The Duke of Desire (The Untouchables Book 4)

by Darcy Burke

  Ivy nearly fell as she pulled violently away from him.

  “It is you,” he whispered, his familiar blue eyes widening. She’d loved his eyes—they’d been the very thing that had drawn her to him. Arresting and clear, they’d looked at her as if she were the most beautiful and important woman in the world.

  Eyes, it turned out, could lie.

  She considered lying herself, but to what end? He knew who she was.

  “By heaven, you are lovelier today than you were all those years ago. I thought it was you at the assembly, but I couldn’t reconcile it.” He shook his head, clearly baffled.

  “Of course not,” she said coldly. “What would I be doing in a respectable situation like that after what happened?”

  His mouth turned down, and she noticed all the lines around his lips. He looked as if he frowned often. Good. She hoped he was miserable.

  “That was…regrettable,” he said, but his tone didn’t carry a hint of that emotion. Or any emotion, really. “We were carried away.”

  “You said you would marry me.”

  “I’m afraid my choices were not my own. My father, God rest his soul, had already chosen a wife for me.” He stepped closer, his gaze softening. “If I could go back and change what happened, I would. I’ve often wondered what happened to you, Mary.”

  “Don’t call me that,” she spat. “I’m Miss Breckenridge now.”

  “I see. That’s probably best,” he murmured. “You seem to have done well for yourself. Dancing with a duke… Is he courting you?”

  The mention of West sent another ripple of distress through her frame, intensifying what was already a horrid encounter. “No. I am a lady’s companion.”

  He tipped his head to the side, regarding her thoroughly, his scrutiny moving over her body. “I can’t imagine that’s terribly exciting. Or rewarding. I am married now, of course, but I do think Fate has ensured we would meet again.” He smiled, and she felt a surge of nausea. “Now that I’m the viscount, I’ll be spending the Season in London. My wife will stay home to care for our two chits. I’d be delighted to take you as my mistress. That would certainly be better than toiling as a companion.”

  He’d be delighted. “I would be revolted.” Decade-old anger and pain rushed over her, making her see red and causing her to shake. “You mention your children, and yet you don’t even ask after our child. Or did you forget that I was carrying?”

  He blanched. “I—” He smashed his lips together and straightened. “What happened to it?”

  “It was a girl, and she was born dead.” Ivy had delivered the child early. She’d been small and lifeless, and Ivy had been horribly relieved. But also devastated for the lives that could have been—both hers and her child’s—if things had been different. If she hadn’t been thrown out and ended up cold and hungry at a workhouse. If she hadn’t wasted away to practically nothing, she was certain the baby would have survived. It was a guilt and a shame she could never overcome.

  “I’m sorry to hear that, but it’s a blessing to be sure. Things would’ve turned out quite differently for you if you’d had a child clinging to your skirts.”

  Ice coated Ivy’s veins. Her hands fisted. She longed to punch him in his smug mouth or kick him squarely between the legs. Her lip curled as she glared at him with all the vitriol she felt. “Yes, that would’ve been most inconvenient. But then you wouldn’t know anything about inconvenience. Or responsibility. Or honor. You’re a despicable human being, Peter. I’d rather go back to the workhouse than be your mistress.”

  She stepped around him, intent on stalking off. But of course he wouldn’t let her go so easily, not like he had ten years before.

  He grabbed her arm, his fingers biting through her clothing into her flesh. “What would your employer say if she knew who you really were?”

  Ivy swung her head to look at him. “Do you really want to bring that up? I’m sure everyone would like to know that you’re the one who ruined me.”

  He paled again, but his eyes were hard. “It would be your word against mine.”

  “Yes, but I think people might believe me if you’re the one telling the story to begin with.” She sneered at him, her body quivering with rage and hurt. “Perhaps it’s best if you just keep your mouth shut.”

  He released her, giving her a little shove as he let go. “Watch yourself. I can find plenty of ways to make your life miserable.”

  He turned and walked off.

