How the Duke Was Won

by Lenora Bell

  Grant’s face reddened. “Nothing, nothing at all. Bit of a domestic squabble, Lord Hatherly. Give me a few minutes to sort it out and the performance will begin.”

  So this was their host, Lord Hatherly. He looked at Charlene, his gray eyes turbulent. “Is there something wrong, Miss?”

  Charlene nodded. “Lord Grant is refusing our repayment of a loan.”

  “Quiet!” said Grant. “Lord Hatherly won’t be troubled by such trivial matters.”

  Lord Hatherly glanced at the baron. “Why won’t you accept it?”

  Grant sputtered, his face reddening even more. “This is all a misunderstanding.”

  “No.” Charlene shoved the purse at him. “There’s no misunderstanding. We want our freedom.”

  “How dare you humiliate me,” Grant hissed. “Go home. I’ll deal with you later.”

  Lord Hatherly rounded on Grant, his silver eyes glittering in the backstage gloom. “You should take the purse.”

  Grant glanced from Lord Hatherly to Charlene.

  “Now,” said Lord Hatherly, low and commanding.

  Grant accepted the purse.

  Hatherly flicked a finger, and two large footmen materialized from the shadows. “Escort Lord Grant and . . . companion”—­he glanced disdainfully at Mace—­“to his carriage.”

  “But these are my birds!” Grant said. “You can’t throw me out.”

  With incredible speed, Lord Hatherly crossed to the baron and grabbed his collar. He pulled his face close. “I don’t like you. I never have. You will leave this house and never return.”

  The footmen caught Grant as he reeled back from the strength of Lord Hatherly’s forceful shove.

  Lord Hatherly held his arms out to Charlene and Diane. “Ladies?” They hooked their arms in his, and he escorted them toward the curtain. “Shall we dance?”

  Grant’s furious shouting was drowned out as they neared the curtain and the din of the crowd grew louder.

  Charlene smiled up at Lord Hatherly. “Thank you, my lord. That was kind of you.”

  Silver eyes met hers. “Can’t think why I invited him. Suppose it was for the benefit of your charming company.”

  Charlene waited with the girls for their musical cue. She’d hide in the back of the group and slip out while everyone was watching their performance.

  James glanced around at the decadent chaos of Hatherly’s ballroom. Monkeys in red fez caps with black tassels swung from chandeliers. A peacock roosted on a pile of silk cushions. Plush divans dotted the room, occupied by poetic types with tousled hair, quoting bad rhymes for buxom tarts.

  The air was thick with amber-­scented smoke and a cacophony of laughter, philosophical arguments, and animal noises—­a dissolute Babel tower, presided over by Nicolas, Lord Hatherly, heir to the mad Duke of Barrington. They’d been friends since childhood—­James, Nick, and Dalton, and compatriots in pranks at Cambridge.

  James caught sight of Nick climbing down from a stage at the far end of the room. James walked toward him, through the crowd of men gathered around the stage.

  “Well, if it isn’t His Disgrace, in the flesh.” Nick clapped him on the back. “I like the beard. I was beginning to think you were just a story mamas made up to scare their daughters into behaving at balls.”

  Heads swiveled. Whispering began.

  “Where’s the duke?” James asked Nick. “Doesn’t he mind his ballroom being turned into a menagerie?”

  “Rotting upstairs. Doesn’t even know who I am. Claims I’m his friend Sir Pemberton. He’s always trying to kiss the nurse. Thinks she’s Mother. Mother’s abroad, you know, she can’t bear to see him like this.”

  Nick swiped a bottle of brandy from one of his adoring followers and took a long swallow. “I was sad to hear about William. Hell of a way to go.”

  James nodded. “He would have made a damn fine duke. I’m sure to make a debacle of the whole thing.”

  Nick shook his head. “Heard about your marriage plans from Dalton. My condolences.”

  “Where is Dalton? Not here tonight?”

