Never Have I Ever With a Duke

by Burke, Darcy

  She had to warn him.

  It seemed there might be a mask in her future after all. First, she’d have to claim a headache and beg off attending the soirée with her mother. Hopefully, she’d be able to convince Mama to go without her. Slipping out would be far easier if Mama wasn’t home. Although, she would likely spend the evening with Papa, so perhaps it wouldn’t matter…

  “They should care,” Papa said, bringing her back to the conversation. “They won’t like being the butt of a jest, nor will they appreciate the condescension they will likely encounter.”

  Arabella knew he was speaking for himself as much as anyone else. He was so utterly humiliated by what he’d done. It was, she’d thought, the crux of his illness. However, his lapses in memory were troubling. He clearly thought he’d told her about this the other day, when he absolutely had not.

  “That is likely true,” Arabella said. She wanted to appease her father’s concern. “I will make sure the investigator knows to keep our name out of things.”

  “Thank you, dear.” He settled back against the pillows. “Are you going to keep reading to me?”

  She had read to him before he’d fallen asleep, then she’d picked up her sewing while he napped, knowing he might wake and expect her to continue the book. “Of course.” Agitation raked at her—she was eager to plan for the evening. She needed a disguise.

  * * *

  So far, everything had come off perfectly. Mama had seemed relieved when Arabella had claimed a headache, and consequently Arabella’s efforts to encourage her to attend the soirée without her had failed. No matter, for Mama had taken dinner in Papa’s chamber and remained there ever since.

  Next had come the costume. Arabella had spent the remainder of the afternoon and the evening repurposing an old gown. She hadn’t worn it in a couple of years, so hopefully no one remembered that it had once graced the form of Miss Arabella Stoke. She needed to be completely inconspicuous.

  The mask had been easy enough to create—black fabric that covered her face from her hairline to her lip. She reached back to touch the knot at the back of her head, checking to make sure it was still secure.

  Getting there was the easiest part, for the marquess lived in Hanover Square, a very short walk just over Oxford Street. She’d considered asking the groom to accompany her, but had decided against it. Asking him to lie to her mother was out of the question. And unfortunately, that would have been necessary.

  As she walked toward the notorious Marquess of Ripley’s house, she realized it was dangerous and scandalous and probably many other words that ended in “ous.” Yet she couldn’t quash the excitement thrumming through her veins.

  She prayed the marquess’s house would be easily discernible because of the party. Entering the square, she looked about. To her left was a larger house with coaches queued in front. That had to be it.

  Summoning all the courage she possessed, she strode toward the house. Light and laughter spilled from the front door as it opened to admit a gentleman in front of her. She quickened her pace and followed him inside.

  If the foyer was any indication, the marquess’s house was quite grand. The marble floor gleamed beneath the dozens of candles flickering overhead. Art adorned the walls, and an immaculately turned-out footman stood sentinel at the door. He greeted her without looking directly at her.

  The primary noise of the party seemed to be coming from upstairs. Arabella picked her way through the foyer, where a handful of people milled about, and went up the staircase. The sound of conversation grew louder as she ascended, and when she arrived on the first floor, she knew to turn to the right to reach the heart of things—and hopefully Halstead.

  She only hoped she could find him.

  Though he was wearing a mask, she thought she could identify him. She was very aware of how tall he was, the width of his shoulders, the slope of his jaw. Yes, she’d spent far too much time staring at him, thinking about him, dreaming of him.

  A blush crept up her neck. She had, in fact, dreamt of him last night. An aching, torturous dream that had left her feeling completely unfulfilled despite her attempts to find satisfaction. Sometimes she wished she’d never lain with Miles. Knowing what you were missing by remaining unwed was far worse than not being aware of anything at all.

  As she reached the threshold of the drawing room, she nearly walked straight into another liveried gentleman.

  “I beg your pardon,” the footman said. “Is there anything you require?”

