Sins of a Wicked Duke

by Sophie Jordan

  She opened her mouth, but no words fell. A mistake.

  His gaze dropped to her lips. The blue ring around his pupils darkened to near black. Her throat tightened. His head moved slightly, dipping, then stopped with his lips a hairsbreadth from her own.

  A shutter fell over his eyes—the fire once there gone, banked.

  Her heart twisted even more fiercely as his fingers began to loosen their grip on her hands.

  Now he would stop?

  Her heart sank and squeezed.

  She felt his withdrawal, felt his body ease away, saw it in the impassivity stealing over his face. That single realization fired her blood. Before she could stop herself, before she could allow herself to think, her head shot forward, neck straining, lips seeking his with a desperation that bordered violence.

  Shock rippled through her at the first brush of her lips on his. Warm and firm. Intoxicating. Sweeter, hotter, than even their last chocolate-laced kiss. She gasped against his mouth, taking his breath deep inside her.

  One of his hands slid around her nape and hauled her closer yet. His lips stole over hers, moving, tasting, caressing, devouring. His tongue slipped inside her mouth and she knew heaven. On and on, they kissed. His hips shoved against hers. The prodding bulge of him very real, very large. The flat of his palm brushed down the front of her dress, between the vee of her breasts.

  No! She tore her lips free with a gasp and wedged her hands between them, prepared to push him away…when the door to the pantry opened.

  Fallon staggered free. Heaving serrated breaths, she covered her mouth with the back of her hand, horrified to have been caught by…

  Her gaze turned to the door and her eyes settled on Nancy. Grand. The girl gaped from where she stood in the threshold, feasting large eyes on Fallon and the duke.

  As mortification rolled over her, she considered the irony. She had found Nancy in a similar scenario with Lord Hunt. Heat scored her cheeks as she recalled her opinion of Nancy then. She judged her naïve. Easy prey. A fool. All the things Fallon prided herself too smart, too good to be.

  How little she knew herself. The woman she claimed to be, the woman she wanted to be, would never give any part of herself—especially her heart—to a blue-blooded devil who swam in vice and possessed a stone for a heart. Her throat thick with emotion, she averted her eyes from Nancy’s smirk.

  With the duke’s intent stare burning on her, she lifted her skirts and fled the pantry, shoving past Nancy…her fingers pressed to lips that still tingled in a manner she vowed to forget.

  Chapter 22

  “W ho is that?”

  Dominic followed Hunt’s gaze, spying Fallon gathering flowers in the garden with another maid. He grimaced, preferring not having to explain Fallon’s little deception.

  With a shrug, he attempted to continue the conversation regarding Britain’s war with China. Only Hunt no longer participated. A rapt expression on his face, he rose to his feet and strode to the French doors, peering out at Fallon as she kneeled among bulbs of tulips.

  Dominic scowled. “Ethan?”

  “Hmm?”

  “What are you doing?”

  “Simply admiring the view.”

  Dominic tapped a finger impatiently upon the boot crossed over his knee, clearing his throat a time or two in the hope of regaining Hunt’s attention. He wondered if it would be bad form to strike a friend of twenty-odd years for ogling a maid in his employ—a female whose existence should scarcely register upon his consciousness. And yet she did. Painfully so. She haunted his every moment, waking or asleep. As she had for some time. Even before he realized her identity.

  “Something dashed familiar about her.”

  If ever a moment arose to explain his valet’s disappearance and Fallon’s sudden appearance, Dominic supposed it was now. But for some reason he held his tongue, preferring to keep Fallon’s unseemly and fraudulent behavior his affair alone. “I am certain you have never seen her before.”

  “Likely so.” He nodded. “How could one forget someone like her?” Hunt shot him a quick glance. “She must be new, eh.” Without waiting for an answer, he asked, “Is she as tall as she looks?”

  His lips twisted. Tall enough to pass for a man.

  “I suppose,” he returned, rising to stand beside Hunt at the doors overlooking the garden. “I have never made a study of her.” Surprisingly, he did not choke on the lie. If he closed his eyes, he could still taste her on his lips.

