Shameless Duke

by Scott, Scarlett

  “That will be all, Reynolds, thank you,” Arden said. “You may close the door behind you.”

  The butler and duo of footmen accompanying him bowed before taking their leave of the room. When the door was closed, she became acutely aware of the fact she was alone with Arden once more. Though they had just been closeted within his study all morning, there was a distinct difference between their earlier toiling on behalf of the League and now.

  She vowed she would distract herself with food. She would not think of the kisses she had shared with him last night. She would not envision him without his clothes. Nor would she imagine his mouth and tongue, and the wicked pleasure of them both upon her most intimate and shocking places.

  Her plate was laden. In grim silence, she stared, unseeing at it, and stabbed the first object within reach of her fork tines. Unceremoniously, she shoveled the sustenance into her mouth. Cold roast chicken, she realized, seasoned well. Her stomach rumbled again. Yes, it was far better to answer the hunger in her belly, rather than the other hunger.

  That one was far more pronounced. And far more troubling.

  “I was betrayed,” Arden said suddenly into the silence.

  Her gaze jolted to him at last. He was watching her with an indecipherable expression. She did not know what to say, and there was a lump of chicken in her mouth precluding her from speaking anyway. She swallowed, then took a sip of her lemonade. Then another, working out what she would say to him next.

  A swallow, a breath. She attempted to regain her composure. If she had felt gauche before, she felt positively foolish now, reminded once more that, despite what had happened between them in the night, he was a duke, a blue-blooded aristocrat, and she was nothing but an orphan. She did not have his effortless manners. She was graceless and brusque, decidedly unfeminine, even when she wasn’t garbed in her divided skirts, devoted to a vocation most of the civilized world considered solely male.

  “Betrayed?” she repeated at last, after having swallowed two more bracing gulps of lemonade. His chef certainly knew how to perfect the drink. Not too sugary, not too tart. Just perfection on her tongue.

  Much like Arden.

  But that was a thought she needed to banish altogether.

  “By a man I considered unimpeachable,” he added. “He was my most trusted aid, in truth. He was gambling and suffering heavy debts. I had no knowledge of the difficulties in which he had found himself mired. Instead of coming to me and asking me for assistance, he turned to his cousin, a Fenian sympathizer.”

  She took another sip of her lemonade, fighting for the right words to say. “You are speaking of the reason for my presence here, are you not?” she dared to ask. “The reason why the Home Office suddenly required you to have a partner, yes?”

  “Yes,” he bit out, his eyes searching hers, his lips unsmiling. Firm, like his clenched jaw.

  He looked every bit the forbidding aristocrat, the arrogant duke. He was beautiful, yet untouchable. Only, she had touched him last night. Had more than touched him. He had been inside her. She remembered his tongue, then she remembered she should never think of it again.

  But such a decadent wickedness could never truly be forgotten, and she knew it.

  “How did he betray you?” Her curiosity and her concern for him collided, overruling any hunger roiling through her belly.

  “He planted evidence of Fenian collusion at the home of one of my agents. I mistakenly believed the agent was guilty, and brought him here to Lark House, keeping him under duress. He escaped and eloped with my sister, proving me wrong, but not before the bastard I trusted almost killed him, myself, and two other men I respect and admire. Not to mention my sister.” He paused, his tone rueful, shaking his head. “Lettie saved us all that day, but the crux of it is, she would not have been capable of doing so, if not for the man I believed guilty of treason. He taught her how to shoot a pistol when I refused, you see.”

  Hazel absorbed everything Arden had just revealed. Part of her was shocked he had been duped, for he seemed so omnipotent. Part of her was shocked he was admitting to it, for he was exposing a weakness to her. But she was grateful, so grateful, he was entrusting himself to her. Here was his story, the information he had carefully guarded from her, laid out and open before the both of them, as plainly as the food gathered for their luncheon.

  “The man you believed was guilty, his name has been cleared?”