  She suddenly recalled what Halstead had told her—that Ripley’s retainers would know who he was. “I wonder if you could direct me to the Duke of Halstead. He’s expecting me.” It was a bald lie, but the mask made her daring.

  The footman seemed surprised, his eyes slightly widening, but he inclined his head. “This way.”

  That was so easy! Triumph surged in her veins as the footman led her up the stairs to the second floor. She could deliver the warning about Tibbord and be on her way without having set foot into the actual party.

  “Just in here,” the footman said, opening a door.

  She stepped inside. To a bedchamber. What an odd place for a meeting, but perhaps it was the only place available if the party had spilled over into the other areas of the house.

  “Wait here.” The footman closed the door, leaving her alone in the dimly lit room.

  The realization that she would soon meet with Halstead alone in a bedchamber sent a slick pulse of desire straight to her core. Wanton didn’t begin to describe her. She wanted what she couldn’t have. And in a few minutes, the temptation to claim it would nearly overwhelm her.

  She couldn’t let it. He’d be horrified anyway. She suspected he was attracted to her too, but he wouldn’t act on it. He was a gentleman and a duke.

  More’s the pity.

  Chapter 9

  Ripley’s party was a smashing success. If one was seeking to wager great sums or indulge in lurid fantasies. Graham had started in the drawing room and watched as men and women paired off and left. He quickly moved to the saloon, which had been set with a variety of gaming tables. This was where he would find Osborne or Tibbord.

  However, he’d been here over two hours, and there was still no sign of them. Impatience was fast giving way to frustration.

  A wide-lipped Cyprian with rouged cheeks and a generous bosom sauntered toward him. With her light brown hair and green eyes, she reminded him vaguely of Miss Stoke. But then so had the other two women who’d approached him tonight, and their hair hadn’t been light brown nor had their eyes been green.

  She came right up to his side and put her hand on his bicep. “Good evening. You look lonely.”

  Hell, this one smelled of sweet pea—and rose. Not quite the same as Miss Stoke, but damnably close enough. “I’m not,” he said, bracing himself against a wave of arousal that had nothing to do with the woman pressed against his side.

  Well, not nothing. She was a tangible manifestation of his desire. Not precisely what he wanted, but near enough to satisfy him. Maybe.

  What the hell was he considering?

  Banishing Miss Stoke from his mind. It seemed a wise—and increasingly necessary—thing to do. He thought of her far too much.

  Graham pivoted slightly, and the woman looked up at him, her lips parting to reveal a rather crooked row of teeth. She wasn’t Miss Stoke, and he didn’t want her. That wasn’t why he’d come tonight.

  Before he could extricate himself from her, Ripley’s butler, whom Graham had met upon his arrival before the party had started, approached. “Your Grace?”

  “Yes?” The single word was a mix of relief and enthusiasm.

  “If you’ll come with me.”

  Graham cast an apologetic glance toward the woman as she took a step back. Her lips formed a slight pout as Graham practically ran after the butler.

  Tibbord must have arrived! Or Osborne. Either one. Graham didn’t care. Elation swept through him as he followed the butler up two flights of stairs
.

  As the butler led him to a door, Graham wondered what was going on. Had Ripley been able to get Tibbord—or Osborne—into a room away from the party? Was he expecting Graham?

  Apprehension overtook his excitement as the butler opened the door. “Just in there,” he said, gesturing for Graham to enter.

  Graham moved inside, and the door closed behind him with alacrity. It was a small bedchamber, and there was no sign of a gentleman at all.

  There was, however, a masked woman standing near the bed.

  What the bloody hell was going on?

  She moved toward him, and he was horrified to see her hair was the exact shade of Miss Stoke’s. He couldn’t see her eyes, not through the slits of the mask she wore that covered nearly her entire face.

  As she neared, the scent of sweet pea once again washed over him, but there was no rose or any other smell to dilute it. There was no mistaking who this was.

  “Arabella.”

