Heartless Duke

by Scott, Scarlett

  The unexpected crunch of shoes on the gravel path reached him then, jolting him from his maudlin reveries. Tensing, he abandoned the whisky and reached for the small pistol he had worn for the day’s festivities on the chance it was required. He rose to his full height, prepared to attack any interloper if necessary. He had felt comfortable in the knowledge that more than a dozen armed men prowled the grounds, ensuring that nothing and no one would intrude upon Clay and Ara’s idyll.

  But his instincts had him on edge despite the skills of the trained assassins he had scattered throughout Harlton Hall. Until the mysterious interloper emerged from behind a hedge.

  And there she was.

  The governess.

  He could not stay the smile that curved his lips as he carefully replaced his pistol in its hiding place. “Miss Palliser.”

  She stopped in her tracks, skirts swaying in the moonlight.

  “Your Grace!” She dipped into a passable curtsy, and villain that he was, he imagined her dropping to her knees entirely. Staying there. Asking him to come to her, opening her sweet pink lips to accept his cock. “You gave me a fright. I did not expect anyone else to be in the gardens this evening.”

  He swallowed to banish the unworthy thoughts adulterating his mind. “Miss Palliser. What are you doing out here all alone, in the darkness? Has no one ever told you nothing good can come of ladies wandering at night?”

  “I could ask the same of you,” she said with her signature brand of boldness. “I was given to understand you were taking your leave this evening after dinner.”

  It was true that had been his plan. But then his head had begun to feel as if it were laden with Fenian dynamite, and the darkness had threatened to claim him, and for the first time in quite a long time, he had not wished to be alone. But he would admit none of those weaknesses aloud to anyone, and certainly not to this lovely, yet strange creature, who had chosen to tempt fate by walking nearer to him instead of turning and fleeing in the opposite direction as fast as her feet could fly.

  Leo allowed his gaze to travel over her fine figure, noting the way the gray color of her gown took on an almost otherworldly sheen beneath the bright moon, that she wore no hat, and the lunar glow turned her raven hair to an enchanted silver. “Yes. That was to have been the plan. But I have decided to alter my travels. I will be remaining for the next day at least.”

  “I see,” she said, and he could not miss the note of disappointment in her voice.

  Had she wished him gone then?

  He recalled her passionate response, followed by her hasty retreat, the evening before.

  Did she fear for her position?

  If so, he could allay her concerns. Though his baser nature longed to take her in his arms and claim her lips once more, he had not come to Harlton Hall to dally with the governess. Nor had he suspended his return to London to do so.

  “Miss Palliser,” he began coolly, “you need not be concerned I shall relay what happened in the library to the Duchess of Burghly. Your secret is safe with me.”

  “Secret, Your Grace?” Her tone was hushed, equally frosty. “I confess, nothing about my time in the library was particularly memorable for me, and I cannot recall whatever it could be you refer to.”

  Her goad made him grit his teeth. He ought not to remind her, but he had already downed far too much whisky to make rational decisions where she was concerned. Something about the governess vexed him. Lured him. Intrigued him. “Delude yourself all you like, Miss Palliser. I am certain we both recall the manner in which you clung to me and offered me your lips. The way you kissed me back as if you wanted to devour me.”

  He had not meant to say the last, but it was true. She had kissed him with a tumultuous frenzy, and he had never in his years experienced as searing a joining as the kisses he had shared with Miss Palliser. A buttoned-up governess he could not touch. His nephew’s governess, he reminded himself. And if there existed any governess he ought not want to fuck, surely it was his nephew’s.

  “You kissed me, Your Grace,” she returned, chin tipping up in defiance.

  Her bravery knew no bounds. Nor, it seemed, did her capacity for deception.

  He moved closer to her, the moonlight and the whisky rendering him reckless and foolish. “You seem to be confused, my dear, for it was undeniably you who kissed me.”

  “You are wrong, sir,” she contended, holding her ground.