  Hunt smiled. “No? You never imagined those legs wrapped around you?”

  His throat tightened at the immediate image. Fallon’s long legs wrapped around his hips as he drove into her had become a favorite fantasy. “I’d appreciate it if you quit ogling the girl.”

  “Look at her.” Ethan waved a hand. “She’s a woman that demands a second look.” His lips twitched. “And a third.”

  Wasn’t that the problem Fallon had alluded to when defending her charade? The very thing that had prompted her to don a pair of trousers and pretend to be a man? She was just too damn noticeable.

  He cleared his throat. “Ethan, I’m aware you’ve made free with some of the other maids—”

  Ethan blinked in a mocking display of guilelessness. “Me?”

  “I would appreciate it if you leave Fallon alone. Leave all of them alone, for that matter.”

  “Fallon, is it?”

  He grimaced, regretting using her Christian name.

  “I can’t help it if the women on your staff find me charming.”

  He nodded in Fallon’s direction through the glass. “I can assure you that she is one female disinclined to the persuasions of a nobleman.” She had made clear her aversion to blue bloods.

  “Already tried, have you?”

  A flash of Fallon as he’d seen her emerging from her bath, a wet towel plastered to her body made his blood burn. To say nothing of how she had felt. If he had wanted, she could have been his. He shook his head. Fine time for him to grow a sense of honor.

  “No,” he murmured. “Believe it or not, I don’t dally with the women in my employ.”

  “How noble of you. Fortunately, I am not held to such restrictions.” He fairly rubbed his palms together as he gazed out the window.

  “Oh, but you are, my friend,” he warned, not caring whether he sounded possessive or not.

  With an eyebrow cocked, Hunt cut him a sharp glance. “Am I?”

  Dominic held his gaze a moment before looking out the window again, his gaze traveling along the elegant line of Fallon’s neck as she bent over flowers. She brushed her face with her hand, swiping ineffectually at the russet strands curling against her cheek. “Leave this one alone.”

  Almost as if she heard him…or felt him, Fallon looked up. Their eyes collided across the distance. Her gaze flicked to Hunt beside him. Some of the color bled from her cheeks. She murmured something to the other maid and rose, hastily weaving a path from the garden.

  Ethan’s voice dragged his attention from her retreating form. “You sound jealous. Certain you aren’t staking a claim for yourself? Just say so. No need to play at the honorable gentleman. We both know you are not.” Hunt snorted. “Neither one of us are. That is why we get on so well. Always have.”

  Indeed. A statement he could not deny for its veracity.

  “Claim?” he scoffed and forced himself to move away from the window. “She’s not a country to be conquered. Merely a woman. And one of no special interest to me.” It was a wonder the words did not choke him.

  “On the contrary. I find that a perfect metaphor.” Hunt lowered himself back down into a wingchair. “A woman is to be conquered like any parcel of land.”

  Dominic’s hands curled around the arms of his chair. “Remind me why I choose to associate with you?”

  Hunt laughed. “We’re a pair, you and I. Why else?”

  “Hmm.” Suddenly being as iniquitous as Hunt did not sit well with him. He flicked a hand in the direction of the garden. “Just keep your paws to you
rself.”

  “Of course.” A wicked grin curved Hunt’s mouth that did not engender a great deal of faith. “What are friends for?”

  Dominic shook his head, disgusted and wondering if he and Hunt were truly alike. And, he realized with a start, when had he cared at the distinction?

  “Well. Well. Good afternoon.”

  Fallon’s gaze snapped up, her fingers nearly losing their grip on the pitcher of water she held. Hugging the carafe to her chest, she bobbed a quick curtsey as Lord Hunt approached, his boots clicking lightly upon the foyer floor. Darting a quick glance to her left and right, she tried to judge the quickest escape route. Then it occurred to her that running away might appear a bit odd and attract the close scrutiny she precisely wished to avoid from him. Grinding her teeth, she rose from her curtsey.

  He stopped before her and dipped a sharp bow. A bow one might present to a lady and not a lowly maid in a duke’s household. Unable to stop herself, she felt her brow wing high.

