Sins of a Wicked Duke

by Sophie Jordan

  Stumbling, she raced from the room, fairly certain he was too inebriated to give chase…and too inebriated to realize he just kissed his valet. Hopefully, tomorrow he would not remember anything at all.

  Shutting the door behind her, she cursed its lack of a bolt. Heart hammering, she fell against its length, taking comfort in the barrier as she waited, listening for the tread of his footsteps on the other side, sighing in relief when they never came.

  She wrenched the scratchy wig off her head with a trembling hand and dragged her fingers through her short locks. Her hand slid down her cheek, coming to rest on the thundering pulse at her neck…where his mouth had bit, then kissed her with such heat that her knees grew weak. Her skin still felt moist there, warm beneath her fingers. A mark she would forever wear, forever feel. Even after she left these walls. Something, she decided in that moment, that she must do. As soon as possible. Before he learned the truth.

  And before she came to forget all the reasons she couldn’t care for him, and embraced the fact that she already did.

  At the click of the door, Dominic jerked upright. The room spun. He inhaled, the faint odor of cinnamon filling his nostrils. And vanilla. And…warm bread? Glowing eyes flashed before him. A sense of longing seized him.

  Moaning, he fell back on the bed, arms stretched wide at his sides. Emptiness, desolation swept over him. His arms moved, searching, seeking…finding nothing. No one.

  He moaned again, the sound fading as he slipped toward sleep, his hand flexing in the bed at his side, still searching. A single, erratic thought tripped through his befuddled mind.

  Someone was supposed to be here.

  Chapter 15

  D ominic woke slowly, wincing at the dull throb in the center of his forehead. Perhaps he had imbibed more than customary. A consequence, no doubt, of yesterday’s unsettling conversation with his valet. Bloody hell.

  Frank’s remarks had struck a nerve. Astounding as it seemed, the boy’s disapproval rankled, bothering him all day until he found himself out with Hunt, joining him at Fatima’s Parlor of Delights, one of the raunchiest bordellos in Town. Together they had tossed down glass after glass of brandy as they surveyed the array of women the madam paraded before them.

  Inhaling through his nose, he stretched his arms out at his sides, fingers extending, reaching for the one thing he remembered from the night before. The woman.

  At least he recalled beginning the night with her. Ending the night was a bit fuzzy. He recalled warm female skin. A wide, sweet-tasting mouth, incredibly soft beneath his. He didn’t know lips could taste that soft. A slow smile curved his mouth. No matter. Headache or no, he was up for a repeat performance.

  Those kisses had been spiced rum on his tongue, her response ardent and honest in its passion. Completely unexpected from any woman Hunt would recommend. And he had recommended her, known her intimately, he claimed. Perhaps Hunt did not realize what a jewel hid beneath the painted face and brazen gown—explaining why he would give her over so easily and with a pithy recommendation. He and Hunt might not have seen each other in the years he lived abroad, but he well recalled the friendly rivalry that existed between them. Years hadn’t erased it.

  He thought hard for a moment, trying to recall her name. No use. Whatever her name, she was unique. Enough so to be the first thing on his mind when he awoke. The last woman to linger on his mind had been Fallon O’Rourke. A canvas depicting her hung in the next room even now…an elusive image he had tried to perfect these last weeks. She was little more than glowing eyes and shadowed features, but the hair he almost had right. A sunset of reds, golds, and browns. He had it close. But not quite.

  Determined to reacquaint himself with his night’s bedmate, he turned his head, a greeting ready on his lips. Something naughty and charming, certain to entice the female to linger the day away with him and alleviate his ennui.

  Yet his fantasy was dashed in an instant. White space stared back at him. Sitting up, he scanned the bed around him, seeing nothing save the rumpled sheets and counterpane. A quick survey of the room heightened his displeasure. No one.

  Had she made off with the silver, too? For some reason, no cavalier remarks sprang to his mind at the notion. If this one had used him only to rob him he would care. Damn it all.

  Swinging his legs over the bed’s edge, he ignored the sudden lancing pain in his temples and bellowed, “Frank!”

