The Duke Identity: Game of Dukes, Book 1

by Grace Callaway

  Her head tipped to one side. “Yes.”

  “Pretend I’m a lemon drop.”

  Her curly lashes swept up. Even in the dimness, he saw understanding and excitement light her eyes. “You mean I should do it…like this?”

  He groaned as her mouth engulfed his glistening dome.

  “Yes, sprite, suck me. As much of me as you…goddamn.” His neck arched in bliss.

  When she had a mind to obey, she excelled at it. With her fingers wrapped around the root, she took the rest of his cock into her wet, hot hole. She drew on him tentatively at first, then with increasing confidence, the eager pulls making fire race up his spine.

  He reveled in the decadence of having her thus: between his legs, her hair spilling over his thighs, her lovely mouth working his prick with determined ardor. Reaching out, he cupped her cheek, and feeling his hard shaft moving inside that downy curve was nearly his undoing. In the next instant, he dragged her up so that she straddled his lap.

  “I wasn’t finished,” she said.

  Her pout was so endearing that he couldn’t help but kiss her. The taste of his own salt on her lips was another blow to his already shaky self-discipline.

  “I’m too close, love,” he told her. “A gentleman doesn’t finish in a lady’s mouth.”

  “Oh.” A line worked between her fine brows. “But didn’t I, um, finish…in yours?”

  Bloody hell. It was too much. She overwhelmed him.

  He shoved his hand down her opened trousers to find her pussy swollen, dripping for him. He thrust his middle finger into her snug sheath.

  Her spine arched, her hands clutching his shoulders. “Bennett.”

  “Ride my finger,” he ordered. “Up and down. Take me deep into that sweet cunny of yours.”

  Her hips bucked at his words. He hissed out a breath as she sank deeper, taking him to the knuckle, surrounding him with her tight, humid heat. When she rose, her sheath clutched at him as if it wanted more, so he gave it to her. Eased two fingers into her on the next pass and searched out her nubbin with his thumb.

  “Zounds,” she moaned, “it’s too much…”

  “You can take it,” he growled.

  And he was right because not two seconds later, she was riding him. Bouncing on his fingers with a wanton exuberance that made his blood sing. His palm slapped against her wet petals, his thumb diddling her pearl, and with his free hand he fisted his cock. Feeling the lush squeeze of her pussy, imagining his prick was buried where his fingers were, he could hold back no more.

  “Kiss me, Tessa,” he grated out.

  She crushed her lips to his, her hips slamming down at the same time that he thrust his fingers deep, hard, curling them to reach that special spot. She stiffened as if electrified. He drank in her sounds of fulfillment, the milking spasms of her pussy decimating his self-control. The pressure in his bollocks surged as he jerked his cock fiercely, steam boiling up his shaft. He groaned into her mouth as he exploded, his seed a hot geyser against his palm.

  She sagged against him like a rag doll. With no little regret, he pulled out of her clinging sweetness. He neatened them both up as best he could. With the musk of their intimacy lingering in the air, he wrapped his arms around her and held her as the carriage rolled on.

  “Bennett?” Her voice was drowsy.

  “Hmm, sweeting?”

  “In case I forgot to mention it, I like being yours.”

  His chest tightened. As usual, he struggled to put into words what he felt.

  He settled for, “Good, because you are.”

  It wasn’t much, but she snuggled deeper into him. A minute later, she was asleep.

  He directed the driver to take them toward home. As the carriage swayed in the darkness, he still couldn’t put it into words, but he knew. Knew in his bones that everything had changed.

  22

  The next morning, Harry passed beneath cooing pigeons perched on a sign that read “Will Nightingale’s Coffee House.” He, Ming, and a coterie of armed guards made up Black’s entourage for the meeting with the dukes today. As he entered Black’s stronghold, he had a sense of traveling back in time. Coffeehouses had had their heyday several decades back, and the interior of this one, while well-kept, belonged in the prior century.

  Shaved wood floors softened the thump of booted feet, the walls paneled in dark wood. Trophies of the hunt were mounted here and there, staring out with glassy eyes. Next to those worn heads, watercolors provided a discordant note, and the sight of them made Harry’s lips quirk. He had no doubt who was responsible for the cheerful slaughtering of paint and paper.

