One Fine Duke

by Lenora Bell

  She had no idea. The things he wanted to do to her. Show her where his hardness was meant to slide. Give her so much pleasure.

  But this was just a kiss.

  He touched her cheek. “You have a scratch.”

  “From the rosebushes when I was watching you.”

  “Your punishment.”

  “And this is my reward.”

  One more kiss and he’d send her on her way.

  Mina had planned a swift, distracting kiss on his lips and then a swift escape.

  That was at least a quarter hour past.

  They were still kissing and she never wanted it to end. She was discovering so many things about herself. Kissing was her new favorite thing in the world. Better than decoding a secret message.

  Or, rather, very similar to deciphering a code, only better. If she moved her hands here, he moaned. If she opened her mouth wider, he took more.

  When her hands roamed, exploring the solid contours of his body, he grew even more solid.

  A thick ridge of solid against her belly.

  My, what an intoxicating feeling.

  She felt beautiful, and powerful. She sensed that he was holding himself in check, refraining from touching her with his hands. He was an honorable gentleman.

  She was safe.

  Except there was nothing safe about this kiss. This was skirting the edge of something that might swallow her whole. Desire. Distraction.

  She’d forgotten why she kissed him. Oh yes. The brandy. She’d kissed him because she drank the brandy. Also to distract him. Oh, and something to do with his brother.

  Did there have to be a reason? Because right now all she wanted to do was enjoy her very first kiss, memorize it, own it.

  He was so tall that she had to stand on tiptoe to reach his lips, brace her hands on his wide shoulders to stay upright.

  She wanted to melt. Make him melt with her. Until they were lying on the storm-tossed floor.

  Their lips met. Really met, had a conversation, got to know each other.

  If she were connecting the fragments of this encounter to form a lasting memory, she would focus on small details—the faint stubble along his jawline that pricked at her cheek, how his hands remained tight against his sides, moving slightly sometimes, as though he wanted to touch her but had forbidden himself to do so.

  She felt no such qualms. His body was firm and solid and warm beneath her questing hands.

  So warm.

  She wanted to find a bed and curl up against him like a kitten. A bed would be nice. A nice bed with soft sheets.

  A feeling of warmth inside her body, centered between her thighs. Heat and wanting. A melting sensation in her belly. She couldn’t quite catch her breath.

  She should have ended this kiss long ago, but his hands still remained at his sides and her new goal in life was to feel his hands on her bare flesh.

  She was softening and he remained so stiff. He didn’t wrap his arms around her or whisper sweet things in her ear. He kissed her almost punishingly. She wanted passion from him, she would coax it out of him.

  At least she could tell that his body responded. She could feel him hard and thick, pressing against her through all the layers of clothing separating them.

  “Miss Penny,” he moaned. “Wilhelmina.”

  She liked the sound of her name on his lips.

  “How did you feel when you were watching me in the window, Wilhelmina Penny?” he asked.

  She licked her lips because they’d gone dry as dust. “Hungry.”

  “And how did you feel when you saw me stroking my . . .” he stared into her eyes, “cock?”

  “Your . . . ?” She was in over her head. She should make a run for it.

  “Cock,” he said again, the consonants like little explosions. “Do you call it something else? A bold lady such as yourself who holds dukes at pistol point and spies on them during private moments must have a word for everything she sees.”

  “Erm . . . manroot?”

  The ghost of a smile, nothing more. What would it take to make this man laugh? She really wanted to know. She was discovering so many new goals tonight.

  “Charmer?” she suggested.

  “Absolutely not,” he growled. “Charmer makes it sound like he’s a dandy dressed in green-striped trousers and a yellow waistcoat who twirls his moustache and uses a quizzing glass.”

  “So it’s a he?” she asked.

  He tilted his hips forward, bringing her into more intimate contact with the body part in question. “Most definitely. And he likes bold ladies who spy on him.”

  “He appears to be fashioned on a grand scale. Not that I have much to compare him with. Some classical etchings. Some disappointing statuary.”

  “I have a big cock. Is that what you’re trying to say?”