  Ivy stood there a moment, shaking, her bravado faltering. Fear crowded into the other dark emotions. What would he do? What could he do?

  She turned slowly, trudging along the street, her mind churning with disastrous scenarios in which he could ruin her life again. Again.

  No. She wouldn’t let that happen. She couldn’t.

  Her throat felt raw with unshed tears, and her head began to throb. With each step, she felt more wounded, more defeated. A stiff breeze blew over her, whipping her skirt against her legs and dislodging her bonnet from her head. It fell back, but the ties kept it from tumbling to the ground. A raindrop hit her forehead, and she looked up at the angry sky. She’d been too distracted to notice the coming storm.

  She looked at her surroundings and saw the number on the town house: twelve.

  Another drop hit her nose. Without thinking, she picked up her hem and dashed up the steps, where she lifted the knocker and rapped sharply.

  The butler opened the door and looked at her with a shred of surprise. “May I help you?”

  “I need to see His Grace.” She pushed inside without waiting for him to invite her. “Tell him—” Reason came back to her; she couldn’t give him her name.

  “Good afternoon,” West’s voice boomed down from the top of the stairs. Ivy swung her head up and nearly collapsed at the sight of him. He started down. “This is my colleague regarding the workhouse,” he said to the butler. “I neglected to inform you that I had a meeting.” He smiled warmly at Ivy. “We’ll just meet upstairs.” He continued to descend, but Ivy rushed forward and met him halfway up the staircase.

  He turned and walked with her but didn’t touch her. “Wait until we’re in the drawing room,” he whispered.

  She focused straight ahead, her body feeling as if it didn’t belong to her. She felt disjointed and detached.

  As soon as they reached the drawing room, he closed the door and turned to her. “What’s the matter? You’re incredibly pale.”

  She heard the concern in his tone, saw the consideration in his gaze, and simply lost all control.

  Her knees gave way, and she slid nearly to the floor. Only nearly because West swept her into his arms and carried her to a settee, where he gently set her down.

  Tears spilled down her cheeks, and her body shook with the most horrendous, racking sobs. She fought to take in air as he removed her bonnet and stroked her temples, her cheeks, her forehead.

  He sat next to her and whispered soothing words that she couldn’t understand. She was too far gone, too lost in emotion. She clutched at his lapels and let her head fall to his shoulder. His arms came around her, and he held her close, his hands massaging her back.

  Gradually, the storm inside her began to ebb. She sniffed.

  He pulled back, his eyes still unflinchingly kind. Please don’t lie, she silently begged them.

  “I’ll be right back,” he said, waiting until she gave him the slightest nod before standing and walking across the room.

  A few moments later, he returned with a handkerchief and a glass of amber liquid. He sat back down on the settee as she wiped her eyes and blew her nose. He took the cloth and tossed it on a table, then handed her the drink. “It’s whiskey. You need it.”

  She wasn’t going to question his logic or his caregiving. Taking a tentative sip, she nearly coughed as the harsh brew worked its way down her throat. Soon it heated her from the inside, and she took another, more substantial drink.

  “That’s right. One more.”

  She drank ag
ain until it was nearly gone. He took the glass from her fingers and set it on the table.

  “Now, do you want to tell me why you’re here, or would you rather I take you home?”

  His generosity and integrity in offering to take her home showed her just how starkly different he was from Peter.

  “I want to tell you why I’m here.” She didn’t even recognize her own voice. It was dark and raspy and very small. She tugged off her gloves and set them in her lap, then she offered him her hand. “My name is Mary Snowden.”

  Her hand was like ice, but still soft and lovely. He resisted the urge to kiss the knuckles and then turn it over and press his lips and tongue to her palm.

  “Mary Snowden,” he repeated, at a loss. He’d been shocked at her arrival and doubly so when she’d broken down. This was not the Ivy he’d come to know. She was controlled and stoic, a far cry from the vulnerable woman who sat before him.