  Egad, but his sprite lacked the usual graces.

  Yet if he had to choose between a wife who could paint a pretty scene and one who made love the way Tessa did, with such sweet, generous abandon…so much for art. Memories of their steamy carriage interlude fogged his brain before he pushed them aside. He couldn’t be fantasizing about Tessa while he dealt with a bunch of cutthroats, one of them being her grandfather.

  The proprietor bowed low before Black, assuring him that his usual table was ready. Harry followed the cutthroat past long tables crammed with customers who fell into a deferential hush as they passed. One fellow rose, sweeping off his cap, stammering thanks to Black for finding him employ, and the king gave a regal nod as he continued on his way.

  Black’s table turned out to be a massive oak trestle set in a secluded alcove. Red velvet drapes were tied back and could be drawn to afford additional privacy. There were eight seats in all, and Black took the carved, throne-like chair at the head.

  As usual, Ming stationed himself behind his master. Harry went to stand beside him but was stopped by Black’s curt command.

  “Bennett, sit there.” The cutthroat jabbed a finger at the seat to his right. “Want to talk to you before the others arrive.”

  Harry looked to Ming, whose slightly raised eyebrows were the equivalent of a surprised exclamation from another man. Warily, Harry folded his long frame into the appointed chair. For long moments, Black aimed a brooding stare at him, his beringed fingers drumming on the table. A serving boy dashed forward with a silver pot, filling their cups with steaming, pitch-dark brew.

  Black took his time doctoring his coffee with cream and sugar. As the silence stretched, so did Harry’s nerves. Black’s manner made him uneasy.

  His intuition came to bear when Black declared, “What’s your secret, Bennett?”

  Bloody hell, does Black know about me and Tessa? Cold sweat prickled his palms. Or did he discover my connection to the police force?

  “Er, what secret, sir?” he managed.

  “Your secret,” the cutthroat said impatiently, “for managing my Tessie. I’ve ’ired more bodyguards than the chit’s got years, and not one o’ ’em could ’andle ’er. Yet since you’ve been around, she’s been as docile as a lamb.”

  Relief tumbled through Harry. At the same time, his brows lifted. If Black would describe Tessa’s behavior in the past fortnight as docile, what had she been like before?

  “Told you she ’ad spirit, didn’t I?” Black countered, clearly reading his mind. “Yet there she was at breakfast, all smiles and biddable as you please. Told me the dressmaker’s coming around today, and she’s gettin’ measured up for ’er costume for Ransom’s masquerade. She didn’t give me no lip about that or pester me about coming ’ere either.” The cutthroat harrumphed. “Worked a bloody miracle, you ’ave.”

  Harry thought it prudent not to share how he’d brought about Tessa’s dreamy-eyed, glowing acquiescence. As for the dressmaker, he knew she was going along with it because of the bargain she’d struck with her grandfather. She wanted Black to have Harry’s protection, and her loyalty and love overrode everything else.

  He suspected there was one additional motivation for her attending the masquerade: the invitation she’d found at De Witt’s. Harry had lectured her not to approach the De Witts if they showed up, and her ready agreement hadn’t been at all convinc
ing. One more thing he’d have to keep an eye on. Luckily, the event would be a masquerade, allowing him to attend incognito.

  “I’ve worked no miracles,” he said carefully. “She’s an exceptional young lady.”

  “Exceptional is one way o’ putting it.” Black slurped his coffee. “Must say I don’t mind ’aving someone else deal with ’er antics.”

  “Miss Todd means well. She’s loyal and wants to do her family proud.” The words left him before he could think twice.

  Black’s eyes narrowed. “Know my granddaughter well, do you?”

  Including in a biblical sense. “I know she has many fine qualities.”

  “That she does. Now, Bennett, a gel like that, she’s worth protecting, ain’t she?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “And, when the time comes, if I can’t be there, I can count on you to take care o’ ’er?”

  He frowned. “Why wouldn’t you be there?”

