Shameless Duke

by Scott, Scarlett

  She kissed him back with all the fervent need roaring to life within her. Urges that had lain dormant for far too long revived. An aching pulse between her thighs had her arching toward him, seeking contact, needing relief. But instead of relief, she only discovered more torture. He knew what she wanted, and he gave it to her, sliding his well-muscled thigh between hers.

  The delicious friction made her remember how good it felt to be touched. How wondrous her body could feel. She thrust against him, wanting more. Wanting release. Her fingers had somehow found their way into his hair. Wavy and lustrous, it was softer than she had imagined. She held him to her, kissed him back with all the urgency swelling to a crescendo inside her.

  One of his hands slid from her waist, cupping her breast, then kneading it. He found her nipple and rolled it between his thumb and forefinger, tugging it through the stiff silk of her bodice. His touch was gentle yet commanding, and while their kisses became more frenzied, he caressed her slowly, taking his time and prolonging her torment.

  They wrestled for control. Hazel wanted more, faster, harder. She felt as if she were starving and he was the feast laid before her. She wanted to gorge herself on him, because the rational part of her mind recognized this madness between them could not be indulged in ever again. It was once and done. Later, she could blame the lateness of the hour, the many years since she had been touched by a man, the dizziness of her mind after nine days at sea. She could blame Arden’s handsome face, and his expert kisses and knowing hands.

  But Arden had his own pace. He nipped her lower lip, then licked away the sting, before fusing their mouths for a slower, deeper kiss. She sucked on his tongue, shamelessly rocking over his thigh as the pressure within her built. She was dimly aware of the buttons running down the front of her bodice coming undone.

  She ought to stop him, but everything felt too good. Her eyes fluttered open at last, to find his startling green gaze burning into hers. She felt the shock and the connection of it deep inside. But still, she did nothing to stay his progress. She kissed him back, staring at him, her body moving rhythmically against his as, one by one, buttons slid from their moorings.

  She kept kissing him as he opened her bodice completely. Kissed him as he peeled the sleeves down her arms, his hot hands gliding over her bare skin. Kissed him right back while he pulled her bodice from the waistband of her custom trousers and let it fall to the floor.

  He tore his mouth from hers, his breathing harsh and ragged, his gaze never wavering, as he gripped her waist and lifted her, settling her bottom upon his desk. The crinkle of the map as she sat upon it reached her, and it ought to have been a reminder of what they were meant to be doing and why she was in his study alone with him.

  But the Duke of Arden’s mouth was ripe and dark from kissing her, and his eyes were eating her up as he nudged her knees apart, settling himself firmly between her legs. And then the ridge of his manhood pressed against her core.

  She gasped. He was large, even through the layers separating them. She knew what it meant now, as she had in the carriage. He wanted her. And she knew too what the pulsing, aching hunger inside her meant. She wanted him too.

  He cupped her cheek in a touch that was surprisingly gentle. Without speaking a word, he lowered his lips back down to hers. Her mouth clung to his. This time, she kept her eyes open. He rolled his hips, sending his length over her. She scooted nearer, thrusting against him without thought.

  Later, she could writhe in agony when she thought of how she had behaved. Later, she could worry about the effect their actions would have upon their fledgling partnership. It had been years since a man had kissed her, years since she had been caressed, since she had been wanted.

  And she did not want to stop.

  His mouth left hers to trail kisses down her throat. He dragged her chemise down her shoulders, baring her breasts. Kissing behind her ear, he filled his hands with her, and she allowed it. Longed for it. She looked down at the erotic sight of his large hands upon her and watched as he kissed his way down the curve of one of her breasts. When his mouth closed over her nipple, she cried out.

  He sucked, then flicked his tongue over the tight bud, sending a flood of sensation to her center. And still, she did not stop him. Instead, she sank her fingers into his hair, holding him there as he laved and suckled, torturing her flesh.