  He kept repeating the word. Ah. He was trying to frighten her into running away.

  “You should know that I’m not easily frightened, Your Grace,” she said bravely.

  “Please, by all means, call me Drew. We’re intimates now, since you’ve seen my—”

  “Cock.” There, she’d said it.

  “Very good, Miss Penny.”

  She held her breath as his fingers skimmed across the edge of her bodice. He dipped his fingers lower and she shivered.

  Bodice. Letter. Hidden between her breasts.

  “I have to go now,” she blurted.

  A crashing thud interrupted his exploration. They both turned.

  A man had entered through the same window Mina had used and was sprawled on the carpet.

  “Bollocks,” the intruder groaned. “Meant to stick that landing better.”

  “Rafe?” the duke asked incredulously.

  “Don’t mind me,” slurred Lord Rafe, sitting up. “I can see you’re entertaining. Carry on, carry on.” He waved an unsteady hand. “Just gathering a few things. I’ll be gone in a trice.”

  Chapter 9

  “Oh no you won’t,” Drew said, rushing to his brother, who reeked of gin. “Where have you been? What trouble are you in?” He reached for his hand and hauled him off the floor. “What nefarious plans do you have?”

  Rafe gripped the sides of his head. “Too many questions.”

  “I’ll give you more than a headache if you don’t cooperate,” Drew threatened.

  “Don’t think you can best me easily anymore, Thorny. I’ve become something of an expert with knives.” Rafe felt around his pockets. “If I were carrying a knife, I’d show you.”

  “I’m sick and tired of your evasions. This ends now. Tell me what’s happening or I’ll force you to tell me.”

  Miss Penny strode toward them. “Allow me to try, Your Grace.”

  Rafe looked her up and down with an appreciative grin. “Your strumpet might have better luck, Thorny.”

  “I’m not his strumpet. I’m Miss Mina Penny and I must speak with you, Lord Rafe.”

  “You don’t want anything to do with me, Pretty Penny,” slurred Rafe.

  “Miss Penny,” she replied.

  “Righto, Miss Plummy.” Rafe stumbled to the desk. “Just a few things and I’ll be off.” He stuffed some bank notes into his greatcoat pockets.

  “Who sent the letter, Rafe?” Drew asked. He was running out of patience.

  “I’ve no idea,” Rafe replied. “I have more important things to think about.”

  “More important than our sister’s safety?”

  “I told you that was an empty threat.”

  “But you can’t be sure because you don’t know who sent it.”

  Miss Penny looked on with growing irritation, judging by the set of her jaw. She crossed her arms. “Lord Rafe, I was going to speak with you in private but this will have to do. I know that you have fallen out of favor with Sir Malcolm because of what happened at the gambling house.”

  “What’s that you say, love?” Rafe glanced at her. “Dashed pretty doxy, Thorny. Well done, you.”

  “Kindly refrain from impugning
Miss Penny’s character,” said Drew. “She’s not a lady of easy virtue.”

  “Made you work for it, did she? Good on you, Peggy.”

  Miss Penny stamped her foot. “For the last time, I’m no doxy. I’m Sir Malcolm Penny’s niece. You obviously don’t remember but I’ve met you on several occasions when you visited Sutton Hall.” She grabbed Rafe by the shoulders. “If you’ll tell me what’s happening, I’ll help restore you to my uncle’s good graces. In exchange for your promise to marry me.”

  Drew’s jaw dropped. What in the blazes had just happened? How much brandy had Miss Penny consumed? “Now wait one second—”

  “Your trollop just proposed marriage to me, Thorny,” crowed Rafe. “That’s got to hurt.”

  Drew’s vision blurred. It did hurt. Like a serrated blade to the belly.

  “For the love of God. I’m not a trollop!” insisted Miss Penny.

  “Should be. You’re devilish pretty.” Rafe plucked the red rose from his lapel. “I’ll tell you what, turtledove, if I arrive back in London in one piece after this mission, I might just marry you.” He tucked the rose behind her ear.

  Drew’s vision went as red as the rose.

