The Devilish Pleasures of a Duke

by Jillian Hunter

  “As far as I can tell, she’s doing her best not to talk to him at all,” Devon said, folding his arms behind his head. “When is Grayson due to return, anyway?”

  Heath drew aside the curtain. “By tonight if the storm doesn’t worsen.”

  Jane, the Marchioness of Sedgecroft, and young matriarch to the Boscastle clan by marriage, had arrived at her London residence two hours ahead of her husband Grayson. It was dark by the time she had settled her son Rowan into the nursery with his nursemaid, Mrs. O’Brien.

  She barely had time to fortify herself with a cup of brandy-laced coffee before she set back out in her own small carriage for her brother-in-law’s town house. She hoped Heath would not be home, but even if he was, it was safer to hold a ladies’ meeting there than at home where Grayson was liable to come bursting in and interrupt.

  Besides, Heath’s wife Julia had called this emergency gathering. Perhaps Emma herself would attend, although Jane rather doubted it.

  Julia’s message insisted upon secrecy and hinted at panic. Jane concluded there was not a moment to waste.

  Indeed, Julia’s initial greeting at the door underscored her suspicions. “Thank heavens, you are here, Jane. Quickly. Quickly! Into the family drawing room.”

  Jane divested herself of her cloak and gloves, following the taller woman to a private stairs at the side of the house. “Such intrigue. Would your bedchamber not offer more privacy?”

  “Not from my husband,” Julia said offhandedly.

  “Ah.”

  “I meant—”

  “No explanations are necessary, Julia. I am myself married to a Boscastle male.” And a hot-blooded breed they were, including the female members of the family, one of whom was already waiting in the candlelit drawing room.

  Chloe Boscastle, Emma’s younger raven-haired sister, rose from her chair to embrace Jane. Chloe was not unknown to notoriety herself. In fact, she had married Adrian’s oldest friend, the dark-tempered Dominic Breckland, Viscount Stratfield, after a romance that had been sparked when Chloe had found him hiding half-dead in her dressing closet.

  Seated comfortably on a tufted sofa behind Chloe were Emma’s cousin Charlotte; Devon’s young bride, the former Jocelyn Lydbury; and Drake’s wife, a past governess, Eloise.

  Julia’s aunt, Hermia, occupied the French fauteuil that sat by the fire. While associated to the Boscastles only through her niece’s marriage to Heath, Hermia had been unofficially adopted by the entire clan. Her zest for life and penchant for trouble had earned her a place of favor. The one true love of her life, the Earl of Odham, had been unfaithful to her years ago and was still earnestly trying to win her forgiveness.

  “How is that darling son of yours, Jane?” Hermia asked fondly.

  “As plump and lively as ever.”

  “Always getting into mischief, is he?” Hermia asked approvingly.

  Jane sighed. “Especially when Grayson plays with him.”

  Hermia chuckled. “I should love to paint him as young Cupid to add to our collection.”

  “I assume you mean Rowan and not my husband.” Jane took the glass of port that Julia handed her. All of the women had been tippling since late afternoon, a sure indication of their concern. “It seems I have come from Kent not a minute too soon.”

  “That all depends,” Julia said. “It might even be too late to thwart our male counterparts.”

  Hermia set her glass upon the table. “Too late for what? It’s only ten o’clock or so. In my day, an evening’s entertainment would just be getting under way. You younger women must have been fed on milksops.”

  “I am referring to the situation that has developed between Emma and Adrian Ruxley,” Julia said in annoyance. “Don’t you ever pay any attention to me, Aunt Hermia?”

  Chloe, who had been playing idly with her pearl bracelet, glanced up with an incredulous expression. “Emma? And Wolf? A situation? This is too delicious.”

  Eloise Boscastle, the former governess who had once hoped to work at Emma’s esteemed academy before marrying into the family, looked aghast. “Lady Lyons and that…mercenary? You must be mistaken.”

  “Of course she’s mistaken,” Jocelyn said, almost choking on her sherry. “Emma and Lord Wolverton are the most unlikely match in all of London.”

  “In England,” Chloe amended merrily.

