The Duke

by Kerrigan Byrne

  She gasped and writhed, kneading at the bunched muscles of his back as he caressed the infinitely smooth skin inside her thighs. Skin that became warmer the higher he climbed, until he reached the slit of her drawers behind which heat pulsed a wanton invitation to him.

  Feeling both wicked and welcome, Cole slipped his fingers past the open seams and found the soft bit of fluff protecting her intimate heat. Both provoked and humbled, he cupped the damp mound.

  Her breath left her lungs in a great whoosh, flooding his senses with champagne and sex as she rolled her hips forward, arching that lovely back just as he’d wished her to.

  He murmured urgent things against her mouth, low, animal praise that was admittedly harsh and vulgar against the softness of her lips.

  But his hand. His hand remained gentle as he spread the plump petals concealing her sex and saturated his finger in the desire he found there.

  Their combined exhale was a desperate, throaty invocation. Cole bent farther over her, hungrily latching to the throat she exposed as her head rolled back on her shoulders when his fingers slipped and stroked around the soft folds of her core. He relished the delicate skin. Splayed and played with her, until her hips began to roll against his teasing movements in an untried but unmistakable demand, following the deft movements of his finger with pleading little gasps.

  Nuzzling a smile against her delicate throat, he grazed the tiny, throbbing pearl of her sex with a moistened fingertip. Once. Twice. Luxuriating in her shuddering response. In the way her little fists knotted in his clothes, tugging as though to rend them from his body.

  She gasped his name, squirming to get closer to him. Begging him with her body to release her from her torment. Relenting, he split the delicate seam with his longest finger, finding the soft, tight place her body wept for him while simultaneously resting his thumb against the throbbing nub of sensation and need.

  A low sob escaped her as he sank inside to the knuckle, her body pulling him in with tight little quivers. It amazed him that a place so small, so tight, could stretch to contain the length and girth of man.

  He moved his finger inside her, testing the singular silk found only within a woman’s core. He curled a knuckle ever so slightly while simultaneously smoothing at her throbbing clitoris with the pad of his thumb. She jerked and twitched as he found a soft, slow rhythm, her breathing coming in hard little pants punctuated by shaking sighs. Her body clamped around him, closing on him with sweet, velvet spasms that intensified in time to her sounds of delight.

  “Cole?” she whimpered, as her hips bucked over the desk, suddenly straining against him, almost riding his hand in soft, rocking motions.

  “I’m here,” he soothed, dragging his mouth back to hers. “I’m here, my sweet.”

  “Don’t. Let. Me. Go,” she begged in time to the movements of his hand.

  “Never,” he vowed as she clawed and pulled at him, her intimate flesh clamping around him in beautiful, strong pulses.

  He swallowed her ecstatic sounds with his mouth as she drenched his fingers with shudders of wet release. The feel of her pleasure both inflamed and awed him. It built and built until he wondered if it would ever end. Until he was certain he never wanted it to. This woman, this magnificent treasure … he wanted to give her hours of pleasure for every moment of pain she’d ever endured.

  That might take a lifetime, he realized.

  Was he really considering offering that lifetime to her?

  When her frenzy passed, she turned her lips away from his, regaining her breath in moist little puffs while showering his face with grateful kisses, soft as a butterfly’s.

  Cole pulled his hand from her, clenching his eyes shut as her lips grazed his lids as well as everything else. Every muscle in his body pulled tight against the others until he feared something might snap. He needed her. He needed to be inside her. He knew that soft, tight channel of hers was wet enough to welcome him. That he could slip into her offered warmth and she’d pull him close to her body.

  But he didn’t move. Didn’t dare.

  She was drunk … and he was a fucking gentleman.

  God be damned.

  Cole crushed his mouth into the hair beside her ear, willing his arousal to die. Willing his beast to recede. Reminding himself that to take her now would be wrong. Would be …

  “I missed you,” her sweet voice confessed against his temple. “I missed you so awfully. I didn’t feel that I had the right to, but I did. I thought of you all the time. I … worried for you.”

  In that moment, his heart melted into a tender puddle. It had only been days since they’d seen each other.

