Sins of a Wicked Duke

by Sophie Jordan

  Fire licked her cheeks and she wondered if she had let her indignation get the best of her. She was pretending to be a man, after all. Perhaps it would have been wiser to act the virile, unscrupulous male, intent only on fornication. In his lordship’s eyes, that would make her manlier, no doubt. More like him.

  “Not all men are like you.” Even as she spoke this, her gaze roamed over him, appreciating the tantalizing glimpse of his chest, muscled and firm as any field worker. She should feel disgust, scorn. Not this fascination.

  “What you’re saying is that you’ve no wish to be like me.”

  She snorted. Like him? If only she could be that free. As a peer of the realm, he could be whatever he wished. But what he chose to be was…wicked.

  Stepping forward, she set the small half-filled coffeepot on the tray. In the pretense of fetching a fresh pot, she began to turn. “If you would excuse me, Your Grace.”

  A hard hand fell on her arm, burning a brand through the heavy sleeve of her jacket. “Is that not so?” he queried, one brow lifting. “I’m a bloody duke with the world bowed before me, but you’ve no envy of me. I’m not determined to be wicked just for the hell of it, you know.”

  “You’re not?” Her gaze narrowed on his well-carved lips, mesmerized.

  “No. It’s just sinking into a woman’s body…hell,” he broke off with a rasp that made her belly quiver. Heat swirled through her, tightening and pulling in places she never knew could feel before.

  “You wouldn’t know what I’m talking about, but it feels damn sweet. It reminds me I’m alive. A definite improvement from the shit I’ve waded through in my life.” He laughed then, a horrible, tormented sound. As abruptly as he grabbed her, he released her. “Go. Return to your duties.”

  At the brusque command, she fled. Do not look back. Do not look back. A single glimpse at her face and he might read the deep want he had ignited inside her with his words.

  She slowed before crossing the threshold, gathering her composure before pushing on—a foolish female who had fallen under the demon duke’s spell and thought that perhaps she could be the one to rescue him. Absurd. Especially considering the one most in need of rescue was herself.

  Chapter 14

  T he sound of shattering glass brought Fallon to her feet. The well-worn copy of Mary Shelley’s The Modern Prometheus that she had borrowed from the library thudded to the floor. She had always wanted to read it, but Master Brocklehurst deemed novels trash and never permitted them at school.

  Biting her lip, she stared at the door connecting her room to the duke’s. The hour was late, but he usually returned home later. Sometimes not until morning. Given her reading material, her pulse hammered a bit too quickly. The noise coming from the next room only made her heart gallop and goose bumps pucker her flesh.

  Deciding it appropriate to investigate—wouldn’t a dutiful valet make certain all was well with his master?—she rose to her feet. Picking the book off the floor, she marked her page and set it on the small bedside table. Still wearing her trousers and cambric shirt, she gathered her wig off the dresser. Standing before the mirror, she secured it upon her head, taking care that no red-gold tendrils peeked free. With a final tug, she turned and slipped on her jacket. Satisfied, she knocked once on the adjoining door. Nothing. Silence. Pressing down on the latch, she entered the shadowed room.

  Her gaze immediately flew to the movement near the window. Lord Hunt was shrugging free of his jacket as he kissed a giggling female sprawled beneath him on the chaise. Jacket discarded in a rumpled heap on the floor, he delved both hands into her hair and held her still for a deep kiss. Their tongues parried outside their mouths.

  Face burning, Fallon quickly looked away, searching for Damon. Her stomach churned at the thought of him occupied in a similar manner. For heaven’s sake, she was his valet! Why could she not accept that he was wicked incarnate? Why must she feel such fierce…disappointment at the prospect? As though she possessed some claim on him? Or hoped to?

  In a flash, she realized the emotion she experienced—the deep, gnawing burn in her chest—was not disappointment but an altogether different emotion. Jealousy. She was jealous of any female warming the duke’s bed. Any female allowed to brush her fingers, her lips, to that sinful tattoo. To trace its horrible beauty.