  “I saw to it,” he said, his face devoid of expression.

  She sensed how deeply what had happened affected him, however. He had revealed something else about himself she had not known until this very moment: he had a sister. “And your sister, she saved you all?”

  Arden nodded. “She did.”

  Hazel could not contain her smile at the affirmation, for she could not deny she applauded the notion of a woman saving a group of men from imminent danger. “Your sister—Lettie, as you call her—she sounds like a lady I would admire and respect very much, Arden.”

  “Yes,” he agreed, deadly serious now. “You would both admire each other, I suspect. I… I very much fear my actions have created a rift between us that cannot be mended.”

  “You have apologized, have you not?” she asked tentatively.

  Arden did not seem the sort of man who would refuse to make amends for his sins, but he could also be arrogance personified, so she could not be entirely certain.

  He grimaced. “Of course I bloody well apologized. I nearly had my brother-in-law sent to prison. As one can imagine, however, my relationship with the two of them remains strained. Lettie is headstrong and fiercely loyal, but she is also her own woman. It is a lesson I learned too late for it to do me any good, I fear.”

  “The evidence against him must have been compelling for you to be so convinced of his guilt,” she ventured.

  “It was, but I am afraid my actions, however well-intentioned, neither endeared me to the Home Office, nor to Lettie and her husband.” His smile was self-deprecating. “All I wanted for my sister was her happiness, but in trying to secure that for her, I ended up pushing her away.”

  His revelations both hurt and warmed her heart. She was grateful he had trusted her enough to unburden himself, for she knew it was not easy for him to speak with such candor, particularly in regard to his own faults. And she also knew the time had come for her to share a painful part of her past as well.

  “We all make mistakes, Arden,” she said sadly. “At least the mistakes you made did not cost anyone his life.”

  She had not spoken of Adam, of what had happened, in many years. Her silence had not ameliorated her guilt or her sadness. Nor had it dimmed the profound sense of loss his death had caused.

  Arden seemed to understand the seriousness of the truth she was about to convey. His jaw clenched. “You have already shared enough of yourself with me, Hazel. You need not feel obligated to share anything more. I told you about what happened with my sister and brother-in-law because you were right some time ago, when you told me you ought to know my weaknesses. It would seem I have far more of them than I had once supposed.”

  For a brief, heady moment, she wondered if he was implying she was one of his weaknesses, but then dismissed the thought as silly. She was old enough, and worldly enough, to understand what had happened between them last night had been an even exchange. They had sought pleasure and comfort in each other’s arms. Nothing more, and neither would it be repeated.

  But still, she could not deny the closeness she felt to him. Not just because of the intimacies they had shared, but because the Duke of Arden—Lucien—touched a part of her she had not known existed. She would never be the same Hazel Montgomery she had been before she had first clapped eyes on him, when he had been scowling and looking down his nose at her in his study, wondering where H.E. Montgomery was. A part of her would always be his.

  And so, she was not telling him about the way she had failed Adam because she had made love with Arden. Rather, she was sharing it because she needed to. T
he time had come. She had held her tongue for far too many years. Telling someone felt right, but telling Lucien felt necessary.

  “I want to tell you, Lucien,” she reassured him, intentionally omitting her use of his title. “If you want to hear it, that is.”

  “I want to hear anything you wish to tell me,” he told her, his expression and his tone both deadly serious.

  She swallowed, daunted for a moment by his intensity. But then she forced herself to remember the enormity of the admission he had just shared with her. His secret had been closely guarded.

  “I was on my seventh assignment as a Pinkerton,” she began slowly. “A bank teller had been murdered, and one hundred thousand dollars had been stolen from the bank’s vault. It was my first case involving a murder, and a brutal one at that. The teller had been beaten with a hammer. I was working the case with one other detective, my fiancé, Adam.”

  “Hazel,” Lucien interrupted, his tone so tender, it made something inside her ache. “You needn’t go on.”

