A noise cut through her musings. With a start, she realized that she had meandered deep into the heart of the labyrinth. She heard a murmur from around the next bend—then a cry scraped the night. Heart pounding, she instinctively backed against the nearest hedge, twigs and leaves prickling the exposed skin between her shoulder blades. She waited in the shadows, breath held.
Voices emerged from the other side of the leafy barrier.
“Are you going to hurt me?” a female voice said tremulously.
“I’m going to do whatever I want. And you’re going to enjoy it.”
The coolly arrogant statement jolted Emma. The hairs on her nape shivered to attention, her palms growing clammy within her gloves. Dear God, she knew that deep male voice with the faint lilt.
“Please, I beg of you,” the lady whimpered.
“You like to beg, don’t you? Perhaps if I’m in the mood later, I’ll have you do so ... on your knees.”
At the silky menace of the words, Emma’s eyes widened. What did the fiend intend to do? With shaking hands, she searched for a gap in the foliage. There was none. Only dark leaves in the dark night—an impenetrable wall to accompany the sudden, taut silence. Emma’s senses strained for any hint, any sign of what was happening on the other side. Her pulse skittered; her thoughts raced.
Should I call for help—who will hear me out here? Mayhap I should run for assistance?
A feminine plea rent the night. “Oh God. Please, Strathaven, I can’t bear it—”
Oh my goodness, I have to do something. The bounder is assaulting her!
Fear for the woman’s safety propelled Emma into action. She dashed to the other side of the hedge; her frantic gaze landed on the pair by the gazebo. In the silvery moonlight, their profile formed a terrifying tableau. A tall, slim redhead stood trapped against a column, her hands bound above her head. A blindfold covered her eyes, the black silk a wicked contrast to the whiteness of her face and throat, her heaving bosom. A broad-shouldered man towered over her, his hand fisted in her skirts—
“Stop, you blackguard!” Emma cried, rushing at him.
“What the devil—”
He swung around just in time for her reticule to connect with his jaw. His head snapped to the side; he stumbled back with an oath.
Emma wasted no time. She ran to the woman, tore off the blindfold. “I’ll get you out of here!”
“Who are you? What are you doing?” The lady’s frantic blue eyes darted around the clearing. “Be quiet or someone will hear you!”
Emma had to stand on tiptoe to reach the lady’s wrists. She succeeded in untying the rope, which slithered to the ground, coiling like a snake in the grass. A sardonic voice emerged from behind her.
“You again,” he said.
Emma pivoted as the stranger advanced toward her, rubbing his jaw. Only now he wasn’t a stranger—the lady had called him Strathaven ... a lord of some sort? She regretted not paying attention to Marianne’s review of Debrett’s Peerage. It was best to know one’s enemy.
Emma’s skin prickled as Strathaven’s gaze roved over her, his icy, intense eyes penetrating her layer by layer. Palpitations gripped her heart. No one had ever looked at her this way before. Had ever made her feel this exposed and bared … Shaking off the alien sensation, she pulled her shoulders back and stood at her full height. Unfortunately, he dwarfed her by nearly a foot; she had to tip her head back to meet his gaze.
“Take one more step, and I’ll scream,” she warned.
Given the volume of the orchestra and party as well as the present location deep in the garden, she thought it unlikely that her cry for help would be noticed. She prayed the rogue wouldn’t realize it.
“Oh?” One black brow lifted. “Who do you think will hear you?”
Dash it. “I have extremely capable lungs,” she informed him.
“Somehow that doesn’t surprise me.” His lips gave a faint twitch, drawing her attention to the hard line of his mouth and the faint grooves that bracketed it. “Well, pet, you have succeeded in getting my attention, I’ll grant you that.”
The nerve of the man. “Of all the arrogant, asinine—”
“Please keep your voice down.” The lady inserted herself between them. “I beg of you, Miss …?”
“My name is Emma Kent. And you needn’t be afraid because I witnessed everything.” Emma angled her chin up. “I shall be happy to provide testimony to the magistrates.”
“The magistrates? You mustn’t,” the lady gasped.