  Her gaze landed on the duke, passed out on the bed, clearly soused, a woman curled against him. Satisfaction spiraled through her to see that he was not in a receptive mood. A frown marred his companion’s face as she tried to paw him awake. Grasping his face, fingers digging into his shadowed cheeks, she tried to shake him awake. Damon groaned and rolled to his side to escape her. Dark fury spiraled through Fallon. She wanted to fly across the room and wrench the female from him. Clearing her throat, she waited for the room’s occupants to take note of her.

  “C’mon now,” the woman on the bed purred, her hand fumbling at his breeches, dipping inside. “I came here for a bit of sport. Wake up.”

  “Gracious!” Unable to stay silent, Fallon clapped her hands so fiercely it made her palms sting. “It’s certainly late.”

  Lord Hunt glanced up, scowling. “Then get yourself to bed.”

  The woman on the bed perked up somewhat. She crawled across the bed on her hands and knees, her breasts nearly tumbling from her loosened gown, one dark nipple dangling, exposed. “You’re a lively looking one. Bet you won’t quit on me.”

  “Look, Ethan!” The woman in his arms giggled. “Jenny wants to diddle the butler.”

  “Valet,” Fallon automatically corrected. Surprisingly, she felt no outrage over the shocking banter. Her lips twisted with grim acceptance. No doubt a consequence of living beneath Damon’s roof.

  “Easy for you to laugh, Dottie. You’ve someone to play with.” Jenny’s scarlet lips pulled into a pout. Staring at Fallon, she circled her fingers around her exposed nipple. “You look like a vigorous lad.”

  Leveling the tart a disdainful look, Fallon pronounced in clipped tones, “His Grace needs his rest.” She swept all of them her chilliest stare, the one Master Brocklehurst had used to freeze the girls of Penwich to the spot and turn their blood to ice. “Perhaps you could call on him tomorrow.” She flicked a glance to Damon. Dead to the world. “When His Grace is up to visitors.”

  Although she heartily hoped not. She could do with an end to the parade of women traipsing through his bedchamber.

  “Are you kicking us out, boy?”

  Fallon met Lord Hunt’s stare, determined to stand firm. “Yes.” She lifted her chin. “I am.”

  He stared back. Likely, a valet had never shown him the door before. She held her breath, wondering what she would do if he refused. He was bigger and, of course, a man. A man of position and power. He could make her life difficult. Particularly now. His Grace was dead to the world. The viscount could trounce her for her impertinence if the whim struck him.

  After a moment, he glanced to the bed, eyeing his inert friend. Sighing, he rose, gathering his jacket off the carpet. “Come along, girls. We’ll divert ourselves elsewhere. I’ve a bed nearly as large as Damon’s and appetite enough for the two of you.”

  Dottie stood, putting her dress to rights with several tugs. Jenny joined them. He slid an arm around both their waists. “Tell Damon I’ll call on him tomorrow.” Something dark glinted in his eyes, a warning she did not miss. He would take no more interference from her. “No doubt he’ll be ready to play then.”

  She smiled tightly, knowing he was annoyed with her. She had no right to act so proprietary over the duke. She was a valet, a servant, no matter that he treated her more like an equal, more like a person than any of her previous employers…actually asking for her opinion and suffering her censure.

  That sudden realization startled her, softening her disposition toward the wretch gently snoring atop the massive bed, explaining perhaps why he consumed so much of her thoughts.

  With one woman plastered against each side of him, the viscount headed through the door, l
etting the women precede him. He paused and looked back over his shoulder at her. “You can relay my message, can you not, Francis? You have so many talents it seems.” His lip faintly curled. Without waiting for an answer, he turned and walked away.

  She looked back at the duke, relieved Hunt had left. She had never been good at disguising her feelings. And her feelings concerning the viscount were much too personal, much too spiteful given their history.

  Propping her hands on her hips, she approached the bed and surveyed the sorry state of her employer. Clucking her tongue, she shook her head. A pitiful sight, indeed.

  “Pitiful,” she muttered. The long, lean length of him reposed in negligent oblivion.

  “Wake up.” She nudged his shoulder with the base of her palm, quickly snatching her hand back, the warmth radiating through the fine lawn of his shirt far too enticing. Rubbing her palm against her trousers, she studied him, the line of his jaw not quite so hard while he slept.