  Her Christian name fell from his lips unbidden as his pulse leapt.

  She reached up and untied the mask, revealing her familiar face. “I didn’t want to take it off until you got here. Just in case.”

  He found he didn’t want her to take if off at all. There was something sensual about the notion of her wearing it and nothing else. Hell, he was growing hard, and here they were in a bloody bedroom.

  “What on earth are you doing here?” He gave in to anger—it was a far safer emotion at this point. “You aren’t supposed to be here.” He gritted out the last.

  “I know, but I have important information.” Her face scrunched up in concern. “You haven’t seen Tibbord yet, have you?”

  “No. What information?”

  “My father thought he’d told me something the other day, but he didn’t. So when he brought it up today, I was very confused.” She shook her head. “Never mind all that.”

  She spoke quickly and avoided his gaze. Was she nervous? Of course she was; she was in the middle of a bloody Cyprian party at the Marquess of Ripley’s house. She ought to be nervous. She ought to be terrified.

  He took a step toward her so that only a foot or so separated them. “What information?”

  She blinked up at him. “Are you going to take off your mask too?”

  He’d forgotten he was wearing it. He was too focused on her, on what her proximity was doing to him. “Tell me why you’re here. You shouldn’t be.”

  “I can see you’re angry, but it was necessary. If you accuse Tibbord of theft, he may expose your financial status. According to my father, he used that information to extort people.”

  His anger faded. “You came here to protect me?”

  She looked at him as if it were a silly question. “I had to.”

  He would have done the exact same for her. In fact, much of what he was doing was for her. For him too, but he had to admit he was driven by the need to save her from ruin. He could survive it, but would she? Yes, she would. But watching her parents suffer would devastate her.

  “Arabella, do you know what kind of party this is?”

  “A masked one?”

  “There are two things of interest here: gaming tables and Cyprians. Do you know what those are?”

  She turned a fetching shade of pink. “Yes.”

  “I believe Ripley’s butler thought you came here for an assignation with me.”

  “Oh. Dear. Well.” She averted her eyes, but the color remained in her cheeks. “I wouldn’t have come if I’d known.” Her head shot up, and she looked him in the face. “Yes, I would. I don’t regret coming here. I was careful—I altered my gown beyond recognition, I made a mask, I walked quickly, and—”

  He moved to stand directly in front of her so they barely touched. Now he swept off his mask in irritation. “You walked?” She nodded. “By yourself?”

  Her eyes lit with fire. “Should I have brought one of my overworked retainers and sworn them to secrecy? Perhaps if you’d told me what sort of party this was—”

  “It wouldn’t have mattered. You just said you would have come anyway.” He towered over her, his body teeming with unsatisfied lust. For her and no one else.

  “And why didn’t you tell me?” Her tone was hot and accusatory, fanning the flames of his frustration. “Do you attend these sorts of parties often?”

  She sounded… “Are you jealous?” He’d meant to provoke her the way she was provoking him, but the question came out wrong. It came out like he wanted her to say—

  “Yes.” Her gaze didn’t waver from his. “I’ve no right to be. You don’t belong to me.”

  No, he didn’t. But he wanted to. If only for a short time.

  There was just the two of them. He wanted her. Desperately. He was growing more and more certain she wanted him too. And there was a bed right behind her.

  Oh, this was not right or honorable or acceptable. Nevertheless, he said, “I do right now.”

  The air around them crackled with electricity, as if a hundred lighting strikes had touched down in the room. There was searing heat and a constant thrum of energy, of desire.

  He surrendered to all of it and took her in his arms, his lips descending madly on hers. She clasped her hands around his neck and stood on her toes to meet him. Her mouth met his eagerly, and the ensuing kiss became the very best moment of his life.

  He’d expected to give some sort of tutorial, but she seemed to know precisely what she was doing. Her tongue swept along his lip, and he opened, joining with her in a relentless assault of mutual passion.

