Leaning forward, Mrs. McLeod added, “It is a little known fact—and I would prefer it remain that way—that the duchess was once engaged to Mr. McLeod.”
Emma’s jaw slackened. “What?”
“She met Strathaven at her own engagement party to Mr. McLeod and promptly jilted one sibling for the other. The duke must shoulder his share of the blame, of course, yet what sort of a woman would come between two brothers?” Mrs. McLeod said with distaste.
Mind whirling, Emma struggled to absorb the new facts. She recalled something else Rosie had mentioned. “What about the heirs? The two who were ahead of Strathaven in the succession and who mysteriously died?”
“My daughter was your source again?” Marianne said dryly.
Emma nodded.
“While murder and mayhem make for excellent novels, rarely is real life as exciting. People die all the time.” Her sister-in-law shrugged. “Heirs included.”
Could it be true? Could the rumors about the duke be nothing more than hearsay?
Excited voices and footsteps sounded outside the drawing room.
“The dancing lesson must be over,” Marianne said.
“And I must return before McLeod suspects anything.” Rising in a rustle of silk, Mrs. McLeod took Emma’s hand and gave it a squeeze. “Promise me you’ll think about what we discussed?”
***
After Mrs. McLeod departed and Marianne went to shepherd the family to their various activities for the day, Emma decided to go out for a short stroll. Needing solitude, she didn’t call for a maid. She walked along the tree-lined streets of Mayfair, the sun beating down upon her bonnet as thoughts ricocheted in her head.
What on earth were Mrs. McLeod and Marianne talking about?
How could Strathaven’s hurting of Lady Osgood be part of a game? How could his controlling behavior be anything but dangerous? And why would any woman welcome being forced to submit to a man? ’Twas ludicrous and yet ...
Perplexed, Emma considered whether her perception of what transpired in Lady Buckley’s garden could have been distorted. Had her dislike of Strathaven’s arrogance somehow prejudiced her, made her misjudge the situation? But, no, she knew what she saw. From the time she was thirteen and her mama had passed, she’d relied on her own judgment to take care of herself and her family. Her ability to make sound decisions was one of her few virtues.
She could hear her papa’s voice: The only good is knowledge, and the only evil is ignorance.
Until now, she’d never found it difficult to discern right from wrong, fact from falsehood. She’d viewed the world in black and white, yet where Strathaven was concerned, everything seemed to be ... grey. A stormy, turbulent shade that made it difficult to know what was what.
Was he a wicked rake or a grieving father? A coldhearted aristocrat or the caring brother to whom the McLeods apparently owed their happiness? An arrogant, abusive brute—or a lover who’d been engaged in some sort of incomprehensible game?
Chewing on her lip, Emma turned the corner onto a quiet street lined by sleepy mansions. What if Mrs. McLeod and Marianne were right, and she had somehow misunderstood the situation? Goodness, she couldn’t live with herself if she had wrongly accused an innocent man of murder ...
At the clip-clop of approaching horses, she absently looked up. A black lacquered carriage pulled up beside her, its thick navy drapes drawn. She barely had time to note the painted gold crest on the door before it swung open. A large arm reached out, catching her by the waist. A gloved hand stifled her startled cry, and she was hauled into the carriage.
Chapter Eight
Alaric regarded his captive calmly. Despite her pale cheeks and heaving bosom, Miss Emma Kent’s eyes shot sparks at him. He was certain that if he removed the silk strips binding her mouth and hands, she’d be shouting the roof down and clawing his eyes out as well.
Which was why he’d had to resort to present measures. She gave him no choice.
“Listen carefully, Miss Kent,” he said. “I am not going to hurt you. You have my word.”
“Mfm mph gm.”
“I will release you,” he conceded, “after you give me an hour of your time.”
She muttered something darkly.
“It is your own fault. I told you not to test me, and yet you have. I told you I had nothing to do with Clara’s death, and yet you have persisted in making false accusations, in interfering where you have no business doing so. In short,” he concluded, his jaw tight, “you have succeeded in making my life a living hell.”
“Gmmd.”
