Wish Upon A Duke (The Dukes' Club Book 3)

by Eva Devon

  She tossed back the last swallow of her whisky, reminding herself that she’d lived boldly for years and there was no reason to stop now. No, not even if an ever so slightly righteous duke had elbowed his way into her life, spouting propriety. It was clear, that he longed to be freed from all those imprisoning rules.

  “You wish to kiss me,” she said, stating it as a fact, determined to not let him slip away without having felt his lips upon hers.

  He drew in a stunned breath. “Lady Cavendish,” he said gruffly. “Have you no idea how to behave?”

  The gruffness, as far as she could tell, only hid his desire for her. In fact, that low note to his voice sent a thrill down her spine. “Indeed, I know exactly how to behave if I wish to be kissed and I do wish it. Right now,”

  She hesitated, a shocking bit of doubt clouding her usually sure self. “Unless, of course, you prefer blushing young girls in muslin, staring at the floor, waiting to have their heads tilted up and—”

  He laughed. Again. A low, shiver inducing rumble. “You are absolutely infuriating.”

  She smiled then. She couldn’t help herself. His voice caressed her right down to the hollow of her spine, giving her the most delicious thrill. “I am, aren’t I? But I’m also devilish fun.”

  “You meant it?” he asked.

  “What?”

  “You desire me to kiss you?”

  “Yes.”

  He placed his glass down on the table by the fire before he strode to her. “As simple as that?”

  “Must it be complicated?” she returned, her breath suddenly catching in her throat.

  He paused for a moment, clearly stunned but then he took her face in his hands, tilted her head and captured her lips.

  At first, the pressing of his lips was far too fierce as if he was devouring her. It sent her heart thundering, but it was also overwhelming, all consuming. He took her as if he were a man who’d been lost at sea and suddenly found dry land. Nothing tentative about it, full force, full hunger. The duke kissed her until she could think of nothing but holding onto his shoulders for dear life as her body lit with need.

  In all her life, she’d never been kissed like this. As if she was the key to his very survival. Goodness! She never wanted it to end.

  He slid one hand into her curls, and pulled her closer to him with his other arm. Even as his embrace tightened, pressing her body to his until she could feel the hard sinew of his muscles beneath his clothes, his mouth softened. Now, each kiss was a seduction, his lips moving almost languidly over hers.

  The room disappeared, her mind stilled, until all she could think of was kissing him, of his lips stealing her breath and any sense that she was in control of this moment. She relaxed into his hold, allowing his strength to keep her upright. When his tongue slipped between her lips, teasing her, she felt her knees buckle.

  Famous! She couldn’t catch her breath. She didn’t want to. Instead she held onto his shoulders, pulling herself tighter, as if she could be any closer to his form.

  He broke the kiss and Imogen blinked, stunned, but able to see his face, eyes half closed with desire just before he lowered his head and began to bite her neck oh-so-softly.

  She shivered, nearly undone with the pleasure of it. His lips traced over her skin, blazing a trail of desire where he went, until once again, she couldn’t think. She couldn’t think to pause. She couldn’t think to speak. Nor could she think to decide if this was a good idea.

  No, the only thing she could do was surrender.

  He paused then growled, “Damnation, lass, but you’re the most beautiful thing I’ve ever held.”

  And with those few words, she melted. The Duke of Blackburn, arrogant, powerful, stubborn man that he was, stole her heart.

  *

  Duncan wanted one thing. Just one. Well, no. That was a lie. He wanted to possess Imogen Cavendish and to do so, he’d do many things. The first? He studied the swells of her breasts. Dare he? If he were in his proper senses, if the wee lass hadn’t somehow bewitched him, he’d turn tail and run. But she had bewitched him and since he’d come this far, there wasn’t a devil’s chance he was stopping now.

  Slowly, he kissed the top of her breasts, teasing ever so lightly with his teeth and tongue, nearing the edge of her bodice but not quite touching it.

  She moaned, a low soft sound, full of longing. On that delicious, gratifying note, she dropped her head back, arching her body into his. A satisfied smile curved his lips. Oh yes. He was going to enjoy this temporary fall from grace, as was she.

