The Return of the Duke

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The Return of the Duke Page 26

by Grace Callaway


  “Her name is Anna Smith,” Knight said in a cold, detached voice. “According to Dr. Erlenmeyer, she was committed to the madhouse because of a long history of delusions. Evidently, she believes that she is a spy and has a history of attacking strangers whom she believes she’s been sent on a mission to harm.”

  “Heavens,” Aunt Esther said faintly.

  With a shiver, Fancy remembered the woman’s greeting. “She called me Your Highness.”

  “It is likely Miss Smith thinks you are royalty she’s been sent to assassinate.” Passing lights and shadows waved over Knight’s stark features. “Dr. Erlenmeyer said that the last time that happened, Miss Smith assaulted a lady walking down the street…with an axe.”

  “Bloody hell,” Jonas said, his eyes wide.

  “Miss Smith escaped from the madhouse a week ago, and Dr. Erlenmeyer and his men have been searching for her. They glimpsed her near Berkeley Square five days ago, but she lost them.”

  “That was the day of the falling bricks.” Fancy’s throat cinched. “Miss Smith was in the area?”

  Jaw taut, Knight nodded. “She’s likely the one behind the ‘accident’.”

  “But why would she target me?” Fancy asked.

  “Dr. Erlenmeyer says there’s no rhyme or reason to it. The last time Miss Smith escaped, she began stalking a lady she spotted at a milliner’s. She probably saw you when you were out shopping—the doctor and his men said she migrates to Bond Street—and the voices in her head told her you were her next victim.”

  “To think, that wretched woman may have been spying on us when we were at Madame Rousseau’s.” Shuddering, Aunt Esther gave Fancy’s hand a pat. “At least this dreadful business is over. It is, isn’t it, Knighton?”

  “I believe so,” he said quietly.

  The truth struck Fancy. “Then the danger…it had nothing to do with my past?”

  “It would seem that the attacks were unrelated to your origins,” Knight confirmed. “You were just a victim of bad luck, attracting the notice of a madwoman.”

  She expelled a breath. “I don’t know whether or not to feel relieved.”

  “I, for one, am definitely relieved that the threat is over,” Aunt Esther declared. “We will once again be able to circulate in Society without murder and mayhem hanging over our heads.”

  “Does that mean we can stop being hermits?” Cecily asked brightly.

  “Not until I pay a visit to Dr. Erlenmeyer tomorrow,” Knight said in flat tones. “I will not rest easy until I know that Anna Smith is securely confined and no longer poses a threat to my wife or my family.”

  The next morning, Severin travelled to Brookfield Asylum. Fancy had wanted to come, but he had drawn the line at his wife visiting the woman who’d tried to kill her. He refused to expose Fancy to such darkness…and didn’t want her there when he had to confront his demons.

  For he was no stranger to madhouses. From the ages of fourteen to twenty, he’d visited his maman in Bedlam. He knew what to expect and braced himself.

  In some ways, Brookfield was superior to Bedlam. Situated on the bucolic outskirts of Highgate, a village just north of London, the asylum was smaller, cleaner, the manicured grounds surrounded by a tall stone wall that managed to look decorative even though its function was to keep the residents in. The main building was flanked by two smaller wings, the elegant architecture marred by the barred windows and padlocked doors. As Severin passed through the front entrance, he heard a pitiful wail that knotted his stomach.

  Dr. Erlenmeyer was waiting for him. The daylight revealed the milky translucence of the Austrian doctor’s skin, the tracery of veins beneath. His sandy hair was combed in thin lines over his balding pate, and his pale blue eyes were bloodshot in his narrow face. The hand he extended to shake Severin’s was hairless and smooth.

  “Welcome to Brookfield, Your Grace,” Erlenmeyer said. “It was unnecessary, however, for you to make the trip. I assure you that I have Miss Smith well in hand.”

  “Nonetheless, I would like to see for myself,” Severin said.

  “Follow me, then.”

