by Lenora Bell
Crankshaw passed the vial under the duke’s nose.
His eyelids fluttered open. He had long, dark eyelashes. She hadn’t noticed that before. Dark eyelashes and glowing amber eyes. Very confused eyes. “Where am I?” he croaked.
“In the study, Your Grace,” said Crankshaw, enunciating very loudly and clearly. “You’ve suffered a blow to the head.”
“No I haven’t,” said the duke. “I’m dreaming in my bed.”
“Afraid not,” said Mina. “You’re lying on the floor of the study.”
“No I’m not,” said the duke. “Do you know how I know that? Because you’re here. I’m obviously dreaming. The dreamiest dream. Daisies. Cows. Sunshine on my bare skin.” He smiled warmly and gave her a sensual wink. “And on your skin. Why are you still wearing so much clothing? I specifically dreamed that your dress was already slipping off your shoulders.”
Now she knew the knock on his head had caused damage. This was the first time she’d seen him smile and the sight was disconcerting.
When he smiled, it touched a fuse in her mind that sparked and burned dangerously close to her heart. And winking? He was not a winker.
“His Grace is disoriented,” she whispered to Crankshaw.
The servant nodded. “He’ll come ’round eventually.”
“Help me carry him to bed,” Mina whispered.
“Bed sounds nice.” The duke gave her another wicked wink.
The blow to his head had scrambled his brains like eggs. He needed rest, and possibly a physician.
Crankshaw slid his arms under the duke’s armpits from behind and hoisted him to a seated position.
“Are you able to stand, Your Grace?” Mina asked.
The duke rose to his knees but when he tried to stand he swayed and nearly fell back down. Crankshaw caught him around the waist.
“Perhaps if you . . . pull his arms . . . from the front,” huffed Crankshaw.
Mina grabbed hold of the duke’s large hands and pulled with all her strength.
Finally upright, he gave her another lopsided smile. “Seem to be having a bit of difficulty staying on my feet. Must have had too much brandy. Don’t worry. Won’t affect my performance.”
Whatever that meant.
Crankshaw draped one of the duke’s huge arms over his shoulders and caught him around the waist. The duke reached out and snagged Mina by her waist, pulling her tight to his other side.
He lowered his lips to her ear. “Ready for bed?” he asked in a husky whisper that sent a shiver between her shoulder blades.
“Take his other arm over your shoulders, madam,” Crankshaw instructed. “It’ll go easier that way.”
Mina lifted the duke’s arm from her waist and wrapped it over her shoulders, reeling under the sudden transfer of weight. His hand infiltrated her cloak and settled over her right breast.
She immediately moved his hand back to her shoulder.
“We’re going to have fun tonight.” His hand moved back to her breast and he squeezed softly.
“All right-y,” she squeaked. “One, two, three and away we go.”
Transfer the duke to his bed and make a hasty retreat. That was the goal.
If she was very, very lucky, Thorndon wouldn’t remember any of this in the morning. She would be a shadowy dream memory, overridden by a devil of a headache. She could even replace the note in the drawer before she left, and none would be the wiser.
She must leave quickly, before anyone else saw her here. She’d go back to her bedchamber, take out a sheet of paper, and begin piecing together everything she knew thus far.
Lord Rafe had said he was going to set a trap for the biggest prize of all and that it was his chance to redeem himself. He’d called it a mission, and said he was going after a target, so there was every probability that it had something to do with espionage, and he most likely thought of it as a way to restore himself to the ranks of Uncle Malcolm’s agents.
Tomorrow she would go about solving the mystery, finding Lord Rafe, and rendering herself indispensable to his mission.
If she met the duke again in Society she would simply ignore his existence. Though truly, he was difficult to ignore. The man was as heavy as an ox.
They half dragged, half pushed him out of the study.
His palm still covered her breast, as if he’d found the anchorage he craved.
In his addled mental state, a woman taking him to bed meant that she had designs upon him and he was free to fondle her at will.