  “He’s disappeared again. He’s always disappearing. Probably off in the arms of some foreign princess. He told me—­”

  Blaring brass horns drowned out Nick’s next words as a pack of musicians wound their way through the crowd. Several women in long black cloaks and pink feathered masks floated across the stage to the appreciative calls of the gathered gentlemen.

  “Extraordinary creatures,” Nick shouted, indicating the girls with his head. “From a place called the Pink Feather. Obviously.”

  The line of black-­cloaked women swayed seductively. One of them stepped to the front and slowly shed her cloak.

  Long midnight-­black curls hung to her waist, and bold gold eyes flashed behind the mask. Her costume was pink feathers and white gauze, and hid nothing. Curving hips and high, rounded breasts.

  Nothing.

  An enticing beauty, nearly naked, and James’s body had no response. Instead, his mind traveled to Dorothea’s petite curves and gold curls. What was she doing tonight? He couldn’t quite picture her staying home and embroidering.

  “Hello!” Nick waved a hand in front of James’s face. “What do you think of the dancers?”

  “They’re lovely, I suppose. If you like that sort.”

  Nick stared at him. “Dalton told me you’d been captured by Lady Dorothea, but I didn’t believe it until now.”

  “Don’t believe everything Dalton tells you.”

  The band played a slow tune, and the women, as one, swept away their cloaks, revealing more pink feathers and gauze that left little to the imagination.

  They danced for the men, baring a thigh here, a delicately arched instep there. All lovely, all curved and luscious. The crowd cheered and surged around them.

  One of the dancers had kept her cloak on and was edging down the stairs, her shoulders hunched. Something about the way she walked drew his eye.

  “That one,” he pointed at her. “The one descending the stairs.”

  Nick followed his finger, nodding when he saw the woman. “Good choice, but she appears to be leaving.”

  Oh no she wasn’t. Not until James had a closer inspection. He wove through the crowd of cheering spectators. The woman glanced around the room, obviously searching for an exit.

  It couldn’t be her. Not here.

  She caught sight of him, and surprise opened her lips. Before she could run away, he grabbed her arm and pulled her to face him.

  Stormy eyes glinted behind pink satin.

  He knew those eyes.

  She struggled against his grip.

  He ripped the feathered mask from her face.

  It was her.

  Dorothea. His duchess.

  She’d gone too far.

  Outrage quickened his pulse.

  He scooped her up, ignoring her protests, flung her face-­first over his shoulder, and strode from the room.

  Chapter 23

  “Put me down!” Charlene beat on his back with her fists, but his arm was an iron band around her lower back, his other arm pinioning her thighs against his chest.

  He only grunted in response, plunging out onto a balcony and down some steps to the gardens.

  If she found the right point in his neck, he’d have to release his grip. But no, then they might both go tumbling down the steps. Better to conserve her energy for what lay ahead. There was no possible way he’d believe she was Lady Dorothea now. Finding her at a Cyprian’s ball wearing a feathered mask.

  Charlene took a breath. There was a searing sense of relief in knowing her lies would be exposed. Until she recalled that exposure would jeopardize everything she’d worked so hard for.

  The countess would demand the reward back because Charlene had violated their contract. The money Charlene had alrea
dy given to Grant.

  All the pain would have been for nothing.

  Lulu would lose her apprenticeship.

  Flor would be left with no mother at all if he didn’t marry Dorothea.

  Think, Charlene. Think. Could you claim complete ignorance? You don’t know who he is, or why he’s here. You’ve never heard of Lady Dorothea.

  He carried her down a garden path, stepping with the surety of a mountain lion in the darkness lit only by a bright yellow moon. Where was he taking her? She craned her neck. A dome of glass and metal appeared ahead of them, the glass reflecting the moonlight.

  He kicked the door to the domed structure open with his boot and carried her inside.

  Abruptly, he dropped onto an ironwork bench, pulling her down with him and shifting her weight until she was draped across his knees, facedown. Her fingers brushed leaves and dirt.