  One more step. Then another. And another. Until she was near enough to touch. To take in his arms should he wish it—strike that—should he deem it wise. For everything inside him wished it. Screamed it, in fact.

  Something about this woman called to him. Something made him want to haul her in his arms, slam his mouth over hers, and consume her. To make her his. To peel back the prim layers of her governess weeds and reveal the wildcat he knew lay hidden beneath her careful exterior.

  “I have it on good authority that I am never wrong,” he argued, his lips quirking into a smile he could not quell. This woman invigorated him as well. Intrigued him. Who was she? Where had she come from?

  To Leo, it was painfully obvious she was no ordinary governess.

  “Indeed?” Her voice had taken on a breathless quality, betraying her susceptibility to him. “And on whose authority would that be, Your Grace? Your own, perhaps?”

  What was it about this governess which made matching wits with her so bloody enjoyable?

  Christ knew, for Leo did not.

  “My authority would be the very best. Good authority is that of my mother, who trusts me implicitly in all matters.” He could not resist the taunt.

  “The Duchess of Carlisle believes you are never wrong?” the governess persisted, her words finding his softness like a blade sliding between his ribs.

  One swift jab, and he was bleeding, damn near incapacitated.

  He did not speak of the woman who had birthed him to anyone.

  His smirk died. “The Duchess of Carlisle is not my mother. Lily Ludlow is the only mother I have ever known. She is, in fact, the embodiment of what a mother ought to be.”

  And he had said far, far too much. Likely, it was because of the whisky he had consumed. Perhaps too because he was on the brink of the darkness. He could feel it, the heavy weight of the angry cloud spinning, churning like a storm about to unleash its rage upon the land below.

  But he could battle it back. If he was busy enough, inebriated enough, distracted enough, strong enough, he could fight off the coming tempest. He damn well knew he could. He had done it before, and he would do so again.

  “Forgive me, Your Grace,” the governess said quietly into the awkward silence which had descended in the wake of his pronouncement.

  “You need not offer apology,” he bit, cursing the whisky for rendering him too honest. Cursing his weakness for the governess who made him too vulnerable. “I stated fact. That is all.”

  “My own mother was not a mother a’tall,” she said softly. For a brief moment, her words had carried the sweet lilt of a brogue.

  What in the name of all that was holy?

  Could it be possible that Miss Pallister hailed from Ireland?

  His spine stiffened, blood running cold. Whispers abounded over the last few months about a woman in the most dangerous of all the Fenian circles.

  “Where do you hail from, Miss Palliser?” he queried with deceptive calm.

  Surely this woman, who was so diminutive in stature, so flawless of face and form—surely the woman he found himself attracted to in a way he had never felt for another before her—could not be his enemy.

  He was being overly cautious. Lack of sleep, coupled with over-imbibing and the added weight of his brother’s wedding, had rendered him far too susceptible to suspicion and maudlin sentiment both.

  She stilled at his question, like a wild animal who knew a hunter watched, one who was poised for flight and certain safety. Despite himself, his suspicions continued to rise.

  “I hail from London, Your Grace. I w
as born there, raised there, and it is where I call my home.”

  How quickly and neatly she had answered him. Even dulled by whisky, Leo’s senses began to hum. “Indeed, Miss Palliser?” He moved nearer to her still, crowding her with his body without touching her. “What street?”

  “Street?” The breathless quality of her voice had only heightened. Her hands fluttered in the air like butterflies, as if part of her wanted to lay them flat upon his chest and push him away, and yet, part of her did not dare to risk a gesture so foolhardy.

  “Yes, Miss Palliser.” Despite himself, despite his better intentions and the need to question this mysterious creature rising within him, he lowered his head. His lips wanted hers. Had to have them beneath his, against his. He hungered for her, for another taste, another exquisite glimpse into paradise. “What street were you born on? Where did you live?”

  By the time he had finished his clipped enunciations, his lips were perilously near to hers. Instead of waiting for her response, he moved. And then, suddenly, he had her in his arms, and her mouth was on his, open, warm, and so intoxicating. Her tongue slid past his lips, bold and delicious, and he played his along it, tasting her, kissing her back.