  Without thinking twice, he whirled her around so that she faced toward the damask covered chair before the fire. Instinct, powerful instinct, seemed to take him over.

  She gasped at his quickness. “Y-your Grace?”

  “Duncan, lass,” he rasped as he trailed his hands down the silk of her bodice then paused on her hips. “You’ll be calling me Duncan.”

  “Duncan,” she sighed.

  He grasped the fabric of her skirts, and began to oh-so-slowly tug upwards. “I want you, my lady.”

  “Imogen,” she whispered.

  He leaned forward, his lips pressed just to the nape of her neck and breathed, “I want you. . . Imogen. Tell me no. Save us both the chance of scandal, and tell me no.”

  With every word, he slid her skirts further up her stockinged thighs, allowing the tips of his fingers to trace up her legs. “I beg of ye, tell me no.”

  For if she told him no, he could stop. He’d never go against a lady’s wishes. He held his breath as his hands met her hips. Purposefully, he kept his hands away from the apex of her thighs, the part he longed to stroke with his fingers, with his mouth, with his tongue.

  “I can’t tell you no, Duncan.”

  “Why not”? He asked, his lips still lingering at her neck.

  She let out a sound of delight as his breath played over her skin. “Because I want you too.”

  “Then there’s only one thing for us to do,” he said, and he gripped her hips, ready to kneel and pleasure her.

  “Imogen! Will you ever be ready?” a female voice called from the door. “It will be too dark to walk. . . Oh!”

  A giggle followed that exclamation.

  Duncan cringed. Good god, what had he been about? The desire that had stolen his wits and sense of propriety vanished at the strange woman’s voice. He felt frozen, boots stuck to the floor.

  “I do beg your pardon,” that female voice said. “I shall return. . . later.”

  “No,” he snapped, unable to turn, unable to move, but at least able to realize he needed to make a swift exit. The moment was gone. He no longer would be able to blame passion and the witchery of Lady Cavendish if he stayed.

  “I say, Kate, are you coming,” another lady’s voice called from the hall. “There’s a set of stones I want to investigate. I’ve heard they are Pictish. . . Famous!” said lady exclaimed upon doubtlessly entering the room. “It’s a mating ritual!”

  Mating ritual? Was this house peopled by mad persons? He’d had his recent suspicions. Well if it was, he certainly belonged given his most recent behavior.

  “Could you let go my skirt?”

  Duncan blinked, realizing Imogen was speaking to him. “What?”

  “Well, what’s the hold up?” a deep and articulate male voice demanded. “I’ve got the wine, why aren’t we going?”

  “My skirt,” Imogen said, face still toward the wall, with a surprising amount of calmness. “Could you let it go, please?”

  “Och, bloody hell.” Duncan’s hands were still firmly holding the folds of Imogen’s long silk skirt, leaving her limbs exposed. Thank god he was standing behind her blocking the worst of it from their audience. He dropped his hands to his sides, allowing the fabric to whoosh to the floor.

  “Is this an exhibition,” the same man drawled. “Surely you could find a bedroom.”

  “Or a closet!” piped the one named Kate. “Imogen is fond of closets.”

  Was she, by God? And
how the devil did this lady Kate know such a thing. How was such a thing possibly common knowledge? The thought blasted him with another wave of almost uncontrollable jealousy. Just who had she been behaving thusly with in these closets he wanted to demand.

  “Kate,” Imogen said, whipping around. “You’ll shock, His Grace.”

  “I’ll shock him?” Kate drawled.

  “Oh, I say Imogen, that’s good,” said the other young lady.

  He glanced down at Imogen, the wanton charmer, he’d just about leapt fully into sin with.

  Instead of horror, she was grinning with cheeks glowing a becoming pink. “We’ve been rather naughty, haven’t we, Your Grace?”

  Naughty? That’s what she had to say for them? He drew himself up, squaring his shoulders. It was on the tip of his tongue to decry their horrendous behavior but he couldn’t. Not with the sudden disappointment in her green eyes.

  Her smile dimmed. “Oh dear. You’re about the humph or scowl again.”

