Heartless Duke

by Scott, Scarlett

  She knew this sort of man, had met him before: a powerful beast who had so much thrown at his feet, the chase intrigued him. He hungered for it. Indeed, the more brusque and dismissive she was with him, the more he emanated a raw, smoldering hunger.

  Once, a man of his size and handsome virility would have shaken her. He was a duke who governed England’s most elite clandestine forces with so much effortless grace, it had taken years for his identity to be uncovered. But she was not the girl she had once been, and she had only two things left to lose, neither of which she was willing to give him.

  She turned on her heel without curtsying, the slight deliberate. A mock she could not resist, and it was for herself rather than for him this time.

  “Miss Palliser.”

  Bridget almost failed to stop at the name, not recognizing it. She went a full three steps farther before halting, her skirts swishing in the suddenness of her pause. Certainly it was not the Duke of Carlisle who had caused her to forget her assumed identity. It was the newness of it, surely.

  She turned about, catching her bottom lip between her teeth and studying him boldly before lowering her lashes. “Your Grace?”

  Those molten eyes of his—predator eyes, like a fox’s, she thought—dipped to her lips. And for some reason she could not comprehend, her mouth burned as if he had placed his own upon it. Awareness hummed between them. She felt it, an ache in her core, and she was not supposed to. She did not want to. She wanted to be numb as she always was. As she forced herself to be. As she had to be.

  “You are awake when the rest of the house is abed. Why?” His tone was innocent enough, but the undertone, one of interrogation, chilled her.

  “I do not sleep well when I am establishing myself in a new circumstance,” she lied with ease. In truth, she did not sleep well at all. For with sleep came darkness, and with darkness came remembrance.

  “Nor do I,” he surprised her by admitting.

  The Duke of Carlisle had a weakness?

  She had been told he was formidable. Untouchable. As cold as ice. Heartless in his pursuit of his enemies.

  How intriguing.

  She studied him. “Forgive me if I find it impossible to believe that a duke should ever have difficulty finding his rest.”

  “You are a bold one for a governess, Miss Palliser.” He moved toward her with slow, purposeful strides.

  With him came his heat, the reminder of how large and menacing he was. How beautiful. It seemed a sin that the Lord should have bestowed the looks of an angel upon a man with the devil’s own heart.

  “I am bold when I need to be, Your Grace,” she said pointedly.

  Perhaps with a bit more condemnation than she should have, for he stopped.

  “I have no wish to affect your position here, Miss Palliser. I merely desire likeminded company.”

  “I would not imagine we could ever be likeminded about anything,” she argued, in spite of herself once more. “Similarly plagued, perhaps. Moreover, my remaining here with you is highly improper, and we both know it. I must go.”

  He continued forward until he was near enough to touch. “Must you?”

  She swallowed. It was true he wore the scent of a tavern on his coat, but it was also true beneath that, there was a deeper hint of musk and wilderness, as if it had been plucked from the deepest depth of the most verdant woodland and placed lovingly upon his skin.

  Lord have mercy on her soul. What ailed her?

  She was not…attracted to this man. To this duke, who had by definition, been given the best of everything. Who had all the power. Who had never been taught to listen to the lowly. To hear their cries and their wants and their needs. Who thought it was his right to rule an entire nation of people simply by the nature of his birth.

  Nay. Nay. Nay.

  She was not.

  Bridget compressed her lips as she studied him. His expression was inscrutable. He smelled of spirits, but he did not act as if he were inebriated. His speech was not slurred, his eyes were not glazed. Nor did he sway on his feet. His words made sense. But while her observations suggested otherwise, her instincts told her the Duke of Carlisle was vulnerable to her. He was in his cups, and he was attracted to her. She could take advantage of that, of him. Now, in this moment.

  If she waited until tomorrow…

  If she waited until the next day…

  It may well be too late. Here was an undeniable opportunity. He could have brought sensitive documents along with him. He could reveal information to her with the proper incentive. She had found him unawares, the illustrious Duke of Carlisle, who scarcely emerged from his London lair. Pried from his familiar surroundings, plied with drink, he could be malleable. All she needed to do was give him the proper lure.