  He moaned, turning his head to the other side, away from her. Biting her lip, she gingerly lowered one knee on the bed beside him. Releasing her lip, she cleared her throat. “Your Grace?”

  No response.

  Carefully, hesitantly, she placed both hands on his chest. Trying not to notice how broad, how incredibly firm and warm he felt, she shook him with both hands. “Your Grace, your…” she hesitated, groping for the right word, “guests have left.”

  Again, nothing. Not a sound. Not a movement. He no longer even snored. A stillness pervaded the room.

  Moistening her lips, she leaned closer. “Dominic,” she whispered, liking the sound of his name on her lips. Forbidden. Intimate. She had scarcely let herself think it before. “Dominic,” she repeated.

  She glanced down at his boots dangling off the side of the bed. “You need to undress—”

  Hard hands closed around her arms.

  She gasped, stunned at the contact, at the fire spiking through her. Her gaze flew to his shadowed face. He yanked her so close their breaths mingled. “That’s what you’re for, love.”

  Love? Dear God, why was he calling her that? Had he realized? Did he know who she was? In the gloom of the room, his eyes rested on her face with an intensity that fed panic to her fiercely beating heart.

  “Your Grace!” She craned her neck, trying to pull her face away from his searing perusal. “Let me go!” she cried, hoping her voice did not sound as shrill to his ears as it did to hers. Manly, Fallon. Think manly.

  His gray eyes were so close now. Too close. Only the nagging, insistent reminder that she must behave as a man stopped her from struggling in his arms. Amending her tone, she tried to sound properly dignified, a man in control and not at all alarmed—not at all like the woman inside whose heart pounded against her chest, threatening to burst free. “You’ve imbibed a bit too freely tonight, Your Grace. Please unhand me.”

  “That’s not what you want, love. You came here tonight for a bit of sport. Remember?”

  Relief and horror mingled through her. At least he had not recognized her. But he thought she was the tart from earlier! Drunken sot. Before she could correct his misapprehension, he covered the back of her head with one large hand and forced her down.

  “Your Grace!” There was no stopping the shrill panic in her voice now. “Truly, I am not—”

  The rest of her words were lost. A muffled exclamation as his mouth covered hers. Shock rippled through her body as his mouth moved over hers, nibbling and nipping and coaxing her lips open until the slick heat of his tongue slid inside her mouth.

  She went limp, body dropping, melting over his, no longer caring that he had mistaken her for someone else. She moaned. This is what he did best, after all. What he was perhaps born to do.

  Never in her life had she been kissed like this. And there had been a few kisses in the two years since she left Penwich. All chaste kisses with boys scarcely older than herself. Never a man of Damon’s years and experience. Never a man she actually…wanted.

  And there it was. The glaring, painful truth she had denied from the start. As much as he shocked her and offended her, as much as he reminded her of a past she fought to forget…she wanted him. A self-indulgent blue blood she wanted with an intensity that burned. Never mind that he represented all she loathed. She wanted him, wanted his kisses. Wanted to touch that serpent tattoo.

  Stunned, she could not will herself to move. Could not tear her head away. Could not pull back.

  And perhaps most importantly, she could not recall that she was a man! Or was supposed to be, at any rate.

  The hand at the back of her head lowered, his palm pressing flat against the center of her back, crushing her to him. Heat sizzled through her. Her breasts ached, throbbed against their tight bindings.

  “God, you’re sweet,” he muttered against her mouth.

  His hand trailed down, fingers skimming her spine until he came to her derrière. She squeaked into his mouth as he squeezed one cheek, positioning her against him so that his erection ground into her. Garbed in trousers, she felt the hard shape of him perfectly. To her shame, she reveled in it. Sighing into his mouth, she sank against him. Growling, he pulled her even closer.

  It appeared Dominic—suddenly she could not think of him by any other name—was taking this to its obvious conclusion. Believing her the tart from earlier, she might soon find herself without her long-guarded virtue. A fact that did not send up the flag of warning it should have. Instead she only melted deeper into his hard length, a small voice whispering, Why not?

  The pulsing ridge of his manhood prodded at the juncture of her thighs and a deep, clenching ache started there. His hand flexed on her bottom, the imprint a brand that would forever remain there. This, she knew. Long after she scrimped and saved to settle in her long-sought home—a place that was hers and hers alone—she would remember his hand, his touch. Him.

