The Duke's Fallen Angel (Devilish Dukes, #1)

by Amy Jarecki

  As if his words became a hypnotic elixir, she slid her fingers around his waist and raised her chin. “I do, too. I crave you.”

  Oh yes, heaven opened her gates.

  Before she could change her mind, he devoured her, intently backing her toward the bed.

  “But...”

  “Yes?” Drake strained to draw air into his lungs. She couldn’t refuse him. Not now. He knew she wanted him.

  “Can we take precautions? I desperately want children but not until I am wed.”

  Grinning, he pulled a tidy French letter from his waistcoat pocket—one that he’d found in his travel kit—and set it beside the bed. “Do you know what this is?”

  “I do.”

  He wasn’t surprised. Britannia might be an innocent, but she’d been in the theater for too long not to know...certain things.

  “Are you sure you want to do this...ah...with me?” It killed him to ask, but if she wasn’t absolutely sure, he needed to stop now before he was unable.

  Though she didn’t answer, a pink tongue slipped to the corner of her mouth while she stepped into him and began unbuttoning his waistcoat. On fire, Drake kicked off his shoes, tore away his neckcloth, unfastened his falls. In the blink of an eye his clothes fell to the floor leaving him standing naked and hard before her.

  She made a small sound as she drew a hand over her mouth and stepped back. “You are too beautiful for words.”

  Unable to speak, he reached for her chemise and tugged it over her head.

  As he beheld the creamy silkiness of her skin, she wound her arms around his neck, tilting her head up, kissing him, plundering his mouth thrusting her tongue deep. By God, her passion on stage was nothing compared to the temptress seducing him.

  He drew his mouth away and gazed down. “My word, you are divine.”

  Unbelievably desirable, Britannia’s only remaining garments were ivory silk stockings secured by garters with pink bows. Up a tad higher, sleek thighs pressed together, just below the cinnamon tuft of hair covering her most sacred treasure.

  Womanly hips—far curvier than he’d imagined, a tiny waist, and breasts the perfect size for his mouth. “No words could possibly describe you,” Drake said, his voice low and gravelly. Sliding his hands along her shapely lips, he dropped to his knees. Awash in the fragrance of woman, a bead of his seed leaked from the tip of his cock.

  Britannia sank her fingers into his shoulders, her grip on the verge of painful. “W-what are you doing?”

  “This.” He lapped his tongue along her parting.

  “Mon Dieu!” she sighed with a quiver.

  “I love it when you say that.” Sliding his fingers between her thighs, Drake coaxed her legs apart and licked. Britannia’s gasps drove him mad as he suckled her tiny button, sliding his fingers into her core.

  “Please,” she begged, but Drake refused to relinquish control. Her sighs and gasps taught him what she liked.

  “Please,” she said again. “I want my hands on your body.”

  In one motion, he swept her into his arms and onto the bed. Rolling beside her he stroked himself. “See what you do to me?”

  Bria’s thighs trembled as she watched his hand move up and down his shaft. “May I do that?”

  “Would you?”

  She closed her fingers around him—hard, but velvety soft. “I want to.”

  He guided her wrist up and down. “Don’t squeeze, but let it slide in your hand.”

  In an instant his breathing grew ragged.

  Bria drew her hand away “Are you in pain?”

  “God, no. But I won’t last much longer. You are a fast learner.”

  “One of the fastest.” She lowered her lips to his and kissed. “I think I’ve mastered this part.”

  “And your first one was rather rushed.”

  “I’m ashamed to say that fleeting moment whet my appetite for more...you whet my appetite.”

  He slid his hand down her side, his finger slowly tracing over the curve of her hip. “I adore this part.”

  And then he continued between her legs to the place driving her insides wild for months, the spot that craved more of him. The center of her being that ached deep inside when she looked at him. Bria’s breathing grew faster as he teased her, climbed over her, kissed her lips, her throat, her breasts. Oh God, her breasts.

  She bucked when he rubbed his member along her wetness. As she wriggled and gasped, he rocked back and let her gaze upon him. Again, he touched himself. “Do you want this inside you?”