  He angled his rigid manhood against her, pumping into her aching center, then sucked her other nipple into his mouth. It was too much. Years spent tamping down and ruthlessly ignoring her body’s needs rendered her helpless beneath Arden’s sensual onslaught.

  She rocked against him, the friction making her lose control. She shattered as an intense burst of pleasure roared through her. Her inner muscles clenched and convulsed, and she spent, then and there, seated on Arden’s study desk, grinding her body into his like an alley cat longing for her mate.

  He made a low sound of need, his tongue flicking over her nipple, and still she felt no shame. Only a boneless, liquid sense of gratification. Until he released the turgid peak and straightened.

  And she began to fall from her cloud. Ramifications returned like the ground rising up to meet her. What had she done? Not only had she trespassed over an all-important boundary between herself and her new partner, she had also allowed another man to touch her for the first time since Adam. Worse, she had enjoyed it. She had writhed against Arden without regard for what would happen afterward.

  Her hands went to his chest, pushing him from her. She grasped her chemise and hauled it upward, covering herself. Hazel hopped down from his desk, searching blindly for her discarded bodice, for she could not walk the halls of Lark House in her underclothes. Any domestic who passed her would have no doubt as to what had just occurred.

  The need to escape was every bit as strong and sudden as the fires of desire he had lit within her. She required as much distance as possible between herself and Arden. Not to mention those hands and the tempting protrusion of his manhood.

  Her cheeks burned as she thought about how he had felt against her and how she had wanted more. About how desperately she had longed for what she had never even experienced with Adam. And how close she had come to almost allowing a man who she had only known for a short time make love to her. She found her bodice crumpled beneath his desk and sank to her knees, snatching it up.

  “Miss Montgomery,” Arden rasped, an undeniable note of apology edging his voice. “Hazel, I… Forgive me. I overstepped my bounds. I should never have touched you.”

  Somehow, the sound of her name in his clipped accent seemed just as intimate as the torrid embrace they had just shared. She needed to go. To run. Flee. Gather up the tattered remnants of her pride and leave him to his crumpled map, cavernous study, and intricately carved desk. There was precious little solace in the belated realization that, like every other one of his possessions, the Duke of Arden’s desk was also intolerably fancy.

  She stood and thrust her arms into the sleeves. “I must beg your forgiveness as well. I do not know what came over me.” Her hands shook as she attempted to fasten the buttons running down the front of her bodice.

  “Allow me,” he said, moving forward.

  “No,” she denied, still unable to look at him as she took a quick step in retreat.

  Unfortunately for her, Arden’s desk proved as unforgiving as it was immobile, and her rump slammed right into one of its sharp corners. Pain tore through her, but she bit her lip, refusing to allow herself to make a sound. Her pride was forcing her to smile and bear it. Her mind was counting down the seconds until she was alone.

  “That seemed as if it would smart,” he observed.

  She scowled down at her bodice as she settled the last button into place only to realize she still had one more buttonhole to fill. Her entire bodice was off by one button, but she refused to unbutton herself all over again to repair it. Her ignominy was complete enough.

  “I am perfectly well, Arden,” she lied, hating the sound of her voi
ce, breathless and husky. “If you will excuse me, I must retire.”

  Offering him something between a curtsy and a bow, she still avoided meeting his gaze. Swallowing down a great lump of shame, she turned on her heel and fled, ignoring the sound of his voice calling after her.

  Chapter Eight

  Three days after The Second Incident, Lucien arrived at the Duke of Winchelsea’s residence for dinner, just as he preferred to be, punctual and alone. But when Winchelsea’s butler announced him, and Lucien crossed the threshold of his superior’s study, he discovered there was another guest who would be joining them for dinner.

  A pair of wide blue eyes watched his entrance. To be precise, it was the same wide blue eyes to which he had been in close enough proximity to note the striations of deeper colors hidden within their depths: gray, violet, and cerulean. To be even more precise, it was the same pair of eyes he had stared into whilst she had rubbed her cunny all over his thigh until she spent.