  And he’d missed her too.

  Unable to summon the words, he gathered her against him in a warm bundle of silk and sex and just held her close. Her heart against his, beating in tandem. They rocked a little, she with languid affection, and he with mounting, rhythmic need.

  Her legs hitched higher against him, her hips pressing closer. “Cole,” she whispered. “I want you to—”

  A sharp knock at the door drove them apart enough for Cole to toss her skirts back over her legs.

  “Come in,” she said breathlessly, as though repeating an automated response she didn’t really mean.

  Cole fought the urge to clamp his hand over her mouth as someone tested the door latch.

  “Lady Anstruther?” a feminine voice called. “Imogen, are you in there? Are you all right?”

  “Oh, it’s Millie.” Sliding off the desk onto unsteady legs, Imogen gave a drunken lurch toward the door. “Coming!” she sang.

  Cole caught her around the waist. “You absolutely cannot go out there like this,” he gritted against her ear. “Your hair and clothes are a mess, and your reputation will be ruined. Get rid of them.”

  She sagged against him a little before calling. “He says to get rid of you or I’ll be ruined!”

  “That’s not what I—”

  The rattling of the door became more urgent. “Who said that?” a separate feminine voice demanded. Cole thought he recognized the voice as Lady Northwalk’s. “Imogen, who’s in there with you? Are you hurt?”

  “I can barely feel a thing,” Imogen answered as though the information astonished none more than herself. “It didn’t even hurt when he bit me.”

  “Bloody Christ.” Cole growled the blasphemy as he really did clamp his hand over her mouth this time. “Not to worry, Lady Northwalk, she’s just had a bit too much—”

  “Bit you! Who bit you? Is that Trenwyth in there?” The lock was sorely tested now as the two ladies frantically grappled with it. “Open the door this very instant!”

  “Just … give us a bloody moment,” Cole growled. He needed to collect his thoughts, and to will his aching erection to subside. The squirming minx in his arms wasn’t doing the least bit to help. “Hold still, damn you,” he ordered against her ear.

  A masculine warning sounded a breath before the door burst open beneath the weight of an auburn-haired giant.

  Cole debated for a split second whether it would cause more damage to keep his hand over Imogen’s mouth, or remove it. Ultimately, he decided on the latter, though he didn’t relinquish his hold on her waist.

  “Mr. Argent,” Imogen greeted brightly, as though admitting a welcome guest into her parlor. “Whatever are you doing here?”

  Argent’s little ebony-haired wife rushed in behind him, glaring daggers the color of volcanic glass, followed by a concerned Lady Northwalk.

  “Apparently, we’re protecting your virtue,” the actress snapped.

  “My virtue is beyond your protection,” Imogen said with a wistful sigh. “He has it already.”

  Argent turned on him, his arctic eyes flashing with lethal wrath.

  “We didn’t get that far.” Trenwyth held his hand up, though guilty heat crept from beneath his high collar. “We only … kissed.” It sounded like a lie, even to him.

  “We’ve certainly done much more than that upon an evening,” Imogen c
onfessed with a rueful giggle.

  He should have kept his hand on her mouth, he thought with no little regret.

  “Shame on you, Your Grace.” Lady Northwalk circumvented the two fuming Argents and approached. “You’re supposed to be protecting her.”

  “I was,” Cole tightened his grip on Imogen as the angelic Farah reached for her. “I am. Look at her; she’s in no condition to be out—”

  Argent stepped closer. “She’s in no condition to be debauched by a mercenary, self-indulgent fuck wit. Now hand her over, and prepare to take the beating you deserve.”

  “Don’t bother. I’m in fine condition for debauchery,” Imogen protested with an increasing slur. “In fact, I feel rather sprightly.”

  An absurd bubble of laughter broke from Cole’s throat, which he instantly regretted. Damned if she wasn’t as adorable as she was irresistible.

  “Give the champagne a few hours,” Millie warned with a knowing sympathy furrowing her brow. “You’ll feel just the opposite.”