  Chapter Four

  Bridget had lost her bleeding mind.

  That was why she had thrown her arms about the neck of the Duke of Carlisle. Why she was kissing him as if he were the most delicious, decadent dessert she’d ever tasted. Why her entire body was a riot of sensation, why he had brought her to life, convincing her she should surrender all—her duties, her obligations, her beliefs—for one frantic beat of her heart, for one more kiss. One more sweep of his tongue over hers, one more deep, dark moan torn from his throat, one more press of his hard, powerful frame against hers.

  This man was her enemy, she reminded herself.

  He was dangerous to her.

  Forbidden.

  At dawn, she would be taking his nephew, leading him away from home, taking him to London. Bridget stilled in the act of kissing Carlisle back, wishing she knew what John wanted from the young Duke of Burghly. Why he had specifically asked for the boy. He had promised her the lad would not be harmed, but now she had spent time in the boy’s presence and had developed a fondness for him, she wished she had never agreed to this untenable situation.

  Perhaps sensing her sudden shift of mood, Carlisle broke the kiss, staring down at her. The moon’s glow was bright and full tonight, casting a silver sheen over him, over the garden, so that she could almost convince herself they had landed in the midst of a fairy realm.

  “Tell me, Miss Palliser,” he said, his voice decadent and low, sending a sinful trill down her spine, “did you follow me into the gardens?”

  Did he suspect her?

  Bridget’s breath caught in her throat as she studied the planes of his handsome face cast in shadow. How she wished she could see his eyes, read the emotions within.

  She forced her galloping heart to slow to a trot. “I can assure you, Your Grace, that I would never follow a man like you anywhere.”

  “A man like me?” He canted his head, looking down at her, and she was uncomfortably aware the moon illuminated her for his perusal, whilst he remained an enigma. That his hands lingered upon her waist as if it was where they were meant to be moored. “Explain yourself, madam.”

  “A rogue,” she forced herself to say, hating the breathlessness she could not hide. Hating the way her heart once more leaped when he slid a palm up her spine and she felt his heat through all the layers between them. “A gentleman with no greater concern than the whisky in his glass. A man born to privilege and power, who can take whatever he wants, who would importune a governess two evenings in a row.”

  “Rogue is an appellation I’ll own.”

  Slowly, the hand at her back traveled, between her shoulder blades now. The caress made an ache settle low in her belly.

  “But you know nothing of my concerns, Miss Palliser, or how they weigh upon me. Moreover, I fail to see how I have importuned you, when we have already established you kissed me first.”

  Had she the first night?

  Yes, for she had been determined to use him in whatever fashion she could to further her cause.

  Had she just now?

  Shame made her cheeks go hot. Nay, of course she had not. She would not…

  Lord in heaven, she had, hadn’t she?

  He had been the one to initiate their proximity, but the temptation of his lips had been her undoing.

  “What are your concerns?” she asked him instead of arguing the point, for she knew a battle she would lose when she saw one. And perhaps she could learn something from him. Get him to reveal some information she might use against him. Convince him to reveal his vulnerable underbelly.

  But he did not answer her. That wandering hand roamed to her neck, the touch of his bare skin upon hers a jolt to her already heightened senses.

  “You ought not to be roaming in the dark alone, Miss Palliser. Return to where you belong and forget our paths ever crossed.”

  Two impossibilities, for she could no more return to her beloved homeland where she belonged than she could forget about him, a man who stood for everything she had vowed to fight against.

  She did the only thing she could think of doing in that moment of raw, potent connection. Her own hand—also gloveless—raised, and she cupped his rigid jaw. Dared to stroke it. “Why are you roaming in the dark, Your Grace?”

  She told herself she prolonged their intimacy to garner as many secrets about him as she could. To make him vulnerable to her. But the rough prickle of his whiskers into her tender flesh made her feel heavy and aching between her legs. Just one touch, so simple. So unnerving.