  His kisses were drugging, deep sensuous pulls from her lips, as if he were drinking life-saving nectar and could not get enough. No wonder women dropped at his feet. A man who kissed like this—inebriated no less—was a danger to the female population. A woman could think herself special, loved, when a man kissed like that.

  Her hand smoothed over his bristly cheek in a feverish hold as their mouths fused together. The scratch of his jaw chafed her tender palm. He dragged her higher and the broad hand on her bottom slid lower, caressing…dipping between her legs from behind and exerting the most sinful pressure against her core. She gasped at the sinful caress. No man had touched her so intimately before. So wickedly. Any man who tried would have suffered pain at her hands.

  Through the fabric of her trousers, his fingers unerringly found her cleft, rubbing up and down in languid strokes that grew deeper with every pass. Her belly twisted. She widened her legs, seating herself against his hand. Her breaths grew faster, rushing from her lips in noisy pants as he worked his fingers over her. Slow, then fast. Hard, then gentle. She clutched a fistful of his hair, whispered pleas falling from her lips.

  The tension in her belly coiled higher, tighter, a serpent ready to strike. Moisture gushed between her legs and she shuddered, crying out into his mouth.

  He broke their kiss then, whispering soft words as his lips dragged a burning trail along her jaw and neck. She jerked her head to the side to give him more of her throat…and felt her wig tilt slightly askew.

  Slapping one hand over her head to keep it in position, she cried out as his teeth scraped the hammering pulse at her neck. This was insanity! And yet she could not move, could not part from him, could not stop from experiencing him as a woman. As she never would when he had his wits about him.

  He bit down where her neck and shoulder met, his tongue following, laving the tender flesh. She blinked, gasping as though emerging from a deep pool of water. In a move so sudden it left her dizzy, he flipped her on her back. For once she felt small, feminine and petite as he loomed over her and settled his large body between her parted legs.

  Her gaze roved o
ver the ceiling’s flickering shadows, seeing nothing, seeing everything as his hand closed over her breast. She cried out and arched into that palm, her own hand flying to his head, her fingers delving in the silky dark strands. She could not stop no matter how many voices in her head called her a fool.

  He parted her jacket and slid it off her shoulders as if every woman he caressed wore men’s attire. Brandy must have addled his wits entirely. With a vicious yank, he pulled her shirt free of her trousers. His fingers grazed her soft belly, her ribs, inching ever higher.

  What are you doing? He’s your employer! He doesn’t know it’s you. He thinks he’s having his way with one of his tarts.

  She moaned. Fire ignited along her flesh where he touched. When he reached the fabric she bound around her breasts, she tore her mouth from his with a frenzied hiss. Enough! She must stop him. He would certainly notice having to unwrap binding from her breasts.

  Squeezing her hands between them, she shoved. “No!”

  He swayed above her for a moment, and she shoved again. Harder. He fell back on the bed. Hopping to her feet, she stared down at him, trembling from head to toe.

  Mumbling, he rolled onto his side, peering up at her through heavy-lidded eyes. “Where you going?” he slurred, blinking in her direction with a thankfully unfocused gaze. “Come here, you.” Rising, he attempted to steady himself on an elbow and grab her hand.

  She stepped sideways, easily avoiding his reach.

  He fell back. With a groan, his eyes drifted shut.

  With one hand pressed against her pounding heart, she watched him closely, her heart aching nearly as much as her body. He rolled his head side to side, lips moving, words a bare whisper. She inched forward a shuffling step, then another, trying to make out his words. When they came to her at last, each word punctuated with a broken breath, her heart pounded even harder beneath her palm.

  “Don’t go. Don’t leave me.”

  Senselessly, she felt like crawling back in bed with him and folding his great big body in her arms. He sounded like such a forlorn little boy. Utterly lost. She gave her head a hard shake. Why should he sound so forlorn? He was a bloody duke, born with every advantage. He didn’t know hunger. Or the sting of a strap on his back. He knew only wealth and power and how to abuse those beneath him. She ignored the fact that the latter did not ring quite true. That he in fact had treated her with more care and thought than any of her previous employers.