  Cole had to admit, he did deserve a beating. Not that he’d allow Argent to provide him with one. The hypocritical bastard was one to talk about the line between protection and coercion. He’d told Cole about how he’d nigh on kidnapped the woman who would become his wife.

  “Chief Inspector, when did you show up?” Imogen bent toward the fair-haired man framed by the splintered doorway, wearing bemused suspicion as well as he did his evening suit.

  “Just in the nick of time, I think,” he said with his usual brand of measured control. “What’s going on here?”

  “Not to worry, no one has died,” Imogen informed him earnestly.

  “Yet,” Argent supplemented, jabbing his finger toward Trenwyth to wordlessly warn him that they’d be returning to this point in the discussion for-fucking-certain.

  Cole met his glare with a challenging one of his own, the fire in his blood shifting from arousal to aggression. “I’m taking Lady Anstruther home,” he informed them.

  “So you can finish what you started?” Millie spat. “Not bloody likely.”

  “So I can put her to bed,” he explained through teeth that wouldn’t unclench, and then amended upon seeing Farah Blackwell’s expression of alarm. “Alone.”

  Morley stepped forward, very careful to avoid any contact with Farah, even the brush of her skirts. “Actually, Your Grace, I would speak with you.”

  “Can’t it wait?” Cole did little to keep the impatience from his voice.

  “It’s about…” The chief inspector cast a surreptitious glance to the woman in his arms. “It’s regarding the matter we discussed previously, the one on St. James’s Street.”

  Imogen lurched forward a little when Cole’s arms almost went slack as he searched the shrewd inspector’s carefully closed features.

  Had Morley found Ginny?

  Cole fought a thousand emotions surging and ebbing like the sea in a tempest. Did he dare to hope? Did he even want to know? Should he cling to a woman—a memory—as tightly as he did to the lady in his arms? One whom he’d developed equally strong feelings for. One whom he desired with identical fervor.

  Both of whom he barely knew anything about.

  Reluctantly, Cole released Imogen into Farah Blackwell’s waiting arms as Millie rushed forward to steady her other side.

  “I’ll come to check on you in the morning,” he murmured into her hair as he kissed her forehead. They had much to discuss.

  He had something to offer her, no matter what Morley revealed.

  By now her eyes blinked with the languid sluggishness of the inebriated, though a dreamy smile touched her kiss-swollen lips. “G’night, Your Grace,” she murmured, her languorous tongue making his title sound more like Your Grashe.

  With one last warning glance over his shoulder, Argent followed the women into the hall like a hulking sentinel. Cole knew she’d be safe in their company, and yet he wasn’t ready to let her out of his sight.

  Glancing at Morley, he noted that the chief inspector’s sharp blue eyes softened as they followed Imogen’s meandering progress from the library, touched with a gentle emotion that had Cole bristling with possessive indignation.

  “Is it true what they were accusing you of, Trenwyth?” The inspector dragged his eyes away from Imogen to stab Cole with a stare as obtrusive as a pushpin through a dead moth. “Did you take advantage of her?”

  “No,” Cole denied for what seemed like the thousandth time. “We kissed and—carried on a little, but we’ve done that several times sober, truth be told, not that it’s any of your fucking concern.” Cole ran an unsteady hand through his hair, beginning to feel like the cad they accused him of being. “Why are you so bloody protective of her, anyway?” he asked skeptically. “What is she to you?”

  Something in Morley’s expression flickered slightly, arresting Cole’s attention. “She reminds me of someone … someone I once loved very much. Someone who was ill-used by men like you.”

  “What do you mean, men like me?”

  “Noblemen. Soldiers. Predators. Anyone who could prey upon a pretty, innocent woman in desperate circumstances.”

  “I’m not a predator, Morley.” Cole’s voice became lethally soft.

  “Yes you are.”

  “Not that kind. Not when it comes to her.”

  Morley’s eyes narrowed, examining him like the same pin-wielding lepidopterist would the specimen beneath his glass.

  “Lady Anstruther is precisely who I came here to discuss.”

  Cole blinked, wishing he had a drink in his hand. “I thought you said you were here to discuss the Kittens of St. James’s Street.”