“The scoundrel was attacking you. Of course I must.”
“Attacking her? Why would I do such a thing?” To her disbelief, Strathaven gave a harsh laugh. “Do you know who I am, Miss Kent?”
“I don’t care who you are. Your rank doesn’t exempt you from rules of conduct, my lord,” Emma retorted hotly.
“Your grace.”
“What?”
“Your grace is how one addresses a duke.”
She gritted her teeth at his cool correction. “The point is, your grace, I heard you assaulting this lady and—”
“You have no idea what you heard.” The duke’s mouth formed a humorless smile. “Now run along, pet, and leave us be.”
Pet? As if she were a spaniel trained to do his bidding? Before she could summon a scathing reply, the lady gripped her arm.
“Strathaven is right,” the redhead pleaded. “Nothing happened.”
“But he tied you up and was about to ... hurt you.” Had the rogue meant to beat the woman—rape her? Both? Quelling a shudder, Emma said, “If you’re afraid, you needn’t be. My brother is a former member of the Thames River Police, and he knows the Chief Magistrate of Bow Street personally—”
“No.” Her face draining of color, the lady whispered, “I implore you, Miss Kent. If anyone catches wind of this, I’ll be ruined. Lord Osgood, my husband … he’ll never forgive me.” Her voice hitched on a sob. “There cannot be a scandal.”
“Surely if you explain to your husband—”
“My reputation will be destroyed. I would rather die.” Tears streamed down Lady Osgood’s beautiful face, her fingers digging painfully into Emma’s flesh. “If you truly wish to help me, swear on everything you hold dear that you’ll never breathe word of this matter.”
Emma hesitated, darted a glance at Strathaven. He’d propped one velvet-clad shoulder against a gazebo post, his pose utterly unconcerned. Frustration smoldered in her chest. It wasn’t fair that Lady Osgood had to worry about her reputation whilst he didn’t have to answer for his misdeeds. Why should he should get away with assault just because he was a man—a duke?
’Twas injustice of the worst sort.
“Promise me, Miss Kent.” Lady Osgood fell to her knees.
Shocked, Emma tried to pull the other up. “Please don’t—”
“I shan’t move until you give me your word.” More tears slid over the lady’s sculpted cheekbones, her lips trembling. “If you don’t, I shall be forced to do something drastic. I’d rather end it all than—”
“I won’t tell anyone,” Emma said desperately. “Please get up.”
“Truly?” Lady Osgood whispered. “You swear it—on everything you hold dear?”
With lingering reluctance, Emma gave a nod.
Lady Osgood rose, her gaze flitting to Strathaven. Emma couldn’t decipher the duke’s expression. What hold did he have over the lady? Would he threaten or hurt her in the future?
“Stay away from her,” Emma warned, “or I will see justice done.”
Lightning flashed in the duke’s gaze, his expression that of a wrathful god ready to wage war. The air seemed to crackle with his aggression. Swiftly, Emma took Lady Osgood by the arm and dragged her back toward the house. As they traversed the twisting maze, Emma’s heart thudded, sweat dampening her unmentionables even as she kept a quick, determined pace.
With an adversary like Strathaven, it was best to keep going and never look back.
Chapter Two
&nb
sp; “You’re not angry with me, are you, darling?” a husky feminine voice asked.
Alaric James Alexander McLeod, the eighth Duke of Strathaven, cast a cool glance over at Lady Clara Osgood. They were alone in his private cottage in St. John’s Wood, and she was naked, waiting on her hands and knees on the black satin sheets. For their mutual pleasure, he’d kept her in that pose while he disrobed. He was taking his time about it, noting how she shivered at the sound of his garments being removed, her bottom angling subtly and suggestively higher in the air.
Clara enjoyed assuming an obedient role in their bed sport. As he was an unquestionably dominant lover, this had made for a good fit ... for a while, at least. He was aware of his restlessness, the ennui that remained untouched by the games he and Clara played. Less than a month into their affaire, he was already tiring of her company.
“Why would I be angry?” he inquired.
