all of it up in Thomas’s office, and only sadness remained.

  ‘Fortunately I managed to purchase a quantity of my usual green powder, despite the complete lack of help from the empty-headed woman that I pay for the privilege of aiding me.’ Lady Beatrice sniffed as she pointed to a small parcel. ‘And at least I found an umbrella. It’s light enough even for an ailing woman like myself to hold–I consider that an advantage, given that I clearly cannot rely on the staff I hire to keep me out of rain, heat or any other distressing weather.’

  Dorothea bit her tongue very, very hard. Her mind a tumult of frenzied thoughts, her heart full of sentiments that she didn’t dare to name, she meekly followed Lady Beatrice as the woman headed for her carriage.

  And now it was dinner at Pembroke Manor, for all the world as if London had never happened. As if she and Thomas had never been together in—in that way. Time was slipping through her fingers, making even the smallest action she took seem utterly irrelevant. Was this to be her life, now–was this strange, cold sadness to mark every day of existence until she died?

  She would carry on, of course, she was far too practical a girl to lose herself in such a mire, but… but oh, all she wanted to do was go to bed and cry.

  No bed. No crying. Just a plate of cold jellied meat that she had absolutely no desire to eat, and Lady Beatrice staring at her with venom. She should have asked Charlotte to place her in the servants’ quarters for dinner–but of course she wouldn’t hear of that. She could imagine her friend now: Dorothea, do you really think you don’t deserve a place at my table?

  She didn’t deserve a place at any table. Especially not this one, with Thomas Duke’s dark stare so horribly visible despite the laughing, chattering guests between them.

  She had to eat. If she didn’t eat there would be cruel jokes made at her expense; Lady Beatrice had a stock of them. Dorothea took a wobbling piece of jellied meat upon her fork, staring at it with helpless disgust before putting it in her mouth with a shudder.

  ‘Keeping your strength up, I see.’ Lady Beatrice had a carrying tone at the best of times; the observation filled the room. ‘I can hardly see why.’

  It was important not to react. Important to seem dim. Dorothea forced the quivering monstrosity down her throat, casting a panicked glance at Charlotte. Alas, her friend was engaged with another guest.

  ‘Did abandoning me in the city today leave you hungry?’ The old woman had found the carriage ride intolerable. It was important to remember that as well; excuses had to be found for her, or it would all be too intolerable to take. ‘Failing in one’s duties takes the appetite away from normal people.’

  Her voice was getting louder. Dorothea, staring at her plate in agonised embarrassment, heard other conversations dimming as Lady Beatrice continued.

  ‘Your earlier fecklessness doesn’t seem to have done your appetite any harm. Of course, looking at you, it’s clear that it would take a disaster of the most dreadful sort to stop you eating–’

  ‘Be quiet.’

  If Lady Beatrice’s voice was loud, Thomas Duke’s voice was louder. Loud enough to stop all conversation for a brief, horrified instant, as every guest looked at either him or Lady Beatrice in frantic anticipation.

  ‘Why, you…’ Lady Beatrice’s artificial curls trembled on her head. ‘What on earth do you mean by–’

  ‘I meant, be quiet. It was clear enough. If we are to speak of spoiled appetites, your conduct towards Miss Radcliffe is spoiling mine.’ Thomas spoke with quiet, impeccable gravity, even though his words were shocking beyond measure. ‘So be quiet.’

  The moment hung on a very thin thread. One gasp of horror, one more word for Thomas, and the ball would descend into the most abominable chaos… but Dorothea, to her immense surprise, wasn’t frightened.

  She almost wanted it to happen. Wanted forks to be thrown down and tablecloths to be ripped. For the very first time, someone had seen Lady Beatrice treat her badly and had intervened.

  Thomas had intervened. Despite the desperate miscommunication that lay between them, the fears that plagued her–he cared. Cared enough to threaten his own growing reputation.

  Maybe, just maybe, not everything was lost.

  More silence. A long, aching, agonising stretch of silence… then Charlotte’s voice, perfectly pitched and timed to cause the most distraction possible. ‘My goodness, Lady Weeks–have I really never told you about the time I managed to find myself in White’s after escaping a rainstorm? I caused the most dreadful scandal!’

  Dorothea had never heard the anecdote. For all she knew, it was invented. As the table gratefully sunk into a piece of gossip that the hostess had approved, Thomas’s rudeness deliberately placed aside, she closed her eyes and took a deep, sustaining breath.

  Everything was going wrong. Wrong for her employment, wrong for both Thomas’s reputation and her own. But for the first time in a very, very long time, she felt… right.

  The library at Pembroke Manor was a dark, well-appointed space. Amid the shelves of leather-bound tomes and the faint smell of cigar smoke, the Duke brothers looked at Thomas with an irritating level of incomprehension.

  What did they have to be confused about? He was definitely giving the most objective narrative of events. He hadn’t been planning to talk to them at all about the whole business–better to think it through on his own and come to a correct conclusion. But all of that had fallen out of the window when he had seen Dorothea in the entrance hall, helping to remove Lady Beatrice’s coat with large, sad eyes.

  Of course she had been forced to return here. She could hardly tell that Gorgon of a woman that she didn’t wish to. And the way she had sat there at dinner, meekly taking every drop of that bloody harpy’s bile…

  … he had been compelled to say something. If anything, Lady Beatrice was lucky that he hadn’t said worse. He had been sorely tempted to do so, but
the shock in Dorothea’s face had stopped him from going further.

  It was only getting worse every time he saw her. All of his reason was draining away, replaced with something far more powerful. And to think he had been so cautious about buying her a pair of gloves! He wanted–oh, Christ, he wanted everything.

  He usually got what he wanted. Dorothea’s anger, Dorothea’s doubt–oh, how it had burned. Burned enough to gather his brothers into a room far away from the festivities, and spill out events as he saw it.

  All of them appeared to be listening intently, apart from Henry. Henry was drawing a crocus in his folio, giving every indication that he barely knew what room he was in–let alone what he was meant to be doing.

  ‘Well?’ Such a sustained period of silence from his brothers was unusual. ‘What you think of the whole business?’

  ‘Forgive me if I haven’t understood. I know I’m not very good at these things.’ Henry Duke spoke slowly and cautiously, the candlelight shining on his spectacles as he put down his pencil. ‘But are we to understand that you’ve discovered your latent love for Miss Radcliffe, expressed it, but are now proposing to drop it because she asked you a question about a pair of gloves? And didn’t like the fact that you compared her to a—a duck?’

  Thomas fought a stab of irritation. ‘I’m not dropping anything, and you haven’t understood a damn thing.’

  ‘You have, Henry.’ Edward looked reassuringly at Henry, who nodded. ‘You missed out the part where he realises he’s an enormous tit, but I imagine that’ll happen soon enough.’

  ‘A truly colossal tit.’ Robert shook his head with a weary sigh. ‘Astonishingly so.’

  ‘If this is the level of discourse that I’m meant to expect from my closest confidantes, I’ll do very well on my own.’

  ‘No, you won’t.’ John spoke with slightly more seriousness than the others. ‘Are you honestly surprised that she asked you about the gloves?’

  ‘Yes! I’m surprised about the distrust behind the question!’