  “That’s my real name. When you guessed Mary that day…” Her lips curved into a small smile, but it was disappointingly brief. “I don’t know how you knew, but you were correct. I changed my name after I was ruined.”

  He suddenly thought of why she might be this upset. “You haven’t seen Bothwick, have you?”

  She nodded, and he exploded off the settee, rage pouring through him. “I’m going to kill him.”

  She grabbed his hand, and he turned to look down at her. “No, you’re not. Although I do appreciate the sentiment.”

  He slowly sank back down beside her, but he was still taut with anger. “What did he do?” he asked coldly, trying to rein in his emotions.

  “He offered to make me his mistress, the cad.”

  West’s temper strained. He was going to find that miserable piece of garbage and make him sorry he even spoke to Ivy.

  She touched his hand, drawing his attention. God, she looked so pale and exposed, stripped bare of all the protections she always kept in place. His anger dissipated a bit. “Please,” she said. “Let me just say this.”

  He willed himself to relax and clasped her hand in his. “Tell me.”

  “It was a long time ago—ten years. I was young and very, very foolish. He was handsome.” She gave him a self-deprecating look. “What can I say, he was back then.” She shuddered, and he squeezed her hand for encouragement.

  “I met him at the quarterly assembly. Our attraction was immediate—he kissed me that very night, and we made plans to see each other. Sometimes near an old ruined abbey, sometimes on our farm. He professed to love me and promised to marry me. I knew it was scandalous to give myself to him, but since we would be wed, I reasoned that all would be well.”

  West’s desire to thrash the man intensified. “But he didn’t marry you.”

  She shook her head. “My parents learned of my indiscretion, and they tossed me from their house.” She stopped and looked away, her features strained. Her grip tightened. He wanted to take away her pain, willed it to pass through the connection of their hands into his body.

  It took her a moment to start again, but she didn’t return her gaze to his. “I ended up in a workhouse for a few years. The benefactress—her name was Lady Breckenridge—she could tell that I was well educated and decently bred. She helped me find work as a companion and urged me to change my name.” She looked at him again, her eyes bright and clear.

  “You took hers.”

  “Yes, at her insistence. We still correspond periodically. I owe her everything.”

  “There are kind people in the world, just as there are villains.” Like Bothwick. And like her goddamn parents. What kind of heartless person threw their young daughter away like rubbish? Someone like his own mother.

  “Yes,” she said softly, her gaze penetrating his. “I think you are one of the kind ones.”

  “I don’t know if that’s terribly accurate, but I do try to help people find happiness, and I try to bring them joy.”

  “I know.” She let go of his hand and touched his face, her cool fingers tracing over his cheek. “Would you do that for me?”

  “I would do anything for you.” The words tumbled from his mouth, and he meant every one of them.

  “Then make me forget all the horrid things crowding in my mind.”

  “Ivy—” She would never be Mary to him. Mary was her past, and he wanted her present and her future. “Are you certain?”

  She curled her hand around his neck. “Never more.” Her lips came up to meet his, and he clasped her waist.

  Her mouth opened, and her tongue curled into his. She kissed him slowly, and he let her guide him. She brought her other hand to his face and cradled his cheek, her thumb brushing near where their mouths were joined. The press of her fingers into his skull and the lick of her tongue against his worked in concert to give him the most erotic sensation of his life. He’d done many things with many women, but this kiss from Ivy was greater than the sum of everything that had come before.

  It went on and on, her lips and teeth arousing him to heights of desire he’d never known. His body was on fire for her. He wrapped his arms around her and drew her close. When her breasts grazed his chest, sparks of need danced over him. He tipped his head and deepened the kiss, plunging his tongue deep into her mouth.

  She clung to him fiercely as he dragged his lips over her chin. Her head dropped back, giving him access to the silky column of her neck. He brought his hand up and cupped her breast through the too-many layers of her clothes. She gasped, and he loosened the front of her dress, desperate to touch her.