  There was the sound of trickling water. The smell of loam and flowers. The air was warm and humid.

  She could hear him breathing, heavy and thick. She dangled over his knees, knowing that if she needed to, she could roll away in an instant, crouch on her heels, ready for anything.

  “What am I going to do with you, Dorothea?” he asked. The anguish in his voice was as palpable as the soil beneath her fingers.

  Wait. He’d called her Dorothea.

  The countess’s clipped tones intruded into her thoughts. ­People see only what they expect to see. A duke is no exception.

  “Why are you here?” he asked. “I went to your house today, and your father refused to let me see you. And now I find you here. You can’t break every rule under the sun! I need a respectable duchess, damn it. And I find you dancing for a crowd of leering men.”

  Hands clamped around her shoulders, holding her down across his knees. “It won’t do. Do you hear me? My duchess can’t parade about in front of my friends like some . . . demimondaine.”

  He still thought she was Dorothea. He’d gone to Lord Desmond’s house but hadn’t met her half sister.

  The charade continued.

  Charlene quickly adjusted her response, unloosening her muscles, rippling from coiled to coy in one imperceptible shift.

  She tilted her head and glanced up at him. “Papa wouldn’t let me see you, but I need to talk to you. I heard you would be here, and I arranged to meet you. They think I’m at Vauxhall with my friends, and I must go back soon. I need to explain, you see. You were so angry with me the other night . . . in your workshop.”

  “I want to talk to you about that as well. Did you plan to be compromised?”

  “It was Mother’s idea. I wanted to stop her. I knew . . . I knew you were honorable.” She worked a catch into her voice, with a hint, just a hint, of challenge. “I know it was bad of me. I’m so sorry. I . . . deserve to be punished.”

  In the dim moonlight, his eyes went nearly black.

  She dropped her head, hiding her face with the fall of her hair. It wasn’t difficult to feign trembling.

  A hand reached around to unclasp her cloak, tug it out from under her hips and off her body. Underneath was Dorothea’s dove gray muslin gown. Modest. Not provocative, like the gauze and feathers the dancers had worn.

  “You’re sorely in need of reform, Dorothea.” His large hand settled over her bum, and a new batch of tremors started in her belly. “And I’ve never been one to shirk a difficult challenge.”

  He used her own words, almost making her smile. “And I suppose you’re precisely the big, bad duke to attempt such a fool’s mission?”

  She’d thought she would never see him again. And here they were, flesh to flesh. How easily she fell back into the role. Being Dorothea again.

  “Yes, my lady. I am. I know exactly what to do with recalcitrant debutantes.” He smacked her bum.

  “Oh!” She startled. It hadn’t hurt, only surprised her.

  She was intensely aware of her position. Over his knees, her face hidden in her hair. Completely exposed. Under his control. Fingers slid down her calves, searching for her hem. She wasn’t wearing any drawers. If he lifted her skirts . . .

  He lifted her skirts, sliding layers of muslin up her body until she was naked.

  He could see her.

  There.

  She pressed her thighs together.

  His hand smoothed across her backside, stroking and soothing. Then it left. Came down again.

  Smack. His palm impacted.

  Wetness and heat pooled between her thighs.

  This was a secret, depraved pleasure she never could have imagined.

  She should put a stop to this. Run away before more lies accumulated. But how could she leave now, with his arousal pressing against her belly and his palm smacking her bare arse, making her heart race and her mind cloud with desire.

  He smoothed his hand over her again, inching his fingers down, closer to the seam between her thighs. She squirmed against his fingers.

  She heard his sharp intake of breath. Knew a rush of heady power.

  He increased the frequency of the glancing blows, striking with a gentle yet firm touch. The perfectly calibrated impact made her skin tingle and her insides turn liquid.

  The sweet, heavy ache between her thighs increased.

  “Dorothea,” he groaned, “what are you doing to me?”

  In one swift, powerful movement, he lifted her, settling her thighs on either side of his body, cupping her bottom with his hands and pulling her tight against his chest.