  Christ.

  He had not expected her here, and his cock twitched at the sight of her, a testament to just how wrong he had been in telling himself what had happened three days ago in the late hours of the evening had been an aberration. That it had been nothing more than a rare lapse in judgment produced by the unfortunate combination of her nearness and the sight of her long legs in those infernal trousers.

  He had spent the days since his folly avoiding Miss Montgomery. She was a creature of habit, which rendered the task easy. He rose before dawn and breakfasted before her. On the first day of his self-imposed isolation, he had spent hours in his study, poring over her notes. He began on page one, rather than on page twenty-three as she had previously advised, and what he learned as he worked his way through them, was the woman was even more intelligent than he had supposed, and impossibly brave as well. His admiration had grown.

  So too his attraction.

  Which meant maintaining his distance from her was all-important. Because, even though he was gradually beginning to see having Miss Montgomery’s New York-gleaned information and enterprising mind aboard the Special League could be an asset, rather than a hindrance, he also knew his shockingly lewd behavior must never again be repeated.

  Regardless of how desperately he wanted to haul her into his arms and kiss her breathless, before carrying her to the nearest bedchamber, where he could bed her to his heart’s content.

  “Arden.” Winchelsea’s voice pierced the thoughts weighing down upon him then.

  Precisely the reminder he required. He could not stand here like a dolt, mooning over Miss Montgomery, while Winchelsea looked on. Nor could he continue making love to her with his eyes. This was precisely why he had been evading her for the last three days. Well, this and his own inherent weakness. He was drawn to Miss Montgomery, and there was no denying the all-consuming spark of attraction he felt whenever he looked upon her.

  Or thought about her, for that matter. But that too, was neither here nor there. Lucien could control himself. He simply had to exercise his restraint. And perhaps find an accommodating bed partner to distract him from his recklessness.

  What was she doing here, for Christ’s sake? He had not been warned an invitation had been issued to her as well. By God, had she hired a hack? The thought vexed him immensely, but he battled his indignation and irritation, for neither was wanted, or needed, at the moment.

  “Winchelsea,” he greeted, inclining his head and performing an abbreviated bow in the direction of the blue-eyed curse, who haunted his every errant thought. “Miss Montgomery. I did not expect you.”

  She had risen from her seat at his entrance, but she did not offer him a curtsy in return. Instead, she executed her strange half-bow. “Your Grace. Nor was I expecting you.”

  He supposed they were even on that score. But quite lopsided on another. This was one of a few times she had paid his title deference, and it was not lost upon him. Odd though it was, he had to admit he rather missed her ordinary daring.

  Was it his fanciful imagination, or had she grown more beautiful since that night in his study? Her cheeks were stained a pretty rose pink, her dark hair caught in a becoming Grecian braid, with wisps of curls framing her heart-shaped face. How had he failed to notice how delicately her brows were arched?

  Her tongue wetted her lower lip.

  And he knew she was not as calm and serene on the inside as her placid expression would suggest.

  When he was seated in the chair at her side, facing Winchelsea, he could not help but note the manner in which his superior’s gaze lingered upon Miss Montgomery. He thought of her responsiveness to him when they had been alone. Thought about the ardent manner in which she had kissed him, the way her hands had clawed at his shoulders first, and then his hair. The way she had opened her legs and wrapped them around his hips, meeting him thrust for thrust, while he sucked her nipples.

  And he wondered. He wondered how long she and the duke had been alone before his arrival. He wondered if she had taken note of how prodigiously tall Winchelsea was, even taller than Lucien himself. The man was more beast than man, truly. He wondered why Winchelsea had issued a separate invitation to her. He wondered if Winchelsea had cornered her against his desk, taken her mouth as his own…

  Christ! The mere notion made him ill.

  And bloody furious.