  “I will die if you don’t make love to me.”

  “It might hurt.”

  “I’m no stranger to pain.”

  He slid the French letter over himself and tied the pink bow. Bria lay back as he climbed over her, kissing, suckling, rubbing. In an attempt to satisfy the hunger, she writhed beneath him, wanting more, but not exactly certain how to ask.

  “Britannia, look at me.”

  She opened her eyes and gazed into the most handsome face she’d ever seen. And then he pushed against her, slipping into her just a little. “You are a goddess.”

  She tried to talk but her voice caught as he slid deeper. Pain seared around him—heavens he was enormous.

  “And I worship you.”

  “I...” she sighed, clamming her fingers into his buttocks.

  “I’m filling you completely.”

  “I didn’t think you’d fit.”

  He held very still and devoured her mouth until she began to move again as if some primitive force deep inside her demanded a seductive dance only for Ravenscar.

  “Are you ready for more, my love?” he whispered.

  “Yes. More. Yes, yes, yes!” She rocked her hips faster, the raggedness of her voice begging him for more as she held on for dear life.

  Drake’s face strained as if he were trying desperately to maintain control.

  And suddenly the cravings peaked, making her soar, making her ravenous. “Drake!” she screamed while her body exploded into tremors of euphoria.

  His hips pumped like a wild man until with one deep thrust the tension caught in the air like a gasp of breath. He threw back his head and roared as his body shattered.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  THE RETURN TRIP FROM Brighton had passed too swiftly for Drake. Had he known the love of his life would open to him, he would have booked the entire hotel for a month. That one night spent in her arms would stay with him until the day he took his last breath.

  But alas, the ballet must go on and the mystery of Britannia’s parentage must be solved. Then perhaps he might find a way to expose her stalker.

  Seated at his writing table, Drake read the response from Lady Calthorpe, agreeing to his visit. Pennyworth entered with the morning’s papers. Most likely it wasn’t an accident to see the scandal sheet on the top. Bold, black letters announced: Ravenscar Spotted in Brighton with his Lady Bird.

  “Good God.” Drake put the missive aside and grabbed the paper as he eyed his butler.

  “Exactly my reaction, Your Grace.”

  He quickly scanned the article while the back of his neck burned. He could weather slights against his character, but the damned Gazette referred to Britannia as base-born, a by-blow, and called her “the duke’s bonny ballerina”. Not surprisingly, it went on to bemoan the plight of the ton’s gentlewomen who would “not be waltzing with His Grace this Season, the most eligible bachelor in London”.

  Drake slapped the sheet on the table. “Bloody rubbish. I ought to pay a call on the Gazette’s offices.”

  Pennyworth sniffed. “If you did, I think they might finagle a story out of it—smear your reputation further if I might be so bold to say.”

  “That’s why they can get away with such slanderous drivel.”

  “They’ll receive their due, even if they have to wait until Judgement Day.” Pennyworth picked up Drake’s cup and saucer. “Will there be anything else, Your Grace?”

  He tapped his finger atop Lady Calthorpe’s re
sponse, anxious to gain an audience with her. Needless to say, the reasons he’d given for the meeting had been rather vague. “Just my hat and cane. I will be paying a visit to Ravenscar Hall.”

  “Has Her Grace returned from Brighton?”

  “That is what I aim to find out.”

  “I could send the lad. You needn’t bother—”

  “That will not be necessary. I have my reasons and I will be leaving within the quarter hour.”

  HAVING SLIPPED INTO Mother’s house by way of the mews, Drake was waiting in the salon when Lady Calthorpe was announced. According to the housekeeper, his mother would be returning from Brighton this afternoon which suited him perfectly. He neither wanted Her Grace to know about his meeting with the baroness, nor did he want her eavesdropping.

  After the niceties were exchanged and the tea poured, Lady Calthorpe took one sip, then gracefully set her cup in its saucer and regarded Drake with a sober stare. “I remember you sitting in that very spot when you were but nine years of age.”

  “Do you? I was just trying to figure out how long it has been that I’ve known you, my lady.”