  And he did scowl, because she was absolutely correct. He had about to press his lips tight and bluster on about propriety. Had it not been he who’d pulled her to him? Oh, she’d asked him to kiss her. But he was sure it was because she’d seen his longing his eyes. Unlike himself, she’d had the courage, or audacity depending on one’s view point, to act.

  So, he took her hands. “No, I shan’t humph. I’ll try to have better manners than that.”

  She let out a sigh of relief.

  “Manners are highly overrated, especially in such circumstances,” another male voice said from the corner of the room.

  Good God, how many guests did she have and had they all witnessed him about to bend Imogen over?

  “Dare I turn around?” Duncan asked, finding much to his surprise that he was starting to smile at the absurdity of the situation.

  “At some point you must,” Imogen said softly. “Why not now?”

  “Don’t tell me you’re a now is always best sort?”

  Her delicate eyebrows tilted upward. “Do I not appear such?”

  “Excuse me,” Aston called, “But if you’re having a drink, it’s devilish rude, not to offer us one.”

  Imogen laughed. “Indeed, it is!” She leaned forward and up onto her tip toes, whispering. “We best face them.”

  He nodded. Slowly, shoulders squared, he faced the company. All five of them. Two women, both who appeared to be several months pregnant beamed at him. Behind the ladies, two dark haired men, both as big as herculean statues appeared to be barely hiding far too much pleasure at his expense. Then there was Aston who elbowed his way past the two men and clasped the ladies about the shoulders before he called out, “Greetings Blackburn! I knew you had it in you.”

  “Aston.” The tall dark haired man to the right glowered. “Take your paws of my wife, you ill bred wolf.”

  “And mine,” the slightly shorter but broader man added. “Unless you’d like a hook in place of your hand.

  Aston threw up his hands, full of exaggerated apology. “Now, I’d never dream of accosting these ladies.”

  Imogen laughed. “The ladies would have your balls for breakfast if you tried.”

  The two women joined in Imogen’s laugher.

  “Indeed,” said the one he was certain was Kate. “Luckily, Aston has a few, a very few, good points. Now, we must be introduced. I’m Kathryn, Duchess of Darkwell.” She turned and gazed with absolute adoration at the tallest man behind her. “And this is my husband, the Duke of Darkwell.”

  “A pleasure,” Duncan said.

  “I doubt it, old man,” returned Darkwell.

  “Given what we were so importune as to interrupt,” added the other, broader fellow. “I’m the Duke of Hunt, and this lady determined to find her Pictish stones, is my wife, the Duchess Cordelia.”

  Duncan inclined his head, then gazed at each of them as they stared back at him. For the first time, he felt flummoxed. He rarely went to London, he rarely left Scotland, and he rarely was in the company of multiple dukes. They were his social equals and any posturing inherent to his upbringing would mean absolutely nothing to these people. So, there was only one thing for it. He grabbed the decanter of whisky from the table. “Who shall I pour a glass for first?”

  Chapter 6

  Imogen couldn’t stop her idiotic grin. It was all too funny. Poor Duncan looked as if he longed to sink into the heather, but he was handling himself quite admirably considering he was leading a pack of three dukes and two duchesses up into the highlands during a surpassingly temperate winter’s day. It was difficult not to be impressed as he had yet to run for the hills as other men had done when confronted by the dukes of her acquaintance. Perhaps it was because he was a duke too, but she didn’t think that was it. Frankly, she was certain that Duncan would give as good as he got. After several whiskies, he’d agreed to take them all on a nature walk in the morning, and she’d been unsure if he would return. Her lot were quite intimidating.

  She never should have doubted him. For, he’d shown up on her doorstep, in fine condition, and with two gillies in tow, bearing baskets of food, drink, and blankets if the weather should continue to be so favorable.

  Imogen followed at a companionable distance, enjoying watching Duncan in his element and truly he was made for this land. His dark hair was wild in the light wind, his bronzed cheeks had gone ruddy, and his kilt was swaying about his marvelous legs. Oh yes. He was quite the sight. And thoughtful man, he’d chosen an easy path, winding gently up into the glen for the sake of the ladies and their bellies. He’d even protested that two women with child shouldn’t be out and about, but after Cordelia had given him one of her indomitable stares, Duncan had merely nodded and led them off into the sunshine.