  “What mission?” asked Miss Penny, flinging the rose to the floor. “Where are you going?”

  Drew grabbed Rafe by the collar and shook him until his teeth rattled together. “You’re not going anywhere, do you hear me? I’ll hold your head under the pump and sober you up and then you’ll finally answer my questions. And you’ll stop insulting Miss Penny.”

  “I have something that works wonderfully to sober a man.” Miss Penny searched her cloak pockets and came up with a small vial. “This should be effective. It’s my own blend of smelling salts.”

  She uncorked the vial. Drew forced Rafe’s head close to the vial.

  “Damn.” Rafe shook his head. “That burns the nostrils.”

  “Tell me, is someone after you? The Manor Boys? The Newgate Six?” asked Miss Penny.

  Rafe peered at her groggily. “How do you know about those organizations? And no one’s after me. I’m after someone. A much bigger prize.”

  “I know these things because I’m Sir Malcolm Penny’s niece. I’m also his secretary. And I’m an excellent shot. There’s a pistol in my reticule. Wherever you’re going, you’d best bring me with you.”

  “’Fraid not, poppet. I never mix business and pleasure,” said Rafe.

  “I’m going to punch you soon,” Drew warned his brother. He’d lost the thread of the conversation a while back and felt dreadfully unbalanced.

  All he knew was that Miss Penny had proposed to Rafe.

  He was having trouble moving past that hideously awful occurrence.

  “Which target are you after?” Miss Penny asked. “Tell me.”

  “I’m setting a trap to catch the biggest prize of all. This is my chance to redeem myself, so kindly allow a man to gather a few things and then I’ll be off to vanquish a bloodthirsty foe.”

  “Rafe, you can’t leave, this is idiocy—we’ll pursue this, whatever it is, together,” said Drew. “Let me help you.”

  “Brothers side by side, is that it? I don’t think so. We’re past that possibility. And the target isn’t in London. He’s in . . .” He closed his mouth.

  “France?” asked Miss Penny. “Is it a certain antiquities thief?” She was thinking of Le Triton. If Rafe had a plan to capture him, she must find a way to join him for the mission.

  Rafe’s face turned a paler shade of green and he peered at Miss Penny. “What did you say your name was?”

  “Miss Wilhelmina Penny.”

  “What do you know about antiquities thieves, Miss Penny?”

  “Even more than you do, I’ll wager.”

  Drew had had just about enough of this enigmatic, nonsensical conversation. There was obviously something that he was missing. Miss Penny and his brother appeared to share a common language and it was irritating him to no end. “Rafe, tell me right now, is Beatrice in danger of being kidnapped?”

  “Who wrote the letter, Lord Rafe?” Miss Penny asked. “I didn’t recognize the handwriting.” She dipped her fingers into her bodice. Drew couldn’t help watching as she wriggled until her bodice loosened, giving her access to the shadow between the luscious mounds of her breasts.

  The last thing Drew saw was Miss Penny drawing a small scroll of paper from between her breasts.

  And then everything went dark.

  It happened so quickly that Mina didn’t have time to stop Lord Rafe. He seized a candlestick from the desk and hit the duke on the back of the head. The duke staggered, and then crashed to the floor with a thunderous thud.

  “I’m sorry. Sod it, I have to go.” Lord Rafe raced for the window and lowered himself out, leaving Mina with an agonizing choice: follow him and demand he take her wherever he was going, so that they could vanquish the foe together . . .

  Or stay and make sure the duke wasn’t dead.

  Chapter 10

  Mina chose the duke.

  Well she couldn’t just leave him sprawled on the leaf-patterned carpet like a mighty oak tree felled by lightning. What if the blow from the candlestick had drawn blood? It was her fault, after all.

  She’d reached down her bodice to retrieve the threatening letter in an effort to make both brothers pay attention to her—and only one of them had taken the bait.

  Thorndon had been so distracted by her bosom-baring tactics that he hadn’t even noticed his brother approaching with the candlestick, and neither had she.

  She’d been too distracted by Thorndon’s heated gaze.

  A fine pair of fools.