His eyes narrowed. “On the contrary, Miss Kent, it isn’t good. For me or for you. Therefore, you leave me with one alternative.”
The carriage drew to a halt.
“You wouldn’t listen to reason. So I shall have to show you the truth,” he said.
***
Emma should have been terrified. At the very least, her sensibilities ought to have suffered some sort of damage. After all, there she was, bound and gagged, a victim of kidnapping, standing in a room of what might possibly be a house of ill repute. Having never been in one before, she couldn’t be certain, but several clues supported the hypothesis.
First, they’d entered together through a gated back entrance flanked by a pair of guards. By “entered together,” she meant that she’d refused to walk and Strathaven had consequently acted like a savage, tossing her over his shoulder and carting her inside. Even from her topsy-turvy perspective, she’d deduced from the richly decorated and quiet corridor that this was an exclusive, secretive place.
Second, another guard had led them to the present chamber which was decorated in alarming shades of scarlet and gold. A fresco on one wall dominated the room: it depicted a naked woman, her nipples painted a lurid red, her body chained to a rock overlooking the sea. The tubular (and rather phallic) head of a giant sea monster thrust ominously from the foamy waves.
Finally, the proprietress of the establishment who greeted them now had a distinctly disreputable look about her. Introducing herself as Mrs. Roddy, she was a handsome, voluptuous blonde who wore more rouge than clothing, and she leered when Strathaven set a bound and furious Emma on her feet.
“Welcome to Andromeda’s,” Mrs. Roddy said. “Games are underway already, are they?”
Games? What games? What does the infernal woman mean?
“I’m being kidnapped!” Emma said indignantly.
Unfortunately, it came out as “Mmf bemf kdmgf!”
Truthfully, she was more angry than frightened. Never in her life had she been manhandled in such a manner—or any manner. She wasn’t used to being told what to do, never mind being forced into places against her will. Strathaven was acting no better than a barbarian!
When she tried to get away from him, his arm circled her waist like a steel band, trapping her against his side. She struggled and succeeded only in rubbing herself against his rigid form. Again, the blighter’s proximity had a queer effect on her senses: her belly quivered, followed by a molten feeling lower down. Her breath hit the linen in quick, successive bursts.
Ruddiness stained the high ridges of the duke’s cheekbones.
“Stop wriggling about,” he ordered.
She glared at him. Then let me go, you heathen!
Ignoring her, he said, “Has everything been arranged, Mrs. Roddy?”
“Yes, your grace. And if there’s anything else you need …”
With a suggestive flutter of her sooted lashes, the proprietress performed a curtsy that showed rather too much of her charms. In fact, the robust mounds nearly spilled out of her non-existent bodice. Why bother wearing a dress at all? Catching herself, Emma frowned at the uncharitable thought. Nonetheless, she couldn’t resist darting a look at Strathaven who looked unimpressed by the display.
Not that she cared, of course.
“See that we’re not disturbed for the next half hour,” he said dismissively.
The simpering proprietress departed.
&nb
sp; Alone with Strathaven, Emma was torn between fury ... and burning curiosity.
Why did he bring me here? What does he hope to prove?
Her instincts told her that he wouldn’t hurt her; if he wished to, he could have attacked her in the carriage. He’d sworn that he didn’t intend to harm her, and Emma hoped that Annabel was right in saying that his wickedness hid an honorable character.
Honorable is a definite stretch, Emma thought darkly. What does the blackguard want?
He went to a set of crimson drapes and parted them in a bold sweep. Emma blinked as a door was revealed. He opened it, and curious in spite of herself, she craned her neck for a better look. A pulse fluttered at the side of her neck as she glimpsed flickering dimness.
“’Tis your choice, Miss Kent,” Strathaven said. “You can either walk through this door on your own two feet or we can have a repeat performance of our earlier entrance.”
Some choice, she thought in disgust.
She assessed the situation. Standing there in his immaculate charcoal cutaway and trousers, his lean form radiating taut power, Strathaven looked ducal. Merciless. A man who didn’t issue threats idly. If she didn’t make a decision in the next few seconds, she had no doubt he would once again toss her over his shoulder.