  “I suspect you know already how this tale ends, do you not?” Though she tried to smile, she failed. Saying Adam’s name aloud, even after all the time that had passed, pained her. She was no longer the girl he had once known and loved, but she would always miss him.

  “I suspect I do,” he acknowledged, looking grim, “but continue. Tell me, if it will lessen the weight you carry on your shoulders.”

  She could not be certain if it would, but all she knew was, she wanted to tell him. She continued. “The case seemed an obvious one. The bank teller often remained late to accommodate tradesmen who brought their deposits after their businesses had closed.

  “One of the men who commonly arrived with evening deposits was the teller’s good friend. Our investigation uncovered a great deal of debts that man had incurred. His motive was obvious. I was so certain of his guilt, I approached him with the evidence mounting against him, though my fiancé had warned me against doing something so foolish. But I…I had misread the suspect. When cornered, he did not confess his crimes. Instead, he attempted to shoot me. Adam stepped in front of me.”

  The violent discharge of that hated pistol would forever echo in her memory, as would the sight of Adam’s body falling to the floor before her, the blood streaming from his mouth, the shocked look in his eyes, as he struggled for breath. A shuddering breath went through her now, as the same old fear gripped her, nearly a decade later. Adam’s blood had been on her hands, warm and wet, such a sickening sensation.

  “S-somehow, I was able to retrieve the pistol hidden in my reticule,” she said haltingly. “I shot him before he could shoot me. I put my bullet in his head. B-but…it was too late for Adam. He died in my arms, and I have never forgiven myself for that day.”

  To her utter mortification, hot tears had begun to fall down her cheeks, sobs hitching her every breath. She had been so deeply dredged in the horror of the memories, which she had tamped down and repressed inside her for so long, she had not even been aware Lucien had risen from his seat opposite her.

  Not until warm, strong hands hauled her to her feet and spun her about. She was confronted with a wall of broad, hard chest for a moment. And then, he swept her into his arms. He held her, his arms banded around her, his face buried in her hair, as he caressed a slow, soothing path up and down her spine.

  “You were not to blame, Hazel,” he said. “You were conducting your investigation, attempting to bring a man to justice. You had no way of knowing the bastard would attempt to kill you.”

  “It is my fault Adam was killed,” she whispered, her ear pressed over the steady, reassuring thud of Lucien’s heart. Thump, thump. A subtle, visceral reminder he was here. He was alive.

  And so was she.

  She could not undo the past. No matter how desperately she wished she could go back and make a different choice, time had already taken that ability from her. Adam was gone.

  “It is not your fault, and you know it,” Lucien countered, his arms tightening around her even more. “You were doing your duty, attempting to bring a murderer to justice. I know you, Hazel. I know you well enough to know you are one of the best agents I have ever been privileged to work alongside.”

  His words had a strange effect upon her, cutting through the grief and guilt, planting deep roots. How grateful she was, not just for his comfort, but for his belief in her. Sharing what had happened with him felt freeing. It felt right.

  He felt right.

  Her arms were wrapped around his lean waist, and she leaned into him, allowing herself to be vulnerable. Allowing herself to be consoled.

  “Thank you,” she whispered, meaning it to her marrow, and yet, incapable of saying more, for fear she may burst into sobs all over again.

  His gentle touch continued to glide up and down her spine. “Thank you, Hazel. Thank you for telling me. I know what it cost you, how incredibly difficult it is to relive past horrors. I am honored you chose to share it with me.”

  For a long time, she said nothing, simply holding on to him, absorbing his heat and his strength. Breathing in the familiar, delicious scent of him. Listening to the sound of his heart pumping life through his veins.

  Wondering how she could ever possibly limit herself to one night with this man, with this beautiful, complex, surprising, endearing man in her arms.

  Wondering how she could ever possibly let go.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Lucien could not sleep, which was not a new affliction.

  The reason for his insomnia, however, was.