“Because of what happened in Lady Buckley’s garden.” Looking over her bare shoulder, Clara aimed a pout at him. “How could I have predicted that our game would be interrupted by a countrified chit? And I could hardly admit it was a game—I do have my reputation to protect.”
“Appearances are everything,” he said in sardonic tones.
He didn’t fault Clara for not spelling out the truth of the situation to the intrepid interloper. His first marriage had taught him not to expect integrity from the fair sex. Although Laura had been dead for over two years, her shining blond hair and beautiful, spiteful face blazed in his mind’s eye before he snuffed the image out. The past was done with, and he would never repeat those mistakes again.
It had been foolish of him to be lured out into the garden by Clara and her little “surprise.” He’d let boredom get the better of him. Jaded curiosity had prompted him to see just how far she’d go to incite his lust. In truth, he hadn’t been all that impressed or aroused by her antics. Ropes and blindfolds—symbols only, with no inherent appeal. Not when the heart of challenge was missing.
For Clara had no real spirit to submit … unlike Emma Kent.
From the moment she’d tumbled into him, the obstinate miss had captured his attention. It wasn’t just her looks, which were fresh and wholesomely pretty rather than beautiful in any classical sense. Her dark sable tresses complemented her cameo skin and clean features. Her eyes were a sparkling, clear brown and had a slight feline tilt at the corners. Petite and curvy, she’d felt soft as a kitten, too.
The memory sizzled through his blood. Aye, she was a toothsome lass, but more than that it had been the way she’d melted, for an instant, in his arms. That moment of exquisite, instinctive surrender—which he’d wager his stables on that she hadn’t even recognized as such—had betrayed unplumbed depths of feminine passion.
He’d turned hard immediately.
Yet he wasn’t a fool. He’d learned long ago to stay away from virgins.
A good thing, too. As fate would have it, he knew of Miss Kent’s brother and his private enquiry firm. From all accounts, Ambrose Kent was an honorable fellow and a true crusader for justice. It seemed the apple didn’t fall far from the family tree. Miss Kent practically gleamed with virtue, her “rescue” of Clara both valiant and reckless.
Assaulting Clara, indeed.
For an instant, he considered what might happen if Miss Kent followed through with her threat to report him to the magistrates. He dismissed the notion. No miss would go so far as to involve herself in a scandal. In his experience, women had a habit of saying one thing and doing another. She wouldn’t dare take him on—he was a duke.
You’re nothing. A deficient weakling. How I regret taking you in.
With indifference borne of habit, Alaric brushed aside the old duke’s scorn. Instead, he imagined the magistrates’ reaction if Miss Kent did go to them with her half-baked accusations, and his lips curled with derision. They would laugh their heads off to hear a sexual game being reported as a crime. The chit’s innocence was absurd ... and perversely intriguing. As he removed his trousers, his erection bobbed in agreement. His smile grew self-mocking.
Wasn’t it just like him to get aroused by defiance?
“Strathaven.” Clara’s throaty plea drew him back to the task at hand. “How long are you going to make me wait? I’m mad for you, darling.”
“Do you get to dictate events?” he said.
“No. Are you going to ... punish me?”
He didn’t miss the hopeful edge to her question. Nor the way her slim thighs trembled, spreading wider to show him the swollen lips of her sex. Fully disrobed, he went to the bed. He drew a finger through her soaked thatch, and Clara arched her spine, moaning.
“What did you have in mind?” he inquired.
“Well, I have been naughty.” Tossing her red curls over her shoulder, she fluttered her eyelashes at him. “A spanking, perhaps?”
Because she asked, he would not indulge her. He could have concocted his own version of retribution for Clara, a way to extend their sexual play, but he found he didn’t have the desire to draw things out tonight. She was wet and ready. He gripped her narrow hips, pushed her knees farther apart, and drove his cock into her cunt as she squealed in surprise.
He regulated the tempo of fucking. He knew what Clara liked; after all, she made little secret of it, being as noisy during the act as he was silent. As she begged for harder and deeper, he kept his thrusts measured and shallow, holding her climax from her, building it with methodical precision. As his body mastered Clara’s, his mind was drawn inexorably back to Miss Kent.