  Erlenmeyer led the way through doors that he unlocked with a key. Inside the ward, rooms sprung from an arterial corridor, each containing two cots rather than the ten or more that had been crammed into the dungeon Severin’s maman had occupied in Bedlam. Yet both madhouses shared a particular smell: boiled food mingled with caustic lye and urine. The odor of misery seeped from the brick and mortar, the very bones of a prison for the mad.

  They arrived at a small, spartan cell. Severin looked at the woman lying on the single cot. The manacle on her ankle kept her chained to the bed. She was wearing a white jacket with ties that bound her arms to her chest; she looked like one of the mummies on display at the British Museum. Her eyes were lifeless, her tongue lolling and saliva trickling out of her mouth.

  Severin couldn’t stop the flood of memories: his own mother bound in similar restraints. Her glassy eyes, rambling words, and frothing obscenities. Even worse had been her flashes of lucidity, when suffering had bled over her worn features.

  Severin, forgive me. I didn’t mean to hurt you, she’d wept.

  Pain raked his insides. He had told her time and again that he’d forgiven her—that he knew she hadn’t meant to attack him. Bleeding in the street, he had begged the constables not to take her away. In the end, he was the one who had failed her. He hadn’t been able to ease her anguish or get her out of Bedlam…until it was too late.

  She had died in that hellhole, alone and afraid.

  “As you can see, Miss Smith poses no risk,” Erlenmeyer said brusquely.

  Concentrate, Severin told himself.

  Tamping down the swirling chaos, he asked, “How did she come into your care?”

  “After her first attack on an unwitting victim, she was apprehended and found insane,” Erlenmeyer said in precise accents. “As I have experience working with violent patients, it was deemed that she would benefit from my care. My hospital receives funding from generous benefactors to carry out its good works, even for destitute lunatics like Miss Smith.”

  “By good works, you mean you keep her chained and drugged,” Severin said.

  “We have to keep Miss Smith sedated.” Erlenmeyer drew himself up, his tone defensive. “She is otherwise a danger to herself and others. There is no other way, Your Grace.”

  Severin couldn’t stem his antipathy toward the mad-doctor even though he knew it wasn’t fair. The man was doing his job. Erlenmeyer had nothing to do with the way Severin’s maman had been treated in Bedlam, the bruises and cigar burns Severin had found on her…the dried blood on her thighs.

  Darkness welled. Years of self-discipline allowed him to shove back the rage of powerlessness before it swamped him. He faced the mad-doctor with the polished control of a gentleman—a duke. Although he knew that his past colored his perception of Erlenmeyer, his instincts told him that something wasn’t right with this bloodless fellow.

  “For my wife’s safety, Miss Smith must be kept confined here at the asylum,” Severin said. “I will not have it done in an inhumane fashion, however. See that she has regular meals and a chance to take air in the garden daily. She will have a female attendant with her at all times. If you do not have one, hire one, and send the bill to me.”

  “Very good, Your Grace,” Erlenmeyer said. “Will there be anything else?”

  The mad-doctor’s apparent deference did not hide the resentful glint in his eyes. He didn’t like having his authority questioned, which was too bloody bad. Severin couldn’t shake his feeling of suspicion. Recalling that Harry Kent’s older brother Ambrose was a renowned investigator, he decided to retain the services of the senior Kent forthwith to make enquiries into Erlenmeyer’s past.

  “I will expect weekly reports on Miss Smith’s treatment,” Severin said coldly. “If anything happens, I want to be the first to know. And if Miss Smith manages to escape again…you will have to answer to me.”

  32


  Although the threat to her life had ended, Fancy found herself more worried than ever. This time her concern was over the state of her marriage. Knight was behaving strangely, and she feared she knew the reason why. Since the attack by Anna Smith two nights ago, Knight had retreated into himself. He was polite, speaking when spoken to, his gaze cool and remote. To Fancy, he seemed to be going through the motions, and she had asked him if he was all right.

  Predictably his answer had been, “I am fine.”

  Then why was he avoiding her?

  The night of the attack, Knight had come to her bed, and they’d both fallen into an exhausted sleep. When she woke up, he was gone; there was no affectionate note to tell her where, although she knew he had gone to see Anna Smith at the asylum. Perhaps he hadn’t wanted to rouse Fancy’s anxieties by reminding her of the sad and terrifying affair. The next evening, he had stayed late at work. She had fallen asleep before he returned, and when she’d knocked on his door in the morning, he had already left.