“Not afraid, are you?” Now his words held the taunting edge of challenge.
Did he think to intimidate her? She was no wilting violet who was going to faint at the sight of a dark room. Squaring her shoulders, she set forth through the doorway.
She entered the enveloping darkness and heard the door click shut, sealing her and Strathaven inside. The air turned heavy and humid in her lungs. As her eyes adjusted, she saw that they were in a narrow, dead-end corridor. Flickering wall sconces illuminated a row of wooden slats set at eye level on both sides of the hallway. Peculiar, muffled sounds raised goose pimples on her skin, her heart beating a furious staccato.
“I’m going to free you now,” Strathaven said in a low voice. “Be quiet if you don’t wish to be discovered—and I assure you, you don’t.”
The instant he removed the binding from her mouth and hands, she whispered fiercely, “What is this? Why are we here?”
“To relieve you of your innocence.”
His reply sent a tingle over her skin. Before she could argue that she wasn’t a naïve chit—that she’d run a household, raised a family—he placed his hand on the small of her back, guiding her toward the wall. He slid one of the panels open. Emma blinked as a glowing hole appeared, her breath catching as the sounds took on a human quality.
“You wanted to know the truth, Miss Kent. Have a look ... if you dare.”
Not one to back down from a challenge, she leaned forward.
A wave of shock crashed over her.
The room was cell-like, starkly furnished with only a plain wooden bench and a table next to it. A fully dressed blond gentleman sat upon the bench whilst a brunette lay on her belly across his lap ... and she didn’t have a single stitch of clothing on! Emma swallowed as the man smoothed a tanned hand over the pale hills of the woman’s bottom.
“Have you been a wicked girl?” he said.
“Yes, sir,” the lady replied in a breathy, cultured voice.
“Do you deserve to be punished?”
“If it pleases you, sir.”
Calmly, the man reached to the table next to him. Emma made out an array of odd implements upon its surface. He selected an object ... a paddle? In a swift motion, he brought it down against the woman’s backside. The loud slap made Emma jerk back in response.
Her back collided with Strathaven, her pulse leaping wildly at the contact. She was acutely aware of his rock-hard frame caging her, his spicy scent curling in her nostrils. Her fingernails dug desperately into her palms as the sounds of slapping flesh filled the chamber.
Breathe. Remain calm.
“Keep watching,” he murmured.
Shivering at the brush of his breath against her ear, Emma saw that the woman was writhing on the man’s lap now. Her face conveyed not pain, Emma registered with confusion, but ... pleasure? How could that be? The lady was being abused, was she not?
“Oh, yes, spank me harder, sir!” the lady cried. “Don’t stop. I’m almost there!”
She wishes to be spanked?
As the brunette’s cries grew in volume and desperation, Emma became keenly aware of her own physical state. Her limbs were quivering, and sweat trickled beneath her bodice, slickening the valley between her breasts, the tips of which had stiffened, throbbing like pulse points. She felt giddy, lightheaded—not like herself at all.
She trembled when Strathaven’s hands closed around her upper arms. He steered her toward the next viewing panel; like one caught in a dream, Emma peered through the revealed hole. Air whooshed from her lungs as she struggled to put two disparate and equally shocking facts together.
First, she was looking into a dungeon.
Second, the people within it were taking part in a wild bacchanal.
The chamber had iron bars in place of walls, and its scantily clad occupants were enthusiastically engaged in debauchery. If Emma had thought that growing up around farms and livestock had given her a general idea of the sexual act, then in that one astonishing instant she was proven wrong. Like a veil, her innocence was ripped away, and she stared at the writhing bodies through wide, disbelieving eyes. Her heart jammed in her throat as her gaze flitted around the cage ...
Oh. My. Goodness.
Her cheeks blazed as she beheld the first human phallus she’d ever seen in the flesh. A shirtless man sat upon a wooden chair, his member thrusting upward from the opening in his black buckskins like a crimson flagpole. If that wasn’t shocking enough, he held a black leather strap, which was attached to the matching collar worn by the naked blonde kneeling between his muscular thighs.