  Moments passed before the adjoining door opened. Frank stepped inside his chamber with careful steps, his expression coolly neutral. Remarkable that. Usually disapproval was writ all over the lad’s bloody face…from the thinning of his lips, to the quivering of his nostrils.

  He supposed he was fated for valets that only ever scorned him. Dominic cursed loud enough for Frank to hear.

  Face pale beneath his ridiculous gray wig, the valet set his chin at a stubborn angle. Clasping his hands behind his back, he stopped a good distance from the bed and murmured, “Yes, Your Grace?”

  “Where’s the girl?”

  “Girl, Your Grace?”

  “Yes, the girl.”

  Frank blinked slowly, extraordinarily reticent for him. This was not the same man who so baldly declared his disapproval of Dominic’s lifestyle yesterday.

  “It’s not a trick question,” he snapped.

  Frank’s lips parted, but still he said nothing. Merely looked at Dominic with his far too intelligent gaze.

  “Bloody hell, don’t act as if you don’t know.” He snorted. Servants knew everything. A valet especially would know all the activities of the gentleman he served. Frank would be no exception. From the start, Dominic had marked him a sharp lad, always a watcher, observing everything intently. Nothing escaped his detection.

  “Know what, sir?” the valet asked. At this particular moment, he seemed more dense than sharp.

  “Bloody hell.” Cringing at the sudden pain spiking his forehead, he pressed fingers to his head, rubbing in small circles.

  “Are you unwell, my lord? Can I fetch you something?” Frank moved to the door again, one hand stretching out for the latch. “Mrs. Davies’s tonic perhaps?”

  His lip curled at the mere suggestion. The thought of Mrs. Davies’s blood-curdling tonic made his stomach heave.

  “No. I don’t want a bloody tonic. I want her,” he hissed, feeling like a child denied his favorite toy—and not giving a damn. Not with the memory of dark eyes and a mouth so hot it melted him from the inside out. “What you can do is fetch me the woman from last night.”

  “The w—”

  His swift glance silenced Frank from echoing his words yet again.

  Clearing his throat, his valet began again, “Of what woman do you speak, Your Grace?”

  “Last night. The girl from last night.”

  “Ah. You mean Lord Hunt and his guests.”

  “Yes,” he snapped, slicing a hand through the air. “Where are they?”

  Frank’s lanky frame straightened a bit, and a bit of color returned to his cheeks. The familiar spark entered his eyes as he announced, “I sent them home.”

  “You sent them home?”

  “Indeed. You were unconscious. I did not think you would mind…”

  “Clearly, I did. I do.”

  Frank cocked a reddish-brown brow, murmuring drolly, “You were snoring. And drooling as I recall.” The latter he added with a fair amount of satisfaction. “I did not think you in any shape to entertain.”

  He scowled at Frank, suspicion settling heavily in his gut. Dominic stepped forward, wondering what it was about that cocked brow, that droll tone that got under his skin. In short, what was it about this lad that aggravated him? And yet…he was not inclined to dismiss him. Most baffling. “Allow me to explain that your duties do not go so far as to rush off my guests. Understand?”

  “Quite so, Your Grace.” Frank nodded, his voice very correct, very punctilious very…aggravating.

  “I’ll have to ask Hunt about her now,” he muttered, looking from the i
mpertinent valet as he dragged a hand through his hair.

  “I beg your pardon, Your Grace?” Frank inquired, his voice emitting a heavy dose of virtuousness. He glared at the valet. Bloody hell. It was like having the archbishop for your personal valet.

  “None of your concern,” he snapped.

  It occurred to him that he should dismiss him. In his position, other men would. And yet he couldn’t. Perhaps he was letting Adams’s recommendation blind him. Or there was a more obvious reason. Frank had disarmed old Foley, likely saving his life. While Diddlesworth fled the room, the lad had shown surprising mettle. He could hardly sack him.

  And yet none of those reasons moved him. He did not know, however, what did. Dominic drew a calming breath into his lungs. “I’m confident we have reached an understanding.”

  “Of course. It won’t happen again, Your Grace.”