  This might not be acceptable or honorable, but it was absolutely divine. Her fingers caressed his nape as her body came up against his, her breasts pressing into his chest.

  Graham groaned and rotated his head, kissing her from another angle in order to learn every part of her. He’d wanted her for some time, but he hadn’t realized how consuming his hunger had become, how desperately he needed this. How he needed her.

  He thrust his fingers into her hair, heedless of any damage he might cause. He just wanted to feel her, to touch her, to claim her. His other hand swept down her spine and splayed against her lower back, bringing her pelvis flush against his. She felt magnificent against him, despite the layers of clothing between them.

  Tearing his mouth from hers, he kissed along her jaw, murmuring, “You are so beautiful. You taste so good. You feel like heaven.”

  She moaned softly as he licked along her neck and snagged his teeth on her earlobe. She tugged at his hair and ran her other hand along his shoulder. Then her hand came around and moved beneath his coat. Her palm was warm and seductive. He wanted more.

  “Take this off.” Her command was soft but throaty and dark with longing. He felt the echo of her desire deep within himself.

  She pushed at his coat, moving it off his shoulders and then tugging the sleeves down his arms. He shrugged, helping her with its removal. Then it fell to the floor and instead of kissing her again—which he wanted to do more than anything—he froze.

  This wasn’t right. Or honorable. Or acceptable.

  “Arabella.” No, that wasn’t right either. “Miss Stoke.”

  “Don’t you dare call me that. Not now.” Her eyes narrowed as she looked up at him. “Why did you stop?”

  “Because we shouldn’t be doing this. I’m a complete and utter scoundrel for even remaining in this room with you, let alone kissing you.”

  Her chin notched up, and her gaze was devastatingly sultry. “Do you deny that you want me?”

  Oh God, she was going to kill him. “Where on earth did you learn to talk like that?” Probably the same place she’d learned to kiss. Now it was his turn to be jealous. “Never mind.”

  She lowered her eyes to stare at his chest. “I’m not a virgin. You may think me fast, and I suppose I am.” Her cheek twitched.

  He heard the self-recrimination in her voice and wanted to strike it away. “Are you sure you aren’t a member of the Spitfire Society?” he asked with humor.

  Her
head tilted back, and she blinked up at him in surprise. “I’m sure.”

  “I don’t think you’re fast.” He was surprised she wasn’t a virgin, and he did want to know why, but was it really his business? Most men would say yes, especially if they had marriage on the mind. Which he did. But not with her.

  Oh, this was so very wrong.

  “Should we stop?” she asked, a faint tremor of doubt at last clouding her voice.

  The lightning was still around them. He’d never felt such an acute longing. He just knew he’d regret it if they left without seeing this through. He dared to hope… “Do you want to?”

  Her gaze was dark and steady. “No.”

  His body hummed with joy and hunger. “Neither do I.”

  “Then what do we do?” She glanced ever so briefly toward the bed. That look, along with her admission, was more than enough.

  “This.”

  He swept her into his arms and kissed her again as the last barrier between them crumbled into dust.

  * * *

  Arabella gasped into his mouth as he lifted her and carried her to the bed. At least, she assumed it was the bed. She couldn’t see where they were going, nor did she care. He could carry her into the fires of hell, and she would gladly go.

  Yes, it was the bed, as he lowered her to the mattress. He followed her, covering her body with his. He was a delicious weight, and she opened her legs to welcome him between them.

  But there were too many clothes. She pulled at his cravat, loosening the silk so it hung about his neck. Moving her hand between them, she started on the buttons of his waistcoat. He lifted his chest from her, giving her space, and she soon had them all undone.

  With both hands, she pushed the waistcoat off his shoulders and worked the garment down his arms. He grasped one side and managed to toss it away. Without delay, she tugged his shirt from the waistband of his breeches. He rose again, this time completely breaking their kiss as he got to his knees. After he whipped the shirt over his head, the garment joined his waistcoat, as did his cravat, which went flying.