  Using the light spilling in from the hall, Morley opened a desk drawer, then another, until he found matches with which to light a gas lamp. That accomplished, he leaned on the desk and folded his arms in a posture of relaxed readiness. “It took me some time to ascertain the link between the murders you and I previously discussed, but I’m relatively certain I’ve found it … or rather, that I’ve found her.”

  Cole affected a similar posture, his brow furrowing with bemused aggravation. “You’re saying these murders are linked to Lady Anstruther?”

  “I’m afraid so.” Morley nodded.

  Cole’s heart, already accelerated with arousal and anger, now kicked against his chest with the strength of a mule at this new bit of information. “How is that possible?”

  “Once I realized that two of the victims had been acquainted with her, the other associations were easy to track down. Lady Broadmore, of course, was found in her garden, as you’re aware. And then there was Molly Crane, the nurse who was employed at St. Margaret’s with her before she became the countess. Following that thread, I investigated into Lady Anstruther’s past as Imogen Pritchard.”

  Morley paused, glancing over at Cole as though to ascertain whether he really wanted to receive the information he was about to impart.

  “And?” Cole pressed impatiently.

  “I’ve uncovered several more victims who fit the profile. Which is to say, they are comparable to Lady Anstruther in looks, age, weight, and coloring. Working chronologically backward, I found a Miss Jane Raleigh, a spinster who lived a block over from both you and the Anstruthers some six months past. Her parents thought she’d run away with a lover, but it is my impression that she’s been killed. She left with no money, none of her belongings, and I found evidence of a struggle in her garden.

  “Around the time you were recovering from your ordeal in the hospital, Miss Pritchard and her family were housed for a month in downtown London near the courthouse while the Earl of Anstruther obtained a marriage license. During that month, a young and fair nanny by the name of Ann Keaton was found strangled and assaulted a mere three doors down from their apartments. Prior to that, Imogen Pritchard had worked to keep her family in rather dismal rooms near Wapping High Street. A charwoman in her building, Rose Tarlly, suffered the selfsame fate as Lady Broadmore, Miss Crane, Miss Keaton, and Miss Raleigh. Surely
you see the pattern.”

  “I do.” Cole nodded, releasing a troubled breath. “What I don’t see, is a connection to the Bare Kitten, or to Ginny.”

  “I was getting to that,” Morley muttered, shifting uncomfortably. “I can’t say that the connection is strong, but I’ve already told you of the earliest victim, a Miss Flora Latimer, who was murdered exactly like the others.”

  “Yes, you mentioned that in your note.”

  “From what I could glean from former neighbors of the Pritchards’, Mr. Pritchard, the pater of the household, was a consistent patron of the Bare Kitten. In fact, he’d run up a significant debt to the former proprietor, Ezio del Toro.”

  At this, Cole pushed himself away from the desk, letting his arms fall to his sides. “Did this Pritchard, Lady Anstruther’s father, did he have anything to do with Ginny? Where is he now?”

  “Also dead,” Morley stated. “And this is where the connection becomes rather opaque. Pritchard died long before Miss Latimer or the others and, as far as I can tell, the rest of the family had no further dealings with the Bare Kitten.”

  “Where did you get this information?”

  “The current owner of said establishment, a Mr. Jeremy Carson. He revealed the timeline to me, and it all checks out. Lady Anstruther’s father died even before this Ginny began her employment there. So, like I said, the connection seems to be indistinct, if there even is one.”

  Agitated, Cole paced the room, something scratching at that place inside him, at the locked door in his head. A memory. A link. Something big. Something recent …

  “Wait.” He froze mid-step and whirled to face Morley. “What did you say was the name of the owner of the Bare Kitten?”

  “Mr. Carson,” Morley answered.

  “No.” Cole made a wild gesture, advancing on the inspector. “No, no, no,” he said in rapid percussion, in time to the frantic pounding in his chest. “His first name, you said it was Jeremy?”

  “Yes,” Morley answered slowly, regarding him with some hesitation. “But you said, yourself, that you’ve spoken to the man.”