  “Ain’t saying I won’t, but got to plan for hypotheticals.” Black leaned forward, his voice low, strangely pressured. “After ’ow you ’andled the ’ellfire attack, I know I can trust you. If the need arises, I want you to keep Tessie safe. You got a place to stow ’er?”

  “Pardon?” Chilly premonition gripped his nape.

  “If anything were to ’appen to me, you got a safe place you can take ’er? Beyond London. Somewhere my enemies wouldn’t know to go.”

  Harry immediately thought of Chudleigh Crest, the sleepy village in Berkshire where he and his siblings had grown up. “Yes, I know a place.”

  “Keep it to yourself. Tell no one, not even me. And if the day comes when you need to take Tessie there,”—urgency blazed in Black’s gaze—“you go and await instruction. Understand?”

  “Yes.” He didn’t know what else to say. He would protect Tessa with his life.

  “Good.” Black leaned back, his expression wiping clean. “Company’s arrived.”

  Harry rose as the newcomers approached. Their respective guards stopped several yards from the table, forming a wall between the alcove and the rest of the coffee shop. Harry recognized Malcolm Todd’s scowling face, but the other three men were strangers.

  The ginger-haired one stepped forward and bowed. He was a large man with a greying auburn beard. He’d gone soft in the middle with age, and Harry had seen his sly, currant-like eyes before…in the face of Dewey O’Toole.

  “Top o’ the morning to you, Black,” the man said with false cheer.

  “And to you, O’Toole.” Black looked over the man’s shoulder. “Where’s your boy? Thought he was learning the ropes.”

  “Dewey ain’t one for mornings. You know the younger generation,” O’Toole said easily.

  “I know that if the younger generation were to spend less time rabble rousing and more time earning their keep, they’d save us all a world o’ trouble.”

  O’Toole’s smile wavered, but he managed to keep it in place.

  Black waved him into the seat to his left and greeted the next in line.

  “Severin Knight,” he said. “Been a dog’s age.”

  “Mr. Black.” Knight’s polished accent was at odds with his rough-hewn features and burly frame. His rather exquisite silk cravat was offset by his swarthy skin. “Pardon if I haven’t paid my respects of late. Business has been occupying my attention.”

  “You ain’t the only one. ’Ave a seat so we can get down to it.”

  Knight inclined his dark head, seating himself beside O’Toole.

  The last stranger came forward. Even if the process of elimination hadn’t verified his identity, Harry could guess who the man was from his sisters’ description of their friend’s husband. They’d said that Adam Garrity was a fastidious man whose good looks were diminished by his ruthless, cold-blooded aura; as usual, they were spot on.

  Garrity was not the tallest, burliest, or loudest of the group, yet intangible power emanated from his lean and subtly honed frame. His eyes were hard onyx, his brows black slashes, his cheekbones blade-sharp beneath his pale skin. When he inclined his head, not a single strand of ebony hair fell out of place.

  “Thank you for coming, Garrity,” Black said.

  “My pleasure.” Garrity’s gaze flicked to Harry, and Harry felt his muscles constrict beneath that piercing stare. “New man?”

  “Can’t ’ave too much protection these days,” Black said.

  “Indeed.” Garrity proceeded to the chair at the opposite end of the table.

  As everyone took a seat, Malcolm Todd’s beady eyes roved over the remaining chairs. Apparently finding none of them satisfactory, he went over to Harry, who was to Black’s right.

  “Take your place by the Chinaman,” Todd snapped.

  “Bennett ain’t going nowhere,” Black said. “Sit your arse down in another chair.”

  Todd’s angry gaze burned into Harry, yet he obeyed his father-in-law’s command. Remaining in the contested seat, Harry felt the assessing stares of the other men. Something significant was happening, although he didn’t know what.

  Serving boys arrived to fill cups with coffee and lay out a collation of meat, cheese, and pastries. When they left, Black nodded to his guards, who drew the red velvet curtains, shrouding them in privacy.

  “Ain’t going to beat around the bush. This ain’t a social call,” Black said.

  “Reckoned your summons made that clear.” O’Toole dunked a biscuit into his beverage. “What’s this about then, eh?”

  “There’s a rat in our midst,” Black said. “It needs to be exterminated.”