  She could allow some kisses. Perhaps even more. She had suffered unwanted attentions before, and she would do so again.

  Of course, if the Duke of Carlisle kissed her, it would not precisely be suffering, and she knew it.

  Curse his miserable hide and equally miserable face.

  John had told her so much about the duke. He had fed her every detail of pertinence. But he had not warned her against the magnetism the man exuded.

  “You have not answered me,” the duke reminded her softly, and he was even nearer now, even more of a threat. More of a temptation. “Must you go? I have any number of distractions for you here if you but say the words.”

  “Of course I must.” She pretended to hesitate, running her tongue over her upper lip once, twice. The stab of guilt she ordinarily experienced whenever she thought of Cullen eluded her now. In its place was something else. Something worse. A deeper, darker want. Some base part of her was enjoying this. “I must bid you good evening, Your Grace.”

  His eyes were on her mouth again. “No one need know.”

  She imagined if the devil were to appear before her, tempting her to sin, his voice would sound the same as the Duke of Carlisle’s: low and smooth and laden with wicked promise. “I run the risk of losing my position.”

  “You ran the risk of losing your position the moment you entered this library with me, and yet, here you stand.”

  One more step, and he was now close enough to tip up her chin with one long finger. Just a slight touch, scarcely any pressure behind it. But the contact of his bare skin on hers was a maddening jolt to her senses. Her body did not understand this man was her enemy.

  “As I said before, you waylaid me.” She remained still with great effort. Part of her wanted nothing more than to move closer to him, and part of her wanted nothing more than to flee.

  “Have you always been a governess, Miss Palliser?” he startled her by asking, allowing the pad of his thumb to settle upon her chin as if it was where it belonged. “Was it your choice for yourself, to live a prim spinster’s life and tend to the children of others?”

  “Most born into this life do not have the liberty of choice, Your Grace.” But she would not expect someone like him to understand.

  And here, again, he had shaken her from her path. Distracted her from the role she was meant to play. She was not meant to clash with him, but to protest. To allow him to persuade. Make him think her a conquest. Encourage his lust.

  “It may surprise you to discover how little choice any of us has.” He sounded grim, as if he carried a great burden. “Myself included.”

  More vulnerability. She could press it like a broken rib, cause him pain. Parting her lips, she allowed her eyes to search his before lowering to settle upon his mouth. “What choices were you robbed of, Your Grace? I find it difficult indeed to believe a man as powerful and wealthy as a duke would not have his complete liberty.”

  “As I said,” he began then paused, withdrawing his hand, “the truth may surprise you.”

  What choice had been taken from him? She wanted to know, and it disturbed her greatly to realize that want derived from herself, from Bridget, and not from the machine of war she had been forced to become.

  She searched
his gaze. Within it, she found a haunting sadness. Something inside her shifted, and for a moment, she knew a surge of empathy before she ruthlessly battled it down. “What is it you want from me, Your Grace? The more I linger here, the greater the danger of my discovery. I cannot think the duchess would approve of my presence here in the library, so late at night, alone with you, or any other gentleman for that matter.”

  Her employer the Duchess of Burghly cared deeply for her son, that much was apparent. She had rigorously interviewed Bridget upon her arrival, and in her prim widow’s weeds, she seemed the sort who would not countenance her son’s governess dallying with a gentleman, be he a duke or even a king.

  “Stay with me.”

  Three words. Separately, they held no significance. Strung together, spoken by the Duke of Carlisle, they held untold meaning. The tone of urgency in his voice—as if her presence was not just something he desired, but a necessity—meant even more.

  “It would be folly,” she argued softly, stepping closer to him in such proximity, her skirts swayed against his trousers. Play the game, Bridget. Do your duty.

  “Please.” His jaw tightened after he conveyed the lone, raw plea.