  The front came down, exposing her petticoat and corset. Still too many damn clothes, and he was too impatient to untie her just now. He pulled the corset down the barest inch and delved his fingers into her chemise to find her breast. He cupped the underside and pushed it up so her flesh spilled up over the edge of her clothing. He suckled at her softness while his fingers found the hard point of her nipple. Her hands dove into his hair as he kissed her.

  He slid from the settee and turned her, coming between her legs. He pulled back and looked up at her as he edged up the hem of her gown. “You have only to tell me to stop, and I will.”

  She grasped the fabric and pulled it up, exposing her stockinged legs. Of course she wouldn’t shrink away. Not now. She was a strong, independent woman who’d made her own way. She’d been a victim at the mercy of others, but no more. She could choose her fate, and he was simply lucky enough to share it with her.

  He traced his hand up her leg, curling it around her knee as he kissed along her calf. She leaned back and opened herself to him, lifting her clothing to her waist so that she lay completely exposed to his hungry gaze. She was exquisite, her legs pale and soft, but firm and muscular.

  Pushing her legs apart, he feasted his gaze on the pink petals of her sex. He ran his thumb over the flesh, and she moaned. He looked up at her face. Her eyes were closed, her head cast back against the settee.

  “Look at me, Ivy.” He pressed his thumb against her, finding her most sensitive spot.

  Her eyes opened, but not much. Her tongue slipped over her lips as she looked down at him.

  He worked her flesh with circular strokes. She was wet and ready for him, but he was going to give her pleasure first. He slipped his finger into her sheath, and she cried out, her legs clenching.

  “West.”

  Leaning forward, he suckled her clitoris, holding her hips as she bucked off the settee. His tongue replaced his finger and he fucked her with his mouth, sucking and licking, devouring her. He gave himself over to desire—not for his pleasure, but hers. He held her thighs apart and buried his tongue deep inside. She came up off the cushion, her hips moving wildly against his mouth.

  His hips jerked in response, his cock aching to be free and buried inside her. Soon.

  He used his fingers, pumping into her. She tried to be quiet, whimpering as he savaged her flesh again with his lips and tongue. And then her muscles stiffened as she came in a dazzling, shuddering crescendo.

  He
backed away and stood, then swept her into his arms.

  She was still breathing hard, panting almost. “Where are we going?”

  “To my bedroom.”

  He carried her into the back corridor that the servants used and bore her up the stairs. His bedroom was to the right, and he managed to open the door while keeping her in his arms. Inside, he stood her near the bed.

  He pulled off his coat and threw it to the floor, his eyes boring into hers. “Strip.”

  He slipped his shoes off using his toes while he unbuttoned his waistcoat, his fingers moving deftly. She stood there staring at him, her cheeks flushed and her eyes still glazed from her orgasm. He arched a brow at her in challenge. “I’m going to win.”

  She came alive then, kicking her shoes away, pulling her dress off, and then slipping her petticoat to the floor.

  He shrugged out of his waistcoat and unknotted his cravat while she worked the ties of her corset. After a moment, she uttered a most unladylike curse. He smiled. “Do you require assistance?”

  She scowled at him, but playfully so. “Yes.” Turning, she presented her back.

  He dropped his cravat to the floor and pulled his shirt over his head, letting it fall from his fingertips. Then he went to work on her corset, loosening the laces enough so that he could tug it down over her hips and toss it aside.

  She started to turn, but he clasped her shoulders and held her steady. “No. Stay there. Like that.”

  He reached for the hem of her chemise and whipped it over her head before throwing it to the pile of clothes near their feet. “Put your hands on the bed.”

  She flattened her palms against the coverlet. He traced his finger along her spine from her nape to the curve just above her bottom. Her perfect, round bottom that begged for his touch. He cupped each cheek and moved closer, bringing his groin against her flesh. She moaned as he pressed his cock, still shielded by his pantaloons, flush to her crease.

  “Your hair,” he rasped. “Take it down.”

  Her hands came up behind her, and she began tearing pins from her locks. The silky red-gold mass came loose, and the scent of her soap—lemon and spice—washed over him.