  “At least sixteen years, I’d say.”

  Drake stared at his untouched cup of tea while he collected his thoughts. “I’d like to talk more about the past. It is exactly why I asked you here today.”

  “Oh? I thought the missive was rather clandestine of you, especially now that I’ve discovered your mother is not here. Truly, I ought to make my apologies and go.”

  “Please don’t. Not until you’ve heard what I have to say.” Having perseverated long and hard about how to broach the subject as gently as possible, Drake produced the miniature from his waistcoat pocket. “Have you ever seen this?”

  As Her Ladyship took the portrait in her palm, her mouth dropped with a shocked gasp. “My word.” Her face lost all color then changed to fiery red. “Where did you find it?”

  “The piece belongs to Miss LeClair.”

  Covering her mouth, she nodded as if she might already know to whom the miniature belonged.

  “If I may interject, it is a lovely rendering. I should have recognized the likeness straightaway.” There were so many things he should have noticed, the whisky eye color, both women were petite and lovely though Her Ladyship’s hair was a darker brown.

  Drake relayed Britannia’s story from the beginning—the LeClairs taking in a foundling, the tragedy of smallpox, the christening record, and why Britannia had fled to Paris. He told her about the years the young lady had spent alone at the Paris Opera Ballet, and how she’d strove to discover the identity of the person in the miniature.

  Throughout his soliloquy, tears streamed down Her Ladyship’s cheeks.

  When Drake finished, she dabbed her eyes with a handkerchief, then looked at him directly. “There was something else with the miniature. Are you aware of what it was?”

  He didn’t blink. “A handkerchief bearing the seal of the Prince Regent.”

  “Then it truly is she.”

  “Tell me what happened.”

  “Reveal my shame? Tell the Duke of Ravenscar about the ruination I have spent my entire life trying to forget?”

  “That is why we are meeting under utmost secrecy. I entered Mother’s house by way of the mews, out of sight from passersby. Moreover, you have my word that what is said within these walls will remain here—I will even withhold the information from Miss LeClair if you desire, though she wishes to know the truth.” Drake took a breath. “I’ll say here and now; the young lady is not asking for money. She will not ruin your name or create a scandal. I stake my reputation on it.”

  Lady Calthorpe rubbed the miniature between her fingertips. “Very well. If you will bear with me, I must go back to my debut Season if you will.”

  “Please do.”

  She clutched white-knuckled fists against her midriff. “My first ball was a masque at Carlton House. The Prince Regent was there, of course. It was his illustrious and pretentious home. He danced with me more than once, which was untoward. And truth be told, I wasn’t sure it was he until later. Toward the end of the evening, after a great deal of wine had been served, he coaxed me into a bedchamber, under the pretext of joining an exclusive game of charades.”

  Drake cracked his thumb knuckles while rage burned in his chest. “The unmitigated rake.”

  “True. I cannot bear to go into further detail except to say that in the midst of the deed, I ended up with the prince’s handkerchief in my fist, a baby in my womb, and I was ruined.” Her Ladyship again wiped her eyes.

  “I feigned a malady of an incurable megrim and refused to attend another soiree until my father sent me home to Gloucester. You see, it was a few months before I knew I was with child. But I wanted nothing more to do with the ton or London or polite society.”

  “I’m so very sorry,” Drake whispered.

  With a release of a pent-up breath, she waved a hand through the air as if to brush away the past. “It was a long time ago, and I obviously have fared far better than my daughter.”

  “But you said you went home to Gloucester. How did you end up in France?”

  “When Napoleon was captured, Father thought provincial France was the ideal place for me to hide without being recognized. He sent me to Bayeux with a manservant and a lady’s maid—which is why I was so interested to hear the year of Miss LeClair’s birth at your mother’s soiree. How many children named Britannia are there from Bayeux?”

  “I wouldn’t be surprised if she’s the one and only. But how did she end up with the LeClairs?”