Her simple dress had clung with subtle eroticism to her curves, its blush color evoking images of the skin beneath the fabric. His pulse quickened as he imagined her enticingly full breasts beneath him, jiggling as he plowed her. Her nipples would be a plump dusky rose to match her impudent lips. Gripping her sweetly rounded hips, he would tame her with pleasure, pound her tight, wet quim until she screamed her surrender …
The pressure in his bollocks startled him. A warning sizzle shot up his shaft.
“Yes, ram me with your big cock!” Moaning, Clara ground against him, meeting his thrusts. “I’m going to spend—”
What would Miss Kent be like in her crisis? Would she beg for her release? More likely than not the little termagant would demand it. Well, if she was a good lass, he would give it to her. He saw her big brown eyes melting with desire, heard her breathless voice chanting his name as he drilled himself inside her snug sheath, deeper and deeper still, taking what was his, what she’d never given to any man before ...
He gritted his teeth, held on until his partner reached her zenith. Only then did he join her, shuddering, biting back an involuntary groan. He disengaged himself moments later, physically spent ... and flummoxed by his fantasy. By its nature and intensity.
Emma Kent is trouble. Put her out of your mind.
He exhaled and forced himself to do just that.
Tying on his robe, he went to pour himself his routine nightcap. The single dram of Tobermary whiskey before bed was an indulgence. He’d suffered from a digestive ailment in his youth, and physicians had diagnosed him with everything from sensitive nerves to an imbalance of humors. One quack had gone so far as to accuse him of faking his symptoms.
That verdict had earned Alaric countless beatings from the old duke, followed by periods of enforced starvation to rid him of his “deviousness.”
That hadn’t helped his illness.
It wasn’t until after his guardian’s death that he’d managed to conquer the disease. At Oxford, he’d met a pugilism instructor who’d not only helped him to hone his physical condition but also placed him on a diet used by fighters to build muscle and endurance. To this day, Alaric’s daily regimen included exercise and eating healthful foods.
He’d be damned if he lost control over his body—over his life—ever again.
Clara raised herself languidly against the headboard, stretching like a cat. “After a tup like that, I need something more fortifying than r
atafia,” she said with sultry satisfaction. “I believe I’ll join you in that nasty stuff you prefer.”
Wordlessly, he brought her a glass. As Clara sipped on her whiskey, he settled into the leather wingback by the fire. Clara’s main drawback was her tendency to linger after their purpose together was done.
“What did you think of Miss Kent?” she said.
Though the muscles of his belly tensed, Alaric flicked a glance over. “Not much.”
“I found her rather amusing myself. A provincial little mouse and Good Samaritan rolled into one.” Clara’s smile had a razor’s edge. “Do you know that she continued to pester me about reporting you to the magistrates?”
This didn’t surprise him. Miss Kent had struck him as both virtuous and determined: a troublesome combination if ever there was one.
“I’m sure you managed to dissuade her. Your turn as the browbeaten wife was quite affecting. Comparable to the great Mrs. Siddons, I should say.”
“’Twas no act. Osgood is frightfully afraid of scandal,” Clara said petulantly. “He doesn’t care what I do—only that no one knows about it. He’s such a bore.”
“Who makes up for it with jewels and a generous allowance.” Alaric’s lips twisted in a cynical smile. “You signed on for your marriage, my dear.”
Clara made a moue. Finishing her drink, she strutted naked over to the cabinet of spirits. His brows raised as she helped herself to another generous helping of the whiskey and tossed it back. Good God, he hoped she didn’t plan on getting a trifle disguised. He would never be rid of her then.
Clara dribbled more amber liquid into her glass, spilling some in the process. “Speaking of marriage, how is your wife hunting coming along?”
“Fine,” he said curtly.
“All those ladies pining to be the next bride of the Devil Duke.” Clara waved her glass drunkenly. “They’re even willing to accept your scandalous requirements.”
The Duke Who Knew Too Much Page 2