  The pattern was becoming undeniable.

  Until two nights ago, their intimacy had been growing day by day. Fancy could only think of one thing that could have brought on Knight’s brooding mood—the same thing that had brought it on the time before: Imogen.

  Fancy tried to battle her insecurities, remembering what Maggie had said about Knight watching her whilst talking to the other woman, but her doubts proliferated like weeds. Could she ever replace the angelic Imogen in Knight’s affections? Could she win her husband’s heart? Would he ever want to kiss her and only her?

  Fancy didn’t know the answers. What she did know was that she loved her husband. She couldn’t allow him to build a wall—or close the door—between them when they’d been making such good progress. Thus, that evening, she nursed a pot of tea and waited up for Knight.

  At half-past midnight, she heard him enter his chamber. He had a murmured exchange with Verney, followed by the sounds of the valet readying him for bed. Hearing Verney leave, Fancy pounced on the opportunity and knocked on the door. Her pulse thrummed as footsteps sounded on the other side.

  The barrier opened, revealing Knight. He was ready for bed. The vee of his dressing gown showed the hard, hair-dusted contours of his chest, his muscular calves bulging below the hem. The fact that he was obviously naked beneath his robe caused a flutter between her legs to accompany the one in her heart.

  “Yes, sweeting?” He gave her an inquiring look. “Do you need something?”

  You, she thought in frustration. Why are you acting differently? Did one look from Imogen destroy all the progress we’ve made?

  His polite tone and veiled gaze made her afraid of the answers. She flashed back to the perfection of Knight and Imogen beneath the potted palm. Imogen, slender, beautiful, and breathtakingly fragile staring up at Knight with her heaven-blue eyes. And Knight, tall, dark, and handsome, bending to murmur a reply. It could be the perfect scene from a faerie tale—except the prince was with the wrong princess.

  Knight’s mine, Fancy thought with a surge of possessiveness. He lives with me, sleeps with me, and he is blooming well going to love me.

  “Fancy? Are you all right?”

  Seeing Knight’s quizzical expression, she summoned her courage.

  “I was wondering if you would like company tonight,” she said.

  Her breath held as his brows drew together. He’d told her once that he would always welcome her in his bedchamber; had he lied? Had his desire for her faded after seeing Imogen?

  Clearing his throat, he stepped aside. “Yes, of course. Come in.”

  Exhaling, she entered his bedchamber. His gaze grew heavy-lidded as it roamed over her, building her confidence. She was wearing another of Madame Rousseau’s creations, this bedtime set the most daring of them all. The cherry satin peignoir and negligee were cut to cling to her curves. The neckline plunged in a deep vee and was covered in scandalous black lace, which gave a peekaboo view of her breasts.

  She might not possess Lady Cardiff’s cool, fair beauty, but she had her own attractions. She knew Knight liked her breasts because he’d told her repeatedly as well as shown it. Determination unfurled in her to stake her claim on her husband…and she knew exactly how to do it.

  Trying her best to be seductive and sophisticated, she walked over to his bed, giving her hips an extra wriggle. Her attempt to be a temptress was somewhat marred by the fact that she wasn’t tall enough to slide sinuously onto the bed. She had to give an inelegant little hop to boost herself up, her bottom bouncing when it hit the mattress.

  Recovering, she leaned back in what she hoped was a languid pose, giving Knight a come-hither look. She felt a charge of power when he prowled toward her. He towered over her like a stern yet sensual god, silver lightning in his eyes. His smoldering intensity fed the reckless beat in her blood, as did the prominent bulge at the front of his robe.

  “What are you up to, sweeting?” he said.

  “I wanted to show you my new negligee.” She fluttered her lashes. “Do you like it?”

  She let the peignoir slip off her shoulders, revealing the black straps of her negligee beneath.

  His nostrils quivered like those of a stallion scenting its mate. “Take off the peignoir, and I’ll decide.”