  He clenched his jaw tight. Beyond Winchelsea’s sumptuously appointed study, it began to rain. A thorough, soaking rain, pelting the street outside, rattling against the windows. Lucien flicked a glance over the expensive carpets and all the dark leather and gilt. This was his first time at Winchelsea’s residence, and he could not help but question the timing. Would he have been invited at all, if not for Miss Montgomery? More to the point, precisely what had Miss Montgomery been up to for the last few days while he had been isolating himself?

  He had imagined she was keeping to herself, studying her maps and making her lists. But it occurred to him now he had never inquired after her whereabouts. He had not concerned himself with what she was doing, or with whom she was doing it. He had simply taken for granted she would remain within Lark House.

  He was a fool. Doubly, it would seem.

  “The Nightingale,” Winchelsea said, bringing Lucien’s attention back to where it belonged.

  The Nightingale was the name of the contact the Emerald Club kept within England. Lucien had read the entirety of Miss Montgomery’s notes. Twice.

  He raised a brow. “What of him?”

  “We need to discover his identity,” Winchelsea elaborated. “Miss Montgomery feels the unearthing of this villain will prove essential to our ability to stave off attacks on our London railways.”

  Lucien turned toward Miss Montgomery. Their gazes clashed, and he saw everything reflected within hers for a brief, shattering moment, until she seemed to gather herself with a deep breath. Her lashes lowered, and when she tipped up her chin and met his gaze once more, he saw nary a hint of the vulnerability she had shown him merely seconds before.

  He remembered every touch. The way she tasted. The sounds she made. The way her body had come to life against his. For as long as he lived, even if he never touched her again, he would never forget.

  And he would be lying if he said he did not feel a stab of jealousy at the realization she had been sitting alone with the Duke of Winchelsea, formulating a plan without him. It hurt more than his pride.

  “Is that so, Miss Montgomery?” he asked her directly, refusing to allow her to look away. “What else have you been telling Winchelsea in my absence?”

  Inferring he was going to divulge the boundaries they had crossed together to Winchelsea was wrong, and he knew it well. But he would also be a liar if he claimed he did not enjoy the subtle lifting of her brows, the widening of her eyes, and the parting of her lips. Her spine stiffened. Her shoulders straightened.

  Her full, lush mouth tightened then. “I related to Winchelsea the affable manner in which we have been able to coexist as partners of the Special Leag
ue,” she said formally, her tone bright. “I also told him how very grateful I am for the manner in which you have welcomed me, Your Grace. You have been so warm, so caring and solicitous. Indeed, without the guidance of your dexterous hands, I would never have been able to find my footing here so well.”

  Her words were laden with double entendres, the minx. He had riled her enough she had almost spilled their secrets then and there before Winchelsea.

  Almost, but not quite.

  He flashed her a smile he did not feel. “I am happy to know my dexterous hands have enabled you to find your…footing, my dear Miss Montgomery.”

  She pinned him with a glare. “I could not ask for a better partner,” she seethed through gritted teeth.

  “Nor could I,” he growled right back at her.

  “Shall we attend dinner?” Winchelsea asked hopefully, aiming his smile exclusively in the direction of Miss Montgomery. “I confess I am quite heartened that the two of you have settled into a working partnership with such ease.”

  Oh, they had settled into a partnership, Lucien thought grimly. But perhaps not in the manner Winchelsea would prefer.

  “One can never be certain,” his superior added, “given the disparity of station and nationality, to say nothing of the undeniable fact that Miss Montgomery is female. Though her record is flawless, and she is unparalleled in her successful cases.”

  “Men do not accept women as their equals,” Miss Montgomery said, her gaze raking over Lucien. “There is no need to dance around the subject with me, Winchelsea, for I have been fighting against the current for the whole of my life. Resistance does not daunt me. Rather, it heightens my persistence. Whenever I am doubted, my determination to prove the naysayer wrong prevails.”