When he tugged, the woman gave him a saucy wink and shuffled closer on her knees. She bent her head. Dizzily, Emma watched as the blonde slowly licked up and down the turgid column of flesh before swirling her tongue over the mushroomed dome.
“Suck it,” the man commanded, “Swallow my cock.”
The blonde’s mouth opened obediently, his member disappearing betwixt her lips ...
Heart palpitating, Emma tore her gaze away, only to have it land on three—Good God, four?—undulating bodies. A woman was on all fours, bookended by two men. The one behind her was on his knees, his expression salacious as he pumped his manhood into her. The one in front lay on his back, the woman’s head bobbing over his groin. Emma couldn’t see his face because another woman was sitting upon it, grinding her hips and rubbing her breasts ...
Sweat misted over Emma’s brow as her eyes shifted to an auburn-haired lady. Her wrists were bound above her head to the iron bars. She stood, her breasts quivering, a black silk blindfold covering her eyes. A man strode over, his fleshy member aimed at her like a lance. Without further ado, he grabbed one of her thighs, hitching it over his hip. The muscles of his buttocks flexed as he entered her in a deep thrust, and the redhead moaned, “Oh, yes. Fuck me harder. Make me beg for mercy ...”
The images swam in Emma’s vision as past and present collided. Lady Osgood tied to the gazebo, her voice filtering through bushes. Are you going to hurt me? Oh Strathaven, please, I beg of you ...
“Can you take more of my rod, wench?” the man demanded.
“Yes, master, screw it in deeper. Do whatever you wish to me!” the redhead said.
Realization cut like a knife through Emma’s shock; the truth bled out.
A depraved sexual game—that is what I witnessed.
Lady Osgood was a willing participant, and Strathaven, he’s innocent ... so to speak.
The scene suddenly vanished, the panel closing. She was whirled around, her back pressed against the wall. Strathaven’s palms planted on either side of her shoulders, trapping her.
In the flickering dimness, a wild, silver fire lit his eyes. Controlled savagery burned beneat
h his polished facade. Waves of tension rolled off his powerful frame, and every fiber of her being responded to his potent energy. Her skin was hot, sweaty. Her limbs trembled.
“Now do you understand?” he demanded.
She couldn’t look away from his gaze, the heat and the ice. A magnetic force hummed in the sliver of space between them. Her heart thumped, the tempo reckless and uncontrolled. Wordless longing tumbled through her. She wet her lips.
His eyes honed in on the movement of her tongue. His nostrils flared. A sound left him—a groan or a curse—and his mouth crashed upon hers.
She couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think. Strathaven’s firm, hot lips roved over hers with masterful intensity. Sensation overrode everything, a tide of pleasure washing over her, so strong that she lost her bearings. Her lips clung desperately to his, and his kiss grew even more potent and seductively demanding. His drugging male flavor weakened her knees, and he caught her, held her against the wall. She shivered when his tongue swept against her bottom lip.
“Open for me,” he whispered. “Let me in.”
Senses spinning, she obeyed, and his tongue plunged boldly inside. Somewhere in the far recesses of her mind, she registered that her first kiss was unlike anything she could have imagined. He tasted her as if he owned her, and his unapologetic possession sent a strange, singing sweetness through her blood. Her awareness of anything but him faded. Instinctively, she followed his lead, letting him in deeper, meeting his tongue with her own.
A sound tore from his chest, and the kiss grew even more torrid. He penetrated her mouth with a stabbing force that made heat bloom at the center of her being. Fire unfurled over her skin, the tips of her breasts pulsing, itching for contact. She pressed herself against his hard strength and moaned at the sublime sensation, needing more ...
His hands found her breasts, and she panted into his mouth as he found the aching tips, teasing them, causing them to rise against the layers of fabric. When he gave a sharp tweak, liquid rushed between her legs, a frantic need rising in that same place. As if he were attuned to her every desire, his thigh wedged into her skirts, and she moaned, rubbing herself against the hard trunk of muscle, desperate for the friction, release from the sweet ache—
The Duke Who Knew Too Much Page 7