  “The whole of Europe for that matter,” Eloise said, clearly defensive of the paragon whom she still held in her heart as an untarnished example of all a lady should aspire to be. Indeed, it was no secret to the family that Eloise had esteemed Lady Emma for years.

  “Julia, you must speak plainly to us,” Jane said. “If this is a matter upon which we are compelled to act, there is no time to mince words. All I know is that Adrian came to Emma’s rescue at a wedding. Perhaps not in the most graceful of ways, but—”

  “It is already too late,” Charlotte Boscastle broke in very quietly.

  Jane drew a breath. “I see. Then exactly how does the situation stand between our two—dare I call them—lovers?”

  “I would say the situation is at a complete standstill,” Charlotte replied. “I don’t believe that Emma can take a step these days without one of my cousins peering over her shoulder.”

  Chloe snorted lightly. “I do remember their smothering guard myself. It’s a miracle Dominic and I ended up marrying with the four devils boxing me in. And now they’ve added Gabriel to their ranks. Poor Emma. To think she’s found love this late, at last, only to—”

  Jane wandered over to the window. “You’re probably right. They’ll ruin this for her—oh, Lord above. He’s here.”

  “Lord Wolverton?” Hermia asked eagerly, halfway out of her chair.

  “No. Grayson, the cabal leader, come to decide Emma’s—”

  A dull thunk shuddered through the wall. “Did you hear that?” Jane asked, whirling around in alarm.

  Chloe examined a loose bead on the instep of her slippers. “Yes. Grayson has never gone through a door he didn’t slam. You should know that by now, Jane.”

  “It wasn’t the door,” Jane exclaimed. “It—”

  “—came from the other side of the house.” Charlotte leaned forward, pointing over her shoulder. “From the side where Emma’s suite is located.”

  Adrian climbed up the rickety wooden ladder and swung one arm, then his right leg over the sill, grateful to that imp Harriet for remembering to open Emma’s window. Of course he’d paid the greedy little urchin good coin for the favor. No doubt she would still try to blackmail him into buying her silence. Well, he would deal with Miss Gardner tomorrow. If all went well tonight, he might even want to reward her.

  He glanced around, surveying the darkened chamber. He’d landed in the bedroom, as luck would have it. A sea coal fire smoldered amber-gold in the grate. Good. She wouldn’t be cold after he’d declared his intentions and taken her to bed.

  Through the door that adjoined her suite, he glimpsed her sitting in the next room on a saberlegged rosewood chaise, a book on her lap. Her beautiful, long hair was loose, gathered over one shoulder. Rapunzel. He wanted to twist it around his neck, his arms, his hips. He could almost feel the softly spun strands caressing his back, his belly.

  His beautiful Renaissance angel.

  He moved quietly toward her. She hadn’t noticed him yet. In his day he could have sneaked aboard a ship of pirates and slit their snoring throats before he disturbed their dreams. Surely he could sneak up on the woman he desired and—drop to his knees beside her.

  He walked straight into one of the potted plants on a marble pedestal that flanked the door. She leapt to her feet, her luminous eyes widening in shock.

  “You!”

  “Damn it, Emma.” He caught the pot of English ivy before it could crash to the ground, then rebalanced it carefully on the pedestal. “Please, whatever you do, don’t scream.”

  “I have absolutely no intention of indulging in such a useless act.” She looked up slowly into his face. “If your appe
arance here is in regard to those lessons in deportment again, which you desperately need, I shall refer you to a certain French count who is an acquaintance of Devon’s. I understand he is more than happy to instruct Englishmen in the refined arts.”

  He walked her back into the chaise. “Darling, I don’t give a damn about my manners. I never did.”

  Her breath caught, a tiny hitch of sound that belied her composure. “Obviously.”

  He lifted his hands to her shoulders. “I came here for one purpose only.”

  Her mouth dropped open. “Adrian Ruxley, if you do not leave this instant, I shall—”

  “I adore you,” he said, lowering his mouth to hers. “And I want you to be my wife. Emma, please, put me out of this torture. Do you feel as I do? No, don’t answer. I already know.”