  “That’s where I lost her. I gave birth and named the child Britannia. A fortnight later, my lady’s maid and the manservant took the baby to have her christened. Suspecting they were up to something—I’ll say a daughter of the Duke of Beaufort remains vigilant—I secretly wrapped the miniature and handkerchief around the infant’s ankle, praying that, one day, those tokens would lead her back to me. I knew my father wouldn’t allow my illegitimate child under his roof.” Shaking her head, Her Ladyship drew a hand to her temple. “I was right, you know. I never saw Britannia again. And that hideous Mr. Gibbs—”

  Drake’s gut clenched. “Did you say Gibbs?”

  “I did. He has been father’s man since his Bow Street days.”

  He took a bit of tea in an attempt to swallow his ire. Britannia had sought help from Gibbs as well. The scoundrel had a reputation as a man whose muscle was for hire, and he didn’t care whom he crossed. Word was Gibbs mightn’t have voluntarily left Bow Street either, but no one knew the truth. “Forgive me. I interrupted. Please go on.”

  “As soon as I was able to travel, we returned to England. And though I begged, they refused to tell me where they’d taken Britannia, aside from saying, ‘she’ll be well cared for’. My father sent my lady’s maid somewhere in the north. And Mr. Gibbs? Well, he’s still carousing around London as you are aware. I loathe that man.”

  When Drake arranged this meeting, he’d expected far less frankness from Her Ladyship. He’d even suspected her of being a party to the skullduggery plaguing Britannia, but now he had overwhelming doubts. “Are you aware that since Miss LeClair’s London debut, someone has been stalking the poor woman?”

  The shock on Lady Calthorpe’s face was undeniable. “Oh, my heavens. You cannot be serious.”

  “Unfortunately, it is true and it all seems to have started with the port wine incident at my mother’s soiree.”

  “You’re not saying you blame me?”

  “I have no idea whom to blame. I know Miss LeClair believes the spill to have been an accident.”

  “It was. I was mortified.” Suddenly gasping, Her Ladyship drew her hand over her mouth as if she’d had an epiphany.

  “What is it?”

  “My father was standing beside me. It was his glass of port I knocked.”

  “I recall. And, come to think of it, he said something discourteous under his breath. Something I didn’t quite understand.”

>   “I cannot be certain, but I now wonder if he shifted his glass on purpose, as if he wanted me to bump it.”

  “I wonder.” Drake reached for the plate of biscuits and offered them to the baroness. “Perhaps I should pay a visit to His Grace.”

  “My father wouldn’t tell a man the time of day unless he thought he might profit from it.” Lady Calthorpe took a morsel with white castor sugar and nibbled. “I will confront him myself.”

  “Do you believe him to be the culprit?”

  “I believe he is capable of any manner of malice. However, the only way to know for sure is to ask him.”

  Her Ladyship returned the miniature which Drake, in turn, slipped into his pocket.

  “May I have your permission to tell Miss LeClair about our conversation?” he asked.

  “You may, but then I would like to schedule a private meeting with her. Perhaps at my town house?”

  “Will that not be awkward for Lord Calthorpe?”

  “Yes. Though it is neigh time I confessed to him what happened. I’ve hidden the shame of my past for too long.”

  Drake pushed to his feet as the lady stood. “Are you certain? Perhaps we should remain vigilant. After all, why should we dig up the past only to mar your good standing, not to mention put your marriage in jeopardy?”

  “No. Now that the truth has come about, it is time to stop living a lie. I will send Britannia an invitation to tea...perhaps once the dust settles.”

  “I think Miss LeClair would like that very much.”

  “You care for her, do you not?”

  “I do, indeed.”

  “’Tis a pity...”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “Forgive me. I spoke out of turn. From my interaction with Miss...ah...my daughter, she has grown into a true gem.”

  “RAVENSCAR TO SEE YOU, miss,” announced the butler.

  “Thank you.” Bria set her book aside as the duke strode into the parlor with an enormous grin.

  Her heart skipped a beat while she rose. If she lived to be a hundred years of age, she would never find a man with a smile as endearing. “You’re early.” He usually came for a sip of sherry before she had to leave for the theater. But after Brighton...