He didn’t even know who she was—just a female with soft breasts. Only a dream to direct to his satisfaction.
Every lurching step brought his palm against her nipple. The friction sensitized her breast. Despite the presence of the servant on the duke’s other side, arousal spiked from the tip of her breast down her belly.
Did she enjoy being handled this way? Or did she enjoy being touched by him?
By Thorndon.
He’d told her to call him Drew, which of course would be the very height of impropriety.
Impropriety. Ha! They were well past that point. Just look where his hand was resting.
“Drew” must be a shortened form of his Christian name, Andrew. The name fit him. His kiss had drawn her into a new world of sensation.
Drawn vivid colors—hot reds, bursts of gold—where her imagination had drawn only lines in charcoal.
Her very first kiss.
Something to savor, a secret only they shared. A mistake, surely, but a glorious one, a memory to relive slowly in her bed at night.
“That was quite a kiss,” he whispered, his lips nuzzling at her ear.
Blast. He remembered the kiss. Did that mean he remembered who she was?
“Were you dreaming about a kiss, Your Grace?” she asked innocently.
“Yes. And so were you.”
“Your Grace,” she said firmly, “kindly refrain from talking. It’s taxing your strength. You need a b—to rest.” Better not to mention beds again.
“Good idea. I’ll conserve my strength for later. In bed.” His head lolled to the side and he stopped talking.
Conducting the prodigiously heavy and woozy-headed duke up a narrow flight of stairs was a tricky task. If she and the servant weren’t careful, their charge would fall backward and drag them down with him.
“I’ve escorted many a drunken lord to his bed in this very manner,” said Crankshaw, breathing heavily as they made slow progress up the stairs. “Oh, the stories these walls could tell, madam. But you won’t hear them from me. The wanton orgies. The pleasure chamber with its shameful secrets. You won’t hear about the women, either. Three of them to a bed, sometimes. The wife of the Lord Mayor once. Ah . . . she was a rare one . . .”
As they slowly conquered the stairs he regaled her with lurid stories, interspersed with protestations of his utter discretion in all things.
One should never tell Crankshaw a secret. That much was clear.
Propositioning Rafe had seemed a simple matter when she was making her plans. He wouldn’t have to reform entirely. A spy had to use all weapons, including seduction.
However, she never could have imagined the details of his debauched life. Three women in one night? Had he taken precautions against contracting diseases or conceiving unwanted offspring?
For that matter, were there failsafe precautions against such things? It seemed she had more research to do. She hadn’t been fully aware of the sordid realities of rake-hood.
“And you know,” said Crankshaw, his breath coming in gasps. “It’s not only Lord Rafe these walls would speak of. His Grace was quite the rakehell as well.”
As if to prove the point, the duke rolled her nipple between his fingers, making it go as hard as a marble.
“Wait,” said Mina. “Are you telling me that His Grace used to be a rake?”
Her uncle’s Duke Dossier hadn’t mentioned anything of the kind.
“One of the most infamous in all of London,” said Crankshaw proudly.
>
“Interesting.”
“Here we are, madam,” said Crankshaw as they entered a large bedchamber. “About-face.” He helped her turn the duke so that he faced away from the bed. “And . . . heave-ho.”
Mina and Crankshaw half lifted, half pushed the duke onto the side of the bed. He lurched backward and grabbed Mina on the way down. She landed flat against his chest.
This was beginning to be a habit with him.
He wrapped his arms around her possessively. “At last we’ve achieved the bed.”
“Kindly release me.” She attempted to squirm out from under his arms.
He settled her more firmly against his long length and stroked a lock of hair away from her cheek. “You have soft, shiny hair.”
“I see nothing, madam,” said Crankshaw, staring into space. “I hear nothing.”
“While you’re seeing nothing, could you please fetch a basin of cold water and some ice from the ice house, if you have one?” she asked. “The duke requires a rude awakening.”
“An excellent idea, madam.” Crankshaw bowed and left the room.
“I’m so glad I still have it,” said the duke with an alarming grin.