  If Harry had wondered what tactic Black would take, he now knew. The straight talk caused glances to shift around the table, expressions instantly wary.

  “Surely you don’t mean at this table,” O’Toole began.

  “That’s precisely what I mean. All o’ you know I was attacked outside this very coffee house last month, and if you say you don’t, you’re lying. One o’ you is twitching a tail ’neath this table, and I’m giving you a chance to show yourself.”

  “I resent your implication, Black. I ain’t no rat.” In a show of outrage, O’Toole waved a meaty hand at the others. “Neither are any o’ these fine fellows.”

  If he thought to stir up a rebellion, he was bound for disappointment. Knight looked pensive, Garrity faintly amused.

  “It is not the nature of the rat to expose itself.” Garrity arched a dark brow. “Surely you did not expect one of us to scurry forward and accept responsibility?”

  “I didn’t, but rats are motivated by one thing: self-interest.”

  Black’s gaze circled the table, and Harry noted that not one of the men looked away. A show of defiance, fear, or strength, he couldn’t tell.

  The king had more to say. “I’ve ruled this roost since two o’ you were in leading strings. You may not remember the time before, when chaos and bloodshed were tearin’ the stews apart. That was why I drew up the territorial lines and established the Accord. Society’s rules were made to keep men like us down, but that don’t mean we don’t need rules o’ our own. We may be cutthroats, thieves, and moneylenders, but we ’ave our own code, our own sense o’ ’onor that demands we defend what’s ours and be loyal to our own. That’s what I’m reminding you o’ today. An attack on me ain’t just on me: it’s an attack on our way o’ life. It’s pitting brother against brother and weakening us all.”

  Harry’s estimation for the cutthroat grew. Black might be responsible for multiple crimes in the eyes of society, but he was a man who lived by his own code of conduct. In the underworld, he stood for law and order, and, without him, chaos would reign.

  “We ain’t always seen eye to eye, you and I, but I’m grateful for all you’ve done, Black.” Once again, O’Toole was the first to speak. “But I resent being accused of a crime that I didn’t commit. What proof do you ’ave that one o’ us,”—again, he gestured to the table at large—“is involved in this treasonous act?”

  “All o’ you ’ave a connection
to John Loach, the bastard who tried to assassinate me.”

  At Black’s reply, Harry observed little reaction on the dukes’ faces. Yet something shifted in the air, like the gathering of energy before a storm. His gut told him that that name was a stranger to none of the present company.

  “That’s not much to go by. Loach had many connections in the stews.” Knight’s blunt features were devoid of emotion even as he admitted knowledge of the culprit.

  “Not just in the stews,” Garrity said with equal equanimity. “According to my sources, he worked as an occasional informant for that policeman Davies.”

  Harry’s nape went cold. Bloody hell…Loach worked for Davies? Why didn’t Davies mention it when I told him about Loach’s assassination attempt on Black?

  “Know a lot about the bugger, don’t you?” O’Toole narrowed his eyes at the moneylender.

  Garrity shrugged, the dark superfine on his shoulders remaining smooth. “I know a lot about many things and especially about those who owe me money. Loach had been a client for some time. When the situation called for it, he paid off his debts by selling information to Peelers.”

  “Called for it, eh?” Malcolm Todd sneered. “When one o’ your brutes threatened to shatter ’is kneecaps, you mean?”

  Garrity’s smile was razor sharp. “My methods are proprietary.”

  “You’d take blunt earned by squealing?” O’Toole said in disgust.

  “I take money that is owed to me,” Garrity said coldly. “Pity Loach is dead: he still owed me five hundred pounds.”

  “Enough.” Black’s command cut short the repartee. “Loach may be dead, but the threat lives on. Someone attacked The Gilded Pearl and my own ’ome using the same weapon. An explosive capable o’ burning down the streets. O’ destroying territory lines, which means no one at this table is safe.”

  The air crackled with an invisible force, as if someone had attached an electrifying machine to the alcove and was madly cranking. Harry had to appreciate Black’s move. The appeal to self-interest was a brilliant stratagem to enlist the dukes’ help and to flush out the traitor.