  Was that condescension he heard? And there was that look again. His valet looked him up and down in a swift, no less thorough survey. As though he had assessed Dominic and decided him lacking. The look seemed to convey…disappointment. As if Dominic fell short.

  Determined to insert the proper distance between them, to reestablish their prospective roles as master and servant, he intoned in his most ducal manner, “See that it does not or you will find yourself seeking a position elsewhere.”

  A dull flush crept over Frank’s cheeks. The slightest quaver shook his voice as he asked, “Is there anything else I can do for you, Your Grace?”

  He took his time replying, tearing his shirt free of his trousers as he moved across the room toward his dressing room. “Send for my breakfast. And have my horse readied.” For once, he did not feel like sleeping the morning away. Or struggling to paint the portrait of a woman that eluded him…in reality and on the canvas. Elusive women appeared to be his forte of late.

  “Yes, Your Grace.” Frank turned, but not before his eyes flicked to the serpent tattoo on his chest. Color nipped his cheeks. No doubt he condemned Dominic for that, too. His narrow back disappeared into his room. Uncannily, the sight of that unyielding back brought to mind his grandfather. Another judgmental man. He grimaced. He had long quit caring what his grandfather thought of him, but for some reason, the opinion of his valet mattered. Almost from the start it had. Even when he was a mere footman. Damned bothersome. And…strange.

  He had managed to live conscience-free for most of his life. He had no desire to grow scruples now. Especially because of a wet-behind-the-ears lad who seemed to know everything about being a man—an honorable one, at any rate. He shrugged, directing his thoughts away from Frank and back to the woman from last night…and how soon he could finish what they started before his interfering valet sent her home.

  Chapter 16

  “S tay in? What do you mean you wish to stay in? Have you played so hard in my absence that you’ve overtired yourself?” Hunt swung his leg over the arm of the wingback chair in a leisurely manner, twisting his cravat lose as he did so.

  “No.” Dominic stared out the window at the darkened square. The fire popped and a log crumbled in the massive hearth.

  “What’s wrong with you, then? You should be chomping at the bit for a little diversion.”

  “I venture out often enough. Stay occupied. Ride in the park. And last night I played cards at the club.”

  “That doesn’t signify. I’m talking about women, Dom. Nearly a week and no women.” Hunt shook his head. “That’s not like you. And it’s certainly not like me. I’ve been a week in the country, staring at ledgers and account books and tolerating my beyond silly mother—hell, I need some female company. The right sort of female company. I thought for certain you would join me.”

  Dominic shrugged, his finger idly tracing the rim of his glass. He brought it to his lips and took the barest sip. The contents held little appeal.

  “This is special invitation only,” Hunt’s voice continued. “You don’t want to miss it. I have it from an excellent source that Madame Fleur will be unveiling some new lovelies tonight.”

  Dominic shrugged yet again, grunting a noncommittal response. Since the morning he woke to a cold bed and aching head—not to mention the fuzzy recollection of a woman he desperately wished to remember—he had felt strangely disinclined to indulge in his usual pursuits, namely hard drink and harder women.

  “What will you do?” Hunt waved a hand. “Stare at the walls?”

  For some reason his gaze sought out his valet, moving silently about the room, his movements swift, no doubt eager to be gone from the room and the talk of sampling savory lovelies.

  “What about returning to Fatima’s?” he suggested, his request, hopefully, innocuous.

  “Again?” Hunt frowned. “I’ve tasted all I want to from that particular garden.”

  Dominic suppressed a sigh of impatience. He had returned to Fatima’s twice in the past week—a fact Hunt need not know. He had searched among the rouged faces, trying to recall which woman inspired memories of sweet lips and even sweeter-smelling flesh. All to no avail. Perhaps if Hunt returned, he could identify which woman haunted Dominic’s every thought.

  Deciding he needed to be more forthright if he was to learn anything at all, he cleared his throat. “Now that bit of skirt from the other night might be worth revisiting.”

  Hunt’s brows pulled together. “Which one?”

  “The one from Fatima’s.”

  “You mean the other night when your prig of a valet chased us off?”