  “Allow me to introduce myself, Ethan Waverly, Viscount Hunt.”

  Ah, a formal introduction, too. Did he think her like simpering Nancy? Easily impressed and ready to lift her skirts at the slightest acknowledgment from him?

  With a deferential nod, she tried to step past, careful to keep her face averted. No longer disguised, she hoped he did not recognize her. Although he certainly never paid much mind to the gardener’s daughter. Too occupied chasing after the skirts of older girls. Still, she would prefer not risking him reaching the realization that they once shared a home.

  Never a home, she quickly amended. For however safe she had felt there with Da to look after her, it had never been her home. Only Hunt’s.

  He settled a hand on her arm, pulling her close with the boldness of man accustomed to having whatever he wanted. Whomever he wanted. Staring at him, his face blurred and became his father’s the day he called her into his study to impart the news of Da’s death—so punctilious as he informed her that she would never see her father again.

  “Come now, is Damon such a slave driver you cannot…” his voice faded. Dread curled in her belly as his dark gaze scanned her face intently, missing nothing it seemed, skimming her features, drifting over her hair until recognition lit his gaze.

  “Where do I know you from?”

  What could she say?

  I’m the daughter of the man your father killed?

  I’m the duke’s valet you disliked so much?

  Before she had time to formulate a response, his voice escaped in a croak, “Fallon.” Shock washed over the chiseled lines of his face, echoing the astonishment rippling through her. “Fallon O’Rourke.”

  The sound of her name on his lips fed panic to her heart. He should not know her. Should not remember her.

  Wrenching her arm free, she managed two steps before he forced her around again, his hands clamping down on each arm.

  “What are you doing here?” he demanded…almost as though she should be someplace else. Almost as if it mattered one way or another to him where she happened to be.

  “Working,” she bit out. “I work for a living, Lord Hunt. Just as my father before me. I am quite certain you remember him,” she charged, her voice scathing.

  “I searched for you—”

  “Why?” she bit out. “Your family washed their hands of me years ago, eased their guilt by putting me through Penwich.”

  He started at the mention of the school. “Yes, Penwich! I went there.”

  “Good for you.” She struggled against his hold. “You should visit again. Yorkshire is lovely this time of year. Now let me go.”

  “No. You don’t understand. I went there looking for you. Only last year.”

  “Ethan.”

  The sound of Lord Hunt’s name fell hard as a stone dropping. She tensed, recognizing that voice at once, feeling it vibrate in her very bones. Dominic approached, his boots emitting softly dangerous clicks on the marble floor. “Care to remove your hands from my…” His voice faded.

  Heat scalded her face at the “my” he left hanging in the air. They all three exchanged glances. Tension, palpable and pungent, began a slow churn on the air.

  Lord Hunt answered at last. “I will. If she promises not to run away.”

  “What business is it of yours what she does?” A muscle rippled in Dominic’s hard jaw, and she knew he issued no idle threat. “Now unhand her before I mop the floor with you.”

  Hunt flushed, an occurrence she would have thought impossible in the scoundrel. Of all things, she would never have credited him with any sense of sobriety. He was all snideness and levity. Typical blue blood.

  Even with Dominic’s threat hovering, he did not release her. Her arms began to hurt where he held her, but she hid her grimace.

  “It doesn’t concern you, Dom. We have history, she and I.”

  “History?” Dominic stalked forward. Grabbing her arm at the elbow, he yanked her free. He turned a blistering gaze on her—as if she had committed some great sin—before looking back at his friend. “Of what history do you speak—”

  “This doesn’t concern—”

  “Say that again and you’ll be picking your teeth up off the floor.” That muscle now jumped wildly in his jaw, and in that moment Dominic looked the utter savage, and quite capable of doing precisely such a barbaric thing. And more.