  Now she’d lost her chance to find out where Lord Rafe was going and which target he was after.

  She sank to her knees beside the duke. He was breathing, so there was that. She used both her hands to lift his head—no blood in his hair. No blood on the carpet. She lowered his head carefully. He would be badly bruised, no doubt.

  She loosened his dressing robe and set her ear to his chest. His heartbeat was strong, his skin warm beneath her cheek. She inhaled the delicious, masculine scent that made her want to lick his throat.

  Where were her smelling salts? Apparently she might require them more than the duke.

  What had they said about loss of consciousness in the training class she’d eavesdropped upon at her uncle’s estate?

  Elevate the knees.

  The duke’s knees were so heavy she had to take them one at a time. And they wouldn’t stay propped up once she’d placed them where she wanted. She grabbed a cushion from a chair and pushed it under his legs.

  One of his knees kicked up, tumbling her off balance. She landed face-first in a heap on top of his chest.

  “Oof.” The breath left her lungs. Before she had a chance to right herself, an enormous hand clamped over her right bum cheek.

  “Your Grace,” she squeaked. “Your hand.”

  An involuntary spasm? Or was he faking unconsciousness? If he was faking . . .

  “If you’re only pretending, Your Grace . . . I swear.” She struggled out of his grasp and was nearly free . . . until his other hand clamped on her other bum cheek, gluing her hips to his unyielding frame.

  The door opened. “I heard a crash.” A tall, hook-nosed man wearing a tasseled, red-striped nightcap stopped just inside the door. “Pardon me, Your Grace. I do apologize. I wasn’t aware that you had company.”

  The servant backed toward the door.

  “No,” cried Mina. “Don’t go. I require your assistance.”

  “My . . . assistance?” asked the servant.

  “His Grace had a mishap,” said Mina, finally managing to pry the duke’s fingers off of her nether regions. She staggered to her feet, prepared to run after the servant if he attempted to flee. “You must help me revive him and convey him to bed.”

  “Ah.” The servant nodded his head and the tassel on his nightcap swayed decisively. “I understand completely. Say no more, madam. Dur
ing a feat of impressive athleticism, perhaps involving the desk, His Grace’s limbs gave out from under him.”

  What was the man on about? “It wasn’t his limbs, he had a blow to the back of the head.”

  “You accosted the duke, madam?” asked the servant sternly.

  “Certainly not. It was—”

  “A cowardly thief!” The servant pointed a bony finger at the open window. “A sneaking pilferer crept through the window. His Grace arrived to investigate and the burglar accosted him and fled back out the window. Did the craven larcenist abscond with anything of value?”

  My hopes. My dreams. My freedom.

  “It was Lord Rafe,” she said.

  “The thief absconded with Lord Rafe?”

  “No, Lord Rafe hit His Grace on the back of the head with a candlestick.”

  “Ah.” The servant nodded sagely. “That’s happened a time or two. They’ve always fought tooth and nail, ever since they were lads. There was the time the young marquess (that would be His Grace now) caught his brother reading his private journal and, after locking the journal away, upended a chamber pot over Lord Rafe’s head.” The servant sighed happily. “Oh it is so wonderful that he’s back. I do hope he’ll take a bride. We’re all longing for a little heir to coddle. A child would mean he wouldn’t stay in Cornwall the whole year round. Now, if you ask me—”

  “Er,” Mina broke in. “I don’t suppose you might help me revive the duke before you marry him off and make a father of him?”

  “Of course, of course.” The servant moved closer. “My name is Crankshaw, madam. I’m at your service.”

  “Thank you, Crankshaw.”

  “I’ve no idea who you are, madam, and I don’t want to know. You speak with the tones of a lady of Quality but I have no desire to know if you are truly a lady. I’m famous for my discretion. No one shall ever hear a word about what I’ve seen tonight.”

  “Thank you, now if you might raise the duke’s—”

  “Have you tried smelling salts?”

  “I was about to when I was . . . capsized. The salts are there on the floor.”

  Crankshaw retrieved the vial.

  Bending over the duke, she slapped his cheeks lightly. He groaned.