  She reached for the belt of her robe, his gaze tracking her movements. Deciding to give him a show, she untied the satin cord with slow teasing movements. She wiggled her shoulders to ease the satin down her arms, knowing that the action would also jiggle her breasts.

  Her husband’s gaze was trained on those mounds, straining against the net of black lace. His eyes moved upward, to her chemise’s black satin straps, tied in a bow on each shoulder.

  “What do you think?” she asked in the sultriest voice she could muster.

  He fingered the bow on her left shoulder, the lazy caress scattering sparks over her skin.

  “You look like a present waiting to be unwrapped,” he murmured.

  Feeling very daring, she said, “I’m your present.”

  And you’re mine. You’re my husband, my prince.

  “Lucky me.”

  He tugged on the bow. It unraveled at his touch; that side of her bodice, no longer anchored, slipped downward, catching at her waist. His pupils darkened, and he repeated the action on the other side. It took all her courage to remain as she was, her palms planted on the mattress, letting him look his fill of her bare, heaving breasts. The stiff peaks strained beneath his hungry gaze.

  Her heart pounded as he trailed a finger from her chin to her throat, downward to her collarbone, the surging slope of her right breast. He circled the red tip, catching it between finger and thumb. When he gave the ripe berry a light pinch, juice trickled from her pussy.

  “Such pretty tits,” he said in a casual tone that made her even wetter. “I’m going to enjoy licking them while you ride my cock.”

  Sweet Jaysus, yes.

  Triumph filled her as she saw the need in him take over. His eyes were no longer cool or remote; ravening appetite spread like ink through those grey depths. He removed his dressing gown, and a breath puffed from her at the extent of his arousal.

  She had roused the beast, all right.

  His long, thick cock was primed for mating. The burgeoned tip pointed to her the way a hound points to its prey. Her body responded with a primal clench. Hot longing rushed beneath her skin.

  He mounted the bed, sitting against the headboard. He had a king’s arrogance with his knees cocked, one hand stroking his majestic shaft. He crooked his finger; with trembling anticipation, she crawled over the mattress toward him.

  “Climb on, sweetheart,” he said.

  She did so with an eagerness that she couldn’t quite contain. Her knees braced his thick thighs, and she placed her hands on his shoulders, the hard muscles bulging beneath her touch. When he rubbed his blunt dome against her slick petals, a needy whimper left her.

  “You’re nice and wet, ready for my cock,” he purred.
“This is what you wanted, isn’t it?”

  She bit her lip as his wide head breached her opening. She wanted it, yes, the wild pleasure. But she wanted more too. Fear held her back from saying what was in her heart. His brooding withdrawal had shaken her self-confidence, and she would have to work up to baring her soul.

  She settled for, “I want you, Knight.”

  Savage satisfaction lit his eyes. “Then take me.”

  He gripped her satin-clad hips, pushing her onto his cock at the same time that he thrust upward. The hard penetration stole her breath, her senses, all her awareness focused on the thick pole drilling upward into her center. Her spine arched at the fullness, but he didn’t give her time to adjust. Grunting, he wrenched her along his shaft, making her take him deeper and deeper, his virile presence setting off tremors deep in her womb.

  “Ride me until you come,” he rasped. “I want to feel your pussy milking my prick.”

  Primal need unspooled her inhibitions. She abandoned herself to the carnal heat, her bottom smacking against her mate’s thighs as she rode his cock, chasing the wild finish. With a growl of approval, he cupped her breasts, teasing them with his lips and fingers. When he took a tip deep into his mouth, her intimate muscles clenched on his hardness. He sucked harder, and she moaned, grinding against him, impaling herself on his meaty shaft.

  “Christ, yes,” he gritted out. “You’re almost there. Spend on my cock.”

  She looked into his face; in that moment of raw pleasure, he was open to her, his eyes burning with desire…and love. The power of their connection surged through her. Longing burst in her heart, breaking the dam of her control.

  “I love you,” she gasped and leaned in to kiss him.

  The next instant, she was moving through the air. She found herself no longer on his lap, but on her hands and knees facing the other direction. Before she could make sense of what had happened, he thrust into her from behind, with a force that shoved a surprised cry from her throat.

 

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