  “Because the darkness is where I belong, my dear.” His long fingers tunneled into her hair, loosening the plaits of the simple braid she had tamed it into that morning.

  She shivered, but it had nothing to do with the damp of the night, or the hint of chill in the air, and everything to do with him. With the man, rather than her enemy. Diabhal. “Perhaps the darkness is where we all belong.”

  He cradled the base of her skull then, holding her with such tenderness. She had never known a gentler touch, and how surreal—if not impossible—to think it had been delivered by her greatest nemesis, the most dangerous man in England. The last man she should ever allow to touch her. The same man who would see her jailed and hanged for her sins as others before her had been.

  “What has the world done to you, Jane Palliser, to make you so cold?” he asked softly.

  The manner in which he held her, the timbre of his voice, made her feel…cared for. How foolish, how truly weak of her. The Duke of Carlisle was not hers to keep. He was hers to destroy. And destroy him she must.

  She answered him honestly. “The world has taken everything I hold dear from me.”

  “Then I shall not be the man who takes one more thing,” he said softly, dipping his head to feather a tender kiss over her lips. “Go now, Miss Palliser, before you are missed, and before I am too far gone to let you leave.”

  He was right, for lingering here with him was a temptation she could not afford. Some weakness she had not realized she possessed within her was susceptible to his touch, to his mouth. To his kiss. It struck her then, bathed in the moonlight, surrounded by the Duke of Carlisle’s strong arms, how easily the sins of the flesh could render boundaries and loyalties indistinct.

  In another time, another place, perhaps they could have met as lovers.

  This was not that time, nor was it that place.

  In this world, they were destined to be adversaries.

  But first, one more kiss.

  She tugged his head down to hers, and he allowed her to guide him, the massive, fearsome warrior in a duke’s pretty clothes. This kiss was for her, all she would permit herself. Their mouths sealed, quick and furious, and this time she did bite him. She caught his lower lip between her teeth, nipping the succulent flesh until he groaned.
>
  The Duke of Carlisle liked pain.

  It was a revelation she tucked inside her mind, for later, when she could make sense of it. Bridget could not resist biting harder, until the slightest hint of his blood—a salty tang—was on her tongue. She swallowed it, wishing for a wild moment it was his seed instead, then tore her lips from his and her body from his arms.

  The unlikely, moon-drunk union between them was at an end.

  “Something to remember me by, Your Grace,” she said.

  And then she spun away from him, leaving the gardens the same way she had entered them. This time, his dark devil’s eyes burned twin holes into her back with each step.

  Leo woke with a bruised lower lip, a raging cock, an equally raging headache, and the memory of the governess’s husky words: Something to remember me by, Your Grace.

  He stared at the ceiling overhead, grateful he had found his way to a bed and had not spent the evening in the gardens, even if he did not recall how he had wound up in his present state, naked and flat on his back beneath the bedclothes.

  It stood to reason Miss Palliser had not joined him. She had taken her leave after her parting gift, a hungry, hard kiss and a bite that had made him want to throw up her skirts, lay her down, and slam home inside her. Painful pleasure had ever been a weakness of his, and how this radiant creature in her prim dove-gray governess attire could somehow both sense that, and give him what he needed, had him closing his eyes on a groan and stroking his cock.

  He did not know if she was experienced or an innocent. Experienced women knew how to give and receive pleasure, and they were goddesses, one and all. But he had never had a virgin before, and the thought of taking Miss Palliser’s maidenhead—of being the first man to sink inside her tight, untried channel—made his cock even harder as he closed his fist over it, eyes closed to the early morning light, attempting to forget everything else.

  Of course he could not do it. Would not do it. His code of standards refused to allow him to be anything but honorable, unless his actions were taken in the name of the Crown, in the name of protecting the lives entrusted in his care. It was why he had sent the beautiful governess on her way last night. Why he would take his leave this morning, returning to London in time for supper, and perhaps a visit to the intrepid Mrs. Giraud, who knew how to meet his particular needs whenever they arose within him and demanded to be answered.