  He wanted Hazel.

  Well, to be precise, wanting Hazel was not a new affliction either, because he had certainly desired her from the moment she had brazenly waltzed into his study and scathingly referred to him as Mr. Arden. But not being able to sleep because he knew she was beneath the same roof, and because he knew what she tasted like, what it felt like to sink deep inside her, because the sweet sounds of her release would forever haunt him to his dying day, that was all bloody well a new affliction.

  Damn it.

  One night, she had told him.

  One night, he had agreed.

  But one night could never be enough. He had known it last night, and he knew it better than ever as he tossed and turned, then lay on his back, staring at the plasterwork on the ceiling in the darkness of the night. Shadowy acanthus leaves mocked him, lit by the glow of the evening’s unusually large moon.

  Christ, he was not even certain that one lifetime could be enough. They had shared more than just their bodies. They had shared themselves, their weaknesses, their mistakes, their follies, their regrets. And he wanted her in a way that was different than mere base lust. He was old enough, experienced enough, to know the difference between a woman he wanted to fuck and a woman he wanted to fuck and hold when she cried, and kiss away her tears, and hold her hand, and protect her, and worship her as she deserved, and, and, and…

  Emitting a low growl of frustration, he scrubbed a hand over his face and sat up in his bed. In his lonely bed, which still smelled faintly of Hazel and their lovemaking. He had taken himself in hand, but it had not been enough. Nothing but Hazel could be enough now.

  He thought again of what she had shared with him over their luncheon. How personal her revelation had been. How unexpected. She seemed so controlled at all times, so unemotional and untouchable. But he thought he understood her better now. She was devoted to her work as an agent as a sort of penance, a means of making atonement for the lost life of her fiancé.

  To his great shame, Lucien knew a spear of envy for her dead betrothed. The man who had thrown himself in front of her to spare her a bullet. Her feelings for the man had been apparent in the way she had spoken of him, in the reverence of her tone, the tears she had cried. For a brief, embarrassing moment as he had listened to her story and relived the awful trauma she had experienced along with her, Lucien had experienced a sudden stab of envy toward a dead man.

  He recognized instantly how foolish his react
ion was, how grounded in primitive instinct. After all, her betrothed had died, and Lucien had been the one to take her maidenhead instead of the martyr who had saved her life. He ought to feel guilty for that, but he could not summon up a speck of remorse. When it came to Hazel Montgomery, all he knew was that he wanted her, all for himself. He wanted to possess her, to consume her, to protect her, to make her his.

  To hell with one night. He would begin with two. Two ought to satiate his relentless desire for her. Never mind his forbidding aunt was in residence and that it would not do to potentially cause a scandal that would embarrass her. If he was quiet and careful, if no one ever found out, what would be the harm?

  He threw back the bedclothes and quickly donned a dressing gown in the semi-darkness. The household was asleep. Finding his way to her chamber undetected would be easy. Convincing Hazel to change her mind may not be, however. But never mind. He was prepared to persuade her. With his tongue, if necessary.

  The last thought sent a bolt of lust straight through him.

  He opened the door, strode over the threshold and into the hall, and promptly collided with someone. He instinctively reached for the person into whom he had crashed. His hands met with warm female flesh, undeniable beneath the barrier of a wrapper. She made a startled sound, her hands clutching at his shoulders for purchase, as the scent of her hit him. Soap and a hint of lavender.

  “Hazel,” he whispered, relief and gratitude washing over him as one. His grip on her tightened, but he could not help it. He was starving for her, and she had come to him. He could only hope her reason for flitting about in the darkness outside his chamber was the same reason he had been exiting his chamber.

  “Lucien.” Her buttery drawl was once more in evidence.

  Just his name and nothing more, and yet his cock twitched with appreciation and remembrance. She had been so tight and hot around him, so wet, dragging him deep, milking him to release. He was a greedy bastard, and he wanted more.