“Have what, Your Grace?”
“My devilish charm.”
“Did you think you’d lost it?”
“When we danced you appeared to loathe me. As if I were a horrid turnip.”
He knew who she was. So much for him forgetting she’d ever been here.
“Your Grace, I—”
“But now you’re in my bed, therefore I’ve still got it.” His grin was self-satisfied. “And what’s more, you’re in my arms.”
“About that,” began Mina. “It’s late, and I really should be—”
“When thus reclining on my breast, those eyes threw back a glance so sweet, as half reproached yet raised desire, and still we near and nearer pressed.” He clasped his arms tighter. “And still our glowing lips would meet.” He kissed her lips softly. “As if in kisses to expire.”
“Lord Byron? You’re quoting Lord Byron.” Now Mina was truly concerned for his sanity. His conversation thus far had been terse. Unemotional. He was not a man given to reciting love verses.
But that man was buried somewhere inside him, and all it took was a sharp blow to the head to bring out the poetry, the warm teasing . . . the passion.
Before her mind could come up with any more dangerous revelations, Crankshaw returned with a tin basin sloshing with water and chunks of ice. “This ought to bring him round, madam.” He made a move as if he were preparing to upend the basin.
“Wait!” She was still entwined with the amorous, amnesiac duke and didn’t relish a dousing.
She snuggled closer to him and lifted her lips to his ear. Again, the mouthwatering scent of his almond cologne nearly undid her. “Your Grace,” she whispered.
“Mmm?” He kissed the tip of her nose.
“If you let me leave the bed, I’ll divest myself of this cumbersome cloak.”
His arms sprang open. She rolled away and hopped down from the bed.
“Now,” she ordered.
Crankshaw stepped forward.
The duke’s head swiveled. “Not now, Crankshaw. The lady’s about to lose her cloak. Leave this instant and I won’t sack you.”
Crankshaw trembled. “I can’t do it, madam. His Grace has a very long memory, once it’s properly restored.”
“Oh for heaven’s sake. Give it here.” She held out her hands and Crankshaw handed her the basin. “This will be cold, Your Grace.”
He caught her skirts and attempted to pull her closer. “Ice can be used in love play. But only a sliver of ice, drawn slowly over a nip—”
She dumped the basin of icy water over him from head to abdomen.
“Bloody Hell!” he roared, springing to a seated position.
He shook his great shaggy head like a hound, spraying cold water across her chest. “Why’d you do that?”
“I-I’ll just be downstairs if you require me, madam,” said Crankshaw hastily. “All you need do is use the bellpull.”
He scurried from the room, abandoning Mina with a dripping wet, highly enraged duke.
Chapter 11
“It was necessary,” Mina said tartly, wiping water from her cheeks with her sleeve. “You were reciting Lord Byron.”
“That’s no reason to freeze a man’s bollocks off.” He leapt out of bed.
Mina retreated a few steps.
He ripped off his sodden robe and flung it over a chair.
Bare chest, glistening with water. Beads of water like diamonds glittering on the dusting of hair that trailed down the center of his chest and bisected his abdomen.
She noticed all of the details she’d missed before because she’d been too far away in the shrubbery under his window.
Grabbing a towel from the shelf near the washbasin, he rubbed it over his head, leaving his black hair standing on end like a farm cat’s fur after being groomed by its paws. He lifted his arm and swiped the towel over his armpit. He had black hair there as well.
The wet fabric of his undergarments clung to narrow hips, emphasizing muscular thighs, long legs, the shape of his . . . cock. Her mind couldn’t think of any less objectionable word to use.
Her eyes couldn’t look away.
There it was, not jutting out proudly but hanging down between his thighs.
The duke followed her gaze. “He’s very cold,” he said testily. “Which causes him to shrink. Temporarily. If you don’t mind . . . a little privacy?”
This was without a doubt the most exciting and unexpected night of her life. Her thirst for knowledge and adventure was being satisfied. She was learning so many things.
She turned her back on the duke and stared at his rumpled bed instead.