  He kissed her before she could utter a word. Soldier of fortune, he took advantage of her shocked immobility to brush his mouth across hers. He drew her against him and held her so there was no question of escape. Sensual pleasure pulsed throughout his body as he felt her lips, then her body soften against his.

  Knowing Emma, he’d have little time to weaken her defenses before she rallied her guard. But he waited for her answer, anyway, his heart beating, wild and hopeful. He combed his hand through her hair, untangling a knot, cradling her nape, stroking her warm skin.

  She moved slightly so that his mouth rested upon her cheek. “Are you proposing to me?” she asked in a soft, precise voice.

  “Yes.” He laughed, disbelieving, happier than he’d ever been in his life. “Yes.”

  Her eyes searched his face for deceit. He must look, sound, like a fool. He didn’t care about that, either, if she accepted his proposal. “And this is what you wished to discuss with me?” she asked, his skeptical little schoolmistress, the taskmaster he could not survive without. “Why didn’t you say so in the first place?”

  “When did I have the chance?” he demanded incredulously. “I followed you to a lacemaker’s stall, fully prepared to pop the question, only to find Heath picking out a pretty handkerchief for himself. It was not a moment conducive to a proposal.”

  She shook her head in chagrin. “They do know. And they’ll kill us if we’re caught.”

  “Let’s elope.”

  “Elope? Tonight?”

  He traced his gloved thumb over her lush mouth, then trailed it down her chin into the cleft of her bodice. “Why not?” he asked, his gaze darkly tempting.

  She shivered. “And have my brothers chasing us across England? What a honeymoon made in hell. And what an example to the academy. We shall have a proper wedding, or none at all.”

  He grinned, his thumb rubbing the plump curve of her breast. Her nipple beaded against his large warm palm. “Then you’ve accepted.”

  “Did I?” she asked, gazing up at his face as he boldly caressed her senses into a state of dazed pleasure.

  His eyes crinkled at the corners, warm, teasing her. Slowly he lifted his hand away to untie the laces of her bodice and free her firm white breasts. “You did.”

  She crossed her hands over her swollen pink nipples. Adrian felt his breathing quicken.

  “But my brothers—”

  “Kiss me, Emma.” He swept her over his knee to the chaise. “Put your arms around my neck,” he said in a thick voice. “I need your kisses.”

  She caught a handful of his coat. His body clenched in disappointment until he realized she wasn’t pushing him away. No, bless her. She was pulling him closer, right down on top of her, fanning the inferno that boiled inside him.

  They stole kisses from each other. Starved, ungentle, greedy kisses. Neither of them were innocent. Adrian understood desire, how to arouse, to satisfy. And to prolong pleasure until one’s lover begged prettily for release.

  She dropped her head back on the chaise, his sultry schoolmistress, her limbs relaxed, her curves inviting. He stared down at her in helpless desperation. His groin tightened as she laid her hand on his knee.

  Suddenly his entire body felt so heavy with sexuality that even the weight of his coat became unbearable.

  He began to wrench it off only to stop as he felt her hands at his shoulders, assisting him. He closed his eyes, drew a ragged breath. “It was a fumble that first night. I took advantage of you, although not on purpose.”

  “And you admit it?” she asked steadily.

  “To my disgrace.”

  “I accept your apology.” She twisted her hips. It seemed vulgar to voice her wants. Her body observed no such restrictions.

  “It wasn’t so much of an apology,” he murmured. “It was more of a warning.”

  Her deepest muscles contracted, quivered. “A warning?”

  He inhaled, his voice deep pitched with pleasure. “It won’t be a fumble this time—”

  “Adrian—”

  “—and you aren’t going to convince me this is an improper act between a man and a woman who are now to be wed—”

  “—for the love of heaven, I do not wish for an apology. I want action.”

  His eyes darkened in pleasure. “Then I shall act.”

  “And if you don’t touch me soon, Lord Wolf,” she whispered low, drawing his coat from his broad shoulders, “I will embarrass the very name of etiquette.”