  Lord Hunt inhaled, his chest swelling. “Fallon and I grew up together—”

  “Hardly,” she inserted with a bitter laugh. “You were the master’s son. I was but the gardener’s daughter…too young for your perversions, so thankfully you never attended to me—”

  Face ruddy, Hunt spit out, “I’m trying to explain something, damn it. My father made a provision for you in his will. He always felt somewhat responsible—”

  “Somewhat? Only somewhat? He sent my father to the Seychelles Islands—the blasted ends of the earth! And why?” She felt her lips curl back from her teeth as she snarled, “To retrieve a flower for his blasted gardens!” Tears clogged her throat, but she could not stop herself. The floodgates opened. “Did he ever once think of the risk? The dangers to my father? The long year he would be gone from me?” She snorted and took a steadying breath. “Of course a year only turned into a lifetime.”

  “I visited Penwich and spoke with a man named Brocklehurst,” Hunt went on as though she had not spoken. “He did not know where I could locate you.”

  She scoffed. “Oh, he knew.” The headmaster at least knew he could ask Evie. “Brocklehurst would not relish good fortune falling my way. Would you like to know what he did relish?” She advanced a step, Dominic’s warm grasp on her arm keeping her from charging forward in full pique. “Beatings. He enjoyed beating us. Teaching us God’s word with each swipe of his rod. He enjoyed watching us starve…and suffer through the cold of winter with poor shoes and threadbare blankets.”

  “Fallon, don’t,” Dominic’s soft directive fluttered the tiny hairs near her ear. His fingers roved in small circles against her arm, and even in her anger, she felt a small, unwelcome thrill.

  She ignored him, finishing. “Next time you stand over your father’s grave, thank him for his generosity in sending me to such a place.”

  A muscle feathered along the viscount’s cheek. “I did not know. Nor did my father. I am sorry for that. He wanted to do right by you.” Hunt straightened and reached inside his jacket. With numb fingers, she accepted the card he extended. “In any case, keep this should you change your mind. On his deathbed he charged me with the task of finding you and seeing you secured. It is a task I do not take lightly.”

  Dominic’s hand softened where he held her, becoming less a shackle on her arm. Without thinking, she leaned against him, suddenly needing the support and uncertain that she would not collapse in a boneless puddle.

  Lord Hunt straightened, rigid as a tin soldier, his dark eyes flinty as he looked down at her.

  The sudden fall of footsteps filled the charged silence. Mrs. Davies appeared, fa
ce etched in concern. “Your Grace?” Several maids hovered behind her.

  “Go away,” Dominic barked.

  The housekeeper and maids scurried away, leaving the three of them in the vast foyer. Grand. More rumors for the servants. Ever since Nancy found her in the pantry with Dominic, her life had been a torment. Nancy had wasted no time divulging all she had witnessed. Every time Fallon entered a room, indiscreet whispers floated to her ears. Words like harlot and whore were uttered loudly enough. Even Daniel and Mr. Adams no longer met her gaze.

  “I am sorry for that,” Hunt intoned. “But my father did set you up at the Penwich School. He did not abandon you to the gutter or the wolves of the world following your father’s death.”

  Suddenly Master Brocklehurst’s gaunt, pitiless face appeared in her mind…resembling very much a ravaging wolf.

  Hunt continued, “And he has left you a stipend that should afford you some independence and comfort.”

  As if that could substitute a father. Her head dipped to hide the angry tears brimming in her eyes. “I don’t even have a grave to visit. But you think money will make amends?” So like a blue blood. Throw money at a problem—at guilt—and expect it to disappear. Her head shot back up, spine straight. Not this time. “I don’t want your money. Stuff it.”

  Lord Hunt’s eyes widened. “I beg your pardon?”

  “Don’t you understand? You can’t make it right.” She drew a ragged breath and twisted her arm free of Dominic.

  “I am certain I can. Perhaps there is something else I can offer.” Hunt’s throat worked. “Is it marriage you want?”

  “Marriage?” She jerked her head as though slapped.

  “Marriage,” Dominic echoed.

  “Does not every woman long for marriage? A good match, that is? Half the mamas in Town are hounding me for that very thing. I can sponsor you. Rather, my mother can. We can arrange a good match for you. A beyond good match. With my connections, I can perhaps even land you a title. It’s likely more than you’ve ever aspired to achieve.” He flicked a disdainful glance over her starched gray uniform.