  He’d stopped shaving. The stubble of his black beard scraped against her cheek and jaw as he kissed her, hot and fast, with a hunger that left her breathless, panting, and needing more.

  “I’m sorry,” she breathed when he finally broke the kiss. “I’m here for you, only you.”

  His body shook, an ominous rumble like distant thunder on a summer day.

  She rubbed against his stiffness, her thighs wide and wanton, knees pressed against solid iron on either side of his body. She’d been given one more night of pleasure. She knew it would only mean more pain. But she had to take it. She had to. There was no other choice.

  He captured her mouth with his and kissed her, over and over. A coil of vines unfurled in her stomach. His hands molded her breasts.

  She kissed him, pressing her body into his, wanting to imprint this feeling so deeply that she would never forget. He stopped to rip off his coat and cravat, giving her access to his smooth chest. The heat of him.

  He kissed his way down her neck, pulling at her bodice until her breasts spilled free over the half-­stays and the hard ivory busk. He lowered his mouth and suckled her breast, his tongue flicking over her swollen nipple.

  The wall behind them teemed with waxy green leaves and lacy yellow flowers. He reached behind, to the wall, and broke off a flower, brushing it down her cheek and across her lips. Her teeth pierced a petal. Faint taste of honey. Scent of lemons.

  He trailed the petals down into the valley between her breasts. He followed the petals with his lips, teasing and sucking, swirling his tongue around her nipples until she was panting and breathless.

  The flower found her belly, slipped lower. He parted her legs even wider and pressed the cool, smooth petals against her core.

  She would give herself to him, for one insane moment. She would open for him, let him pleasure her.

  He spread her wide with his fingers, and then the flower brushed softly over her center, the place that throbbed for his touch. His fingers replaced the petals, flicking over her, softly at first and then harder, more demanding.

  She found his lips again and his tongue entered her mouth in the same rhythm as his fingers.

  He undid his trouser flap and his sex sprang free, finding her core, sliding against her belly.

  “Oh.” She hadn’t been able to stop the startled sound from escaping her lips.

&
nbsp; She wasn’t ignorant. She’d heard the girls at the Pink Feather describing the act of sex, the varieties, the possibility for pain . . . and maybe even pleasure, with the right person. Someone you chose. Not a customer.

  The hard length of him. As unrelenting as the iron bench biting into knees.

  She reached between their bodies, circling the root with her hand.

  “Ah,” he groaned. “Yes. Touch me.” He closed his fingers around hers, showing her what he liked. She moved up and down in between their bodies, and he was completely in her control, his head thrown back, muscles in his neck cording. “Yes,” he moaned. But then he said, his breathing ragged, “We’ll be married soon. We can wait.”

  He would do that for her. Deny himself pleasure. She felt his restraint all the way down her body, deep in her heart.

  She shifted her hips and brought his flesh in contact with hers. She opened a little wider, nudging his hardness with her core.

  “We don’t have to wait,” she said. “I need you, James,” she said. “Here.” She showed him where with her body, pressing down, vulnerable, open . . . lost forever.

  “Are you sure?” he asked. “There are bedrooms upstairs. At least we could—­”

  No time for pretty words. Only raw wanting. “I’m sure,” she said. “Here. Now.”

  Now. Do it now.

  He lifted her hips. The tip of him stretched her wide.

  “Move down onto me,” he said. He held his breath beneath her, straining with the effort to remain still, as she slid down, inch by silken inch.

  It was uncomfortable at first, the girth of him. The unfamiliar sensation. The heat and pulse of him inside her.

  “Dorothea.” He buried his face in her neck. His voice shivered down her spine.

  Not Dorothea. Charlene. The words nearly erupted with a need so overwhelming that she bit her lips hard enough to draw blood.

  His large hands gripped her hips as he began to move inside her. Slowly, at first, and then faster. Pushing . . . pulling . . . steering her. Propelling them forward.

  Green eyes glinting. Dark hair falling over his brow.