Mistake. His bed made her think about what had happened there, after he’d moved away from the window and away from her awestruck gaze. The finishing.
She decided to stare at a squat, solid mahogany chair. Nothing too provocative about a chair. Except that it was so very sturdily built that it would no doubt support the weight of two people at once. Say, a duke and a . . .
“I dumped the icy water over you because you were fondling my bosom, Your Grace,” she blurted. “Without my consent, I might add.”
“Oh.” The sound of a towel rubbing over taut, naked flesh. “I apologize. I don’t recall that part. It was wrong of me.”
“Very wrong.” But it had felt right. Especially when he’d rolled her nipple between his fingers. That part had felt beyond right. The poor un-fondled nipple on the left was begging to be awakened into a tingling awareness.
“I think I thought I was dreaming,” he said. “But we did . . . didn’t we kiss? In real life?”
“I have to go now.” She really should leave before he remembered everything.
“Wait.” Sound of heavy footsteps. “Damn. I’ve the very devil of a headache. It hurts to walk. It hurts to think.” That low, gravelly voice of his coming closer. “You can turn around now.”
She turned around. His chest was safely hidden in a gray flannel wrapper. A pity his eyes weren’t covered. His amber gaze penetrated straight through to her pounding heart and seemed to read her licentious thoughts.
“I must go,” she repeated.
“One moment, Miss Penny. It’s all coming back to me now. My idiot of a brother climbing through the window. The cowardly blow to the back of my head.” He stared down at her. The ice had traveled from the basin to his eyes.
Thorndon was back.
She shivered. “You’ll have a prize-winning bump on your head tomorrow to be sure.”
“What I don’t understand is why you didn’t run after my brother. There’s obviously something between you two, yet you stayed here with me. Why?”
Emotions played across her expressive face like a strong breeze over a field of grain. She wasn’t a person who hid her thoughts or feelings well. Drew read obstinacy in the set of her jaw.
A tremor of fear in her lips.
Intelligence and evasiveness in her eyes.
“You might have been seriously injured,” she said at last. “I stayed to make sure you were all right.”
“It would take more than a candlestick to break my thick skull. If you haven’t noticed, I’m solidly built.”
“Oh, I noticed. I helped Crankshaw haul you up the stairs.”
“And I notice that you haven’t denied what I just said. You share some common cause with my brother—you speak his language. What is it that you want from him?”
Her mouth clamped tighter. “I have to go home. I can’t be seen here by anyone else.”
“Why are you here?” He walked to the fireplace and rested his hands against the chimneypiece, absorbing the heat from the fire.
“Why are you here?” she countered. “I thought you were staying at your club.”
“I want to stay close to my sister, Lady Beatrice.” His head throbbed with pain and his mind was crowded with questions. Miss Penny hadn’t even known he’d be here. She hadn’t come to see him. She’d come to see Rafe.
Darkness obliterated the glowing coals for a moment. “Why Rafe?” he asked, staring at hot coals instead of her, so that she wouldn’t read the jealousy in his eyes.
Not jealousy. He couldn’t possibly be jealous. He’d been hit over the head. He wasn’t thinking clearly.
“It’s complicated,” she replied.
“I’m sure it is. Nothing you do would ever be simple.” Changing gowns midway through balls, holding dukes at pistol point, climbing through windows, none of that was ordinary behavior for a young lady. “So everything your uncle told me in that brief, baffling letter—which I read, by the way—is an assemblage of lies.”
Now he watched her closely, searching her face for her reaction.
She squared her shoulders. “That’s correct. He was hoping to influence your feeling about me before you met me and learned the truth.”
“The truth that you’re not a country-bred yet educated young lady with a flair for secretarial work, who is as skilled with a hunting rifle as she is with managing an estate.”
“I’m not.”
She was lying. He knew it by the way her gaze faltered. He knew it because she was equal parts sensible and sensuous. There was something of a country morning in the clearness of her eyes. The scent of sweet heather on her skin.