  He seemed a man who did not often need to ask for what he wanted. She longed to discomfit him, to sneak beyond his defenses. To probe and nudge him, to make him reveal himself to her. “Why?”

  “Because there is sadness in your eyes, Miss Palliser, and I know it well,” he said, surprising her again. “Because I am lonely. Because you are beautiful. Because I want very much to kiss you.”

  She hated this man, hated everything he stood for. And yet, he moved her. Some part of her she had thought long banished returned. For a beat, she forgot who she was. Forgot who he was. Forgot this was war, the battle formations clear. Forgot the hatred burning inside her, the need to save Cullen and herself.

  And in that brief, terrifying, ruinous moment, she became merely Bridget, whose heart thumped madly, who was staring up into the face of the most handsome man she had ever seen. A man who had just declared he wanted to kiss her. A man she could not deny she wanted to kiss in return.

  Rising on her toes, she cupped the Duke of Carlisle’s jaw and pressed her lips to his. If his touch on her chin had been a spark, this—his mouth on hers—was an inferno. He made a low sound of need as his hands found her waist. In an instant, he took control, his mouth opening over hers, his tongue swiping over the seam of her lips, demanding entrance. And she gave it to him. With a soft mewl of surrender, she opened.

  His tongue was a warm and welcome invasion, and she ran her own against his experimentally. When his grip on her waist tightened and he drew her closer, she knew she had pleased him. She had been kissed before, but never with such hungry precision. Never with such wildness, as if she were the air he breathed, as if he needed her. She kissed him back, desperate and greedy, lips moving, tongue sliding, teeth scraping his lips. She wanted to bite him. To make him bleed. To consume him. To take part of him and never let it go.

  But her mind intruded before she could lose herself completely.

  Cullen.

  Guilt skewered her.

  What was she doing? What had she been thinking?

  She was not meant to be attracted to this man. Not meant to enjoy his kisses. Her duty lay elsewhere.

  She thought of her homeland then, and she released him, pushing at his shoulders. Putting some distance between them.

  Frozen, she stared at him. At the Duke of Carlisle, the man who would happily see her swing from the gallows if he knew who she truly was. The voice inside her head returned, louder, more menacing. But this time it was John’s voice.

  Know you are a soldier, Bridget. Cullen’s life depends upon you. Our independence depends upon you.

  She clamped her hand over her mouth, tingling and swollen from the duke’s kisses. She had betrayed herself. Had betrayed everyone depending upon her. “Forgive me,” she muttered from behind her hand, hating herself.

  Bridget O’Malley did not forget who she was and what she fought for. She did not enjoy kissing English dukes. Bridget O’Malley was heartless. Emotionless. She was impenetrable. Untouchable.

  Or at least she had been, until the man before her had touched his lips to hers.

  She spun away from him, needing space and distance. Needing time. Separation. She could not do what she needed to, not tonight. Not with him. Not after this.

  “Miss Palliser!” he called.

  Ignoring him, she fled as fast as her feet would carry her.

  Chapter Two

  Bridget woke at dawn as she always had. After so many years, the habit was ingrained in her, even when unnecessary. This morning, unlike so many others, she woke with the aching sting of regret. She had failed herself. She had been presented with a drunken, defenseless Duke of Carlisle, and she had not pressed her advantage. She had not slipped laudanum into his whisky. Had not accompanied him to his chamber to search his possessions whilst he passed out on the bed. The plan her quick mind had formed had deserted her.

  Instead, she had fled like a coward.

  She rose and lit a lamp, beginning her morning ablutions. The face staring at her in the glass was pale, hair a tangled mass of ebony. Her expression was drawn, tight, laced with worry. She had not just failed herself. She had failed Cullen.

  Bridget knew she had made a grave error. She had allowed her base urges to overrule her head. Carlisle’s kiss had affected her. It had not been anything like other kisses she had suffered. It had not been hard or punishing. Not even unwanted, though she was loath to admit it to herself.