  He groaned. “As your husband-to-be, I would like nothing more than to oblige your wishes.” He angled his head and caught her hand. “But it’s ladies first, isn’t it? You see, I do take instruction…”

  He slid his gloved hand beneath her robe. Then, with taunting deliberation, he stroked his way up her ankle to her bare knee to her belly. Her breathing deepened. She turned her face into the cushion, murmuring, “Gloves, my lord,” with a spellbinding laugh that stirred his predator’s instincts. “A gentleman must remove his gloves when touching a woman intimately.”

  “Is that an unbreakable rule in your manual?” he asked, idly easing his leather-clad fingers between her folds. “Or are you inventing new rules as we go along?”

  “Adrian,” she breathed in shocked delight as his gloved forefinger slipped inside her. “This—”

  He leaned closer, inserted another finger into her tight passage. “I’ve never gone by the book myself. I seem to be an animal of instinct. Forgive me.”

  “This”—she shifted, her gaze widening in anticipation; her shoulders arched—“isn’t civilized. This is, well, I don’t know what it is.”

  “I don’t either, but I like it very much and suggest you wait before deciding.”

  She laid her hand on his strong wrist, her inner muscles gripping his leather-gloved fingers. It was decadent. It was desire. And she felt the purity and power of it to her soul. “How long must I wait?” she whispered.

  He drew the rest of her robe up to her midriff. His heavy hand lay possessively between her sleek thighs and the gold-tinged curls that daintily concealed her cleft from his ravenous stare.

  To be her lover he would have gone down on his knees and begged. He was besotted. Bewitched. He whose skills for fighting had made men plead for mercy would forever lay down his sword and dedicate his life to pleasing her if she would allow him.

  “There hasn’t been a moment since we were first together,” he said hoarsely, “that I haven’t thought of you.”

  Her quiet sigh of pleasure encouraged him. Slowly he finished untying the ribbons that lay against her shoulders. She made no attempt to dissuade him. His hands eased the thin muslin down her graceful back. Her breasts hovered above the sheer fabric, her nipples silky pink and luscious. “Oh, Emma.” With her aristocratic features and flowing hair, she looked like an elegant concubine. He felt his erection bulging against his trousers, straining the tight seams to the bursting point.

  Slowly, he told himself. She deserved his time, the best he could give her after their initial awkward indiscretion. “I am trying to control myself,” he explained. “I’m afraid I feel a little wild at times.”

  “My wild wolf.”

  “Tame me, Emma.
”

  “Why?” she whispered. “Sometimes a lady knows when to appreciate what nature has unleashed. A storm over the mountains. Rain at a summer picnic. A duke who does not follow the rules of his realm…”

  His heartbeat raced so that it hurt to draw a breath into his lungs. Sexual tension gripped his muscles, thickened the very air he shared with her. His cock ached heavily in his trousers. How he craved this woman.

  She pressed herself into his hand.

  With a low growl at this unexpected enticement, he pulled off his damp glove and sought the sweet tenderness of her flesh. Her submission. He had waited for her capitulation, knowing that he was hers from the first time he’d seen her.

  “You must think me a devil,” he said in a raw voice. “I have deliberately enticed you to abandon those principles you esteem.”

  “And what,” she asked in a voice even deeper than his own, “if I admit to you, my devil, that it is you I esteem most dearly? That I would give up everything to be yours?”

  He rubbed his free hand over his face. “Then I am yours to do with as you wish. Polish me. Instruct me. Turn me into one of those mincing Englishmen you admire. I care not. Just don’t refuse me, Emma. Make me into whatever you wish, but I beg you with all my heart, make me yours.”

  The Boscastles, Heath reflected in annoyance, had never exactly been known for their patience. Drake had practically drummed a hole in the library desktop. Gabriel had gone through three of Heath’s best cigars. Devon kept wandering back and forth to the window until at length he had settled in his chair to nod off.

  It was, therefore, a relief when the eldest Boscastle brother, Grayson, graced them with his domineering presence. “Did you hear a suspicious noise when you entered the house?” Heath asked, not one to waste words.

  Grayson shrugged out of his cloak. “It was probably me slamming the door. Am I too late?”

  “That depends,” Heath said, sitting back in his chair. “Does Jane know you are here?”

  “Of course not,” Grayson said. “Have I not always been the soul of discretion? Jane is preoccupied with some new Italian shoemaker. At least that’s what she said.”