  He sensed Frank’s reaction before he looked. The lad straightened from where he bent before the hearth, stirring the fire. Stiff as a poker, he turned and glared at Hunt. His friend did not even cast him a glance, merely stood and helped himself to more brandy from the tray.

  “Yes.” Dominic scratched his jaw, striving for an air of indifference. Hunt could not know how serious his interest ran. How desperate. “What was her name?”

  Out of the corner of his eye he noticed Frank pausing as he straightened the papers and ledgers on his desk, his gangly frame stilling with the suddenness of sighted prey.

  “Jenny, I believe.”

  “Jenny,” he murmured, testing the name. And still not liking the sound of it on his tongue. It wasn’t right. The name didn’t fit with what he recalled of her, vague as the memory was.

  “You liked her, eh?” Hunt smiled. “She was a nice piece. Had a taste of her myself when you expired so soon that night. She and Dottie both. Couldn’t disappoint them.”

  Dominic clenched his teeth and fought to look unaffected, even as the thought of the woman in Hunt’s bed made his hands curl into fists. Made him want to lunge from his seat and tear into his friend.

  He shook his head, ridding himself of the impulses. Mad as they were. What was he doing feeling so possessive? And for a woman he scarcely remembered. A woman who made it her business to entertain men. Many, many men. Hell, no woman was worth coming between him and one of the few friends he could claim.

  “I suppose.” Dominic shrugged, trying to appear unmoved.

  “Well, if you insist, we can drop in at Fatima’s before we head on to Madame Fleur’s.”

  Frank began moving again, his movements stiff, quick, lips pulled into a tight line. The sight of his evident censure pricked deep at the center of Dominic’s chest. The location of his conscience? Impossible. What his valet thought of him did not bear significance. He didn’t care what anyone thought of him.

  Perhaps it was Frank’s hovering judgment. Or perhaps that Hunt had gotten to his fantasy woman first. Whatever the case, his mood soured considerably and he craved nothing more than solitude. “No. You go on without me.”

  Hunt set his glass down with a clank on the side table. “Very well. Stay in, old man. But tomorrow, you’re going out if I have to drag you myself.”

  Dominic waved a hand in mock salute, watching Hunt as he departed. His gaze then sought out his valet, observing him beneath hooded lids as he gathered Hunt’s glass and set it on a tray.

>   “Frank,” he murmured.

  The lad’s gaze flew to his, and the chilliness in that brown gaze was precisely what Dominic knew he would find. Even expected, it annoyed him to no end. He held his half-full glass in the air, proffering it with a slight shake.

  His valet approached, lips a hard, unbending line as he reached for the glass, fingers circling it. For a moment, that hand caught his attention. Far from lily-white. It bore the evidence of hours out of doors. Still, it was an elegant hand. The fingers long. Refined. Dominic’s lips curled in a smirk and he wondered if he soaked them in rosewater like half the fops of the ton.

  When Dominic failed to release his grip on the glass, Frank looked at him questioningly. “Your Grace?”

  Opening his hand, he released the glass. Frank set it on the tray, watching him warily. Deserved, Dominic supposed. He felt particularly volatile tonight.

  “Go. I have no need of you tonight.”

  The valet marched from the room in a straight line, no mincing steps about him, and Dominic wondered why that sight should displease him only more.

  Fallon strode swiftly down the corridor, the contents of Dominic’s glass sloshing wildly on the tray. Her face burned uncomfortably hot. She didn’t know what bothered her more. Enduring the sound of Hunt’s voice and crude remarks…or that Dominic was on a quest for some tart he believed to be her!

  The sound of muted laughter stopped her in her tracks. A door to the left stood slightly ajar. Frowning, she approached, peering inside, instantly recognizing Lord Hunt’s blue jacket as he backed a woman against dark drapes. Fallon could not see past the viscount to identify her. She stepped deeper into the room, her steps silent on the plush Persian carpet. Hunt dipped his head then, suckling at the female’s bared breasts. Familiar gray skirts—worn by all the women on the duke’s staff—bunched at her waist, below pale breasts and Hunt’s dark head. Her neck was arched, face buried in the drapery. Fallon inched closer, squinting in the gloom.