  She took a deep breath and forced herself to recall who she was. Forgetting was easier than remembering. All she needed to do was look around her, at the opulence wasted upon a world she was not meant to inhabit.

  The chamber she had been given, adjoining the nursery and the young duke, was larger than she was accustomed to, bearing three eastward-facing windows. It was lovely, so lovely, she could stand in the center of it and banish from her mind the bitter knowledge of why she was here and what she must do.

  But like dawn, reality always returned.

  With a grim air, she dressed in her simple dove-gray gown and fastened her hair into a tidy governess’s bun. Her charge would not be awake for another two hours, which meant she would have some precious time to herself—so dear—before her duties of the day began.

  A restorative walk was in order, she decided, donning her ankle boots. The early morning at this time of year tended to be cool, so she fetched a wrap before leaving her chamber, then hastily made her way down the corridor to the main floor. Something—foolishness, or perchance wild fancy—made her walk past the library door.

  And that was when she heard it.

  Gentle, rhythmic snores.

  She paused in her traverse of the hall, listening. The sound was unmistakable. Undeniable. Someone was sleeping in the library. It could have been an overworked parlor maid, but the timbre suggested otherwise. Her instincts suggested otherwise.

  Gooseflesh rose on her arms.

  It was him.

  The Duke of Carlisle.

  Here, perhaps, was her second chance at gaining information from him. John would be more than happy for any gem of knowledge she could beg, borrow, or steal. She lingered outside the library, hand on the latch, wondering if she ought to enter or if she should wait.

  Wait, said something inside her.

  And then another voice, equally forceful said, Press your advantage. Now.

  She opened the door and crossed over the threshold. The slow, steady sounds of a man breathing in his sleep reached her as the door closed. Her eyes adjusted to the darkness of the room, settling upon the opposite wall where a large, leonine body was draped across an oversize settee. Yet even though the piece of furniture was immense, he still managed to dominate it, his long legs protruding from the end.

  It occurred to Bridget here was a glaring, unprecedented opportunity: she could seek out his c
hamber, search it for any insights she could pass on to John in an effort to help the cause. But instead, something else made her feet move. Across the library she traveled, boots thumping steadily against the carpet. Until she stood before him.

  The ghost of a fire in the grate crackled, and the sun sent a trickle of light glinting from the eastern windows as it began to rise. He was a study in contrast: dark, yet golden; fearsome, yet beautiful.

  There he was, at her mercy, stretched out like Christ on the cross, just as vulnerable to her attack. Even his arms were splayed, almost as if in a parody. She could do him harm. Pull the knife from her boot. Find his vein and cut.

  Bridget swallowed, looking down at him. Even in the semi-darkness, he was beautiful. Compelling. A formidable foe. One she could end so easily. Now. Within seconds.

  Yet…she could not. Removing this man as an obstacle would be a boon to the cause. She would be hailed a hero. But while Bridget wore many mantles, murderess was not among them.

  Even so, how convenient of Carlisle to drink himself into a stupor and spend the evening drunk as a lord in the library. John had told her League members often secreted correspondence in hidden pockets in their waistcoats. Her quick eyes spotted a bottle of spirits on the table alongside him, half-empty. A fortuitous happenstance.

  Poor Duke. He would not know what hit him. Bridget truly ought to thank him for making this so easy.

  She took up the bottle and doused him with the contents, taking great care to keep the seams of his waistcoat, where it was easiest to insert documents, dry. The duke continued snoring, sleeping right through her endeavor. She laid the bottle on him gently, tipping it to its side as if he had fallen asleep while drowning himself in drink, causing the spill. With quick, quiet movements, she took a handful of steps in retreat.

  And then she started forward.

  “Your Grace,” she called, hoping to rouse him with the volume of her voice.

  It would look far more natural, more innocent to him, if he woke with her starting toward him rather than hovering over his supine form. She had but one chance to get her hands on his waistcoat, and she was determined not to squander it.