  “Are the stones far up into the hills?” Cordelia asked brightly, as she strode ahead, breeches stretched over her bum. She had, in typical Cordy fashion, insisted that skirts were foolish for such an expedition and produced her own tailored breeches which also accommodated her growing middle.

  Duncan nodded, apparently completely undaunted by her odd apparel which Imogen thought amusing given his general sense of propriety. But then again, perhaps there was far more to Duncan, Duke of Blackburn, than she’d first surmised. Oh, she’d known he was unique, powerful, handsome, but now she knew there was a passion under his surface that bespoke the depth of oceans. And from the way he’d taken her in his arms, it was absolutely clear he’d been denying himself for some time.

  Duncan pointed to the west and the edge of the sea loch. “If you have such interest in the old ones Duchess, you must come to my estate. There is a ring of standing stones near the edge of the sea.”

  Cordelia’s eyes lit up and her husband, the Duke of Hunt, groaned. Cordelia laughed. “Oh, yes! Jack, only groans because he knows I shall be there all day. And of course, if I am there all day—”

  “I shall be there all day,” Hunt cut in, but his eyes were shining with love. He circled his arm about Cordelia’s waist and kissed her. Kissed her so long and thoroughly that Duncan looked away.

  Kathryn and Ryder linked hands and stared into each others eyes.

  Aston snorted.

  And Imogen marched forward, admiring and slightly jealous of her friends. “My goodness! All this fresh air must be conducive to amorous activity.”

  Aston lifted his hand which just so happened to clutch a flask. “Or drinking activity!”

  She laughed. “Can you go nowhere without a dose of spirits sir?”

  “How do you imagine my spirits stay so high? I keep them replenished, madam.”

  Duncan’s lips twitched, dangerously close to a scowl. “Just don’t go falling off a cliff, mon. I’d have the devil’s own time, explaining that. A dead English duke out on a walk with me?”

  “Do you have a history of pushing Englishmen off cliffs, Your Grace?” she sallied.

  “Och, lass,” Duncan said, his dower with mock seriousness. “Why do you think I have such marvelous control over myself. Prop
er behavior has saved many an Englishman from a good launching into the sea.”

  Imogen laughed before she leaned in and whispered, “You are not always in perfect control.”

  To her delight his eyes darkened. With desire. “Well, only the angels can obtain perfection or so they say.”

  “Angels?” Aston piped. “Better a devil any day. Who wants to have chubby cheeks and a pert little bum, I ask you?”

  Cordy broke the kiss with her husband, then gave a little sigh. “Trust you Aston to bring bums into the conversation.”

  “Someone must bring the party to entertaining conversation,” Aston returned.

  The Duke of Darkwell, pounded Aston on the back. “We’re merry enough, you old bachelor. And the talk of bums shall be limited to the company of gentlemen.”

  “Why?” his wife Kathryn asked. “Don’t we all have one?”

  Darkwell grinned, turned to her and pulled her to him, cupping said bum. “Of course, and yours is delightful. But encouraging that rogue will only lead us into groans of exasperation.”

  “Or groans of delight,” Aston drawled. “You quite underestimate my abilities.”

  “Dare I ask, why the Duke of Aston was invited to your house party?” Duncan asked, his voice rough with suppressed laughter.

  Imogen arched a brow innocently. “We needed a sixth at dinner.”

  “Oh!” Aston clutched a hand to his heart. “I do say, that’s harsh, Lady Cavendish.”

  Having broke the kiss with her husband at long last, Cordy elbowed her way into the small grouping. “Now about these stones. . .”

  Duncan’s stared, seeming somewhat dismayed by the behavior of his guests.

  Imogen fought a laugh. They were such an odd lot, and Duncan seemed to be at least amused by them, thank goodness.

  “Yes, Your Grace,” Duncan urged.

  “Call me Cordy, everyone does. Well, everyone that is my friend. And you seem a fine fellow, Blackburn. I do think we shall get along swimmingly. Any man who takes pride in a circle of standing stones, must be made of the best sort of stuff.”