by Eva Devon
She was not going to like his decision, but it was for the best. “Nothing. It is time for you to leave.”
She blinked. “Pardon?”
Gently soothing her, he caressed her skirts. In truth, he was convincing himself to keep the damn gown down for his fingers itched to inch them back up. “You came for pleasure and received it. Now it’s time for you to go.”
Her spine snapped straight and the smile faded from her face. “I don’t understand.”
Ryder leaned back onto his haunches and forced his hands to rest on his thighs. “How clear do you wish me to make it, darling? Go, for your own good.”
The satisfaction faded from her eyes, replaced by confusion. “But—”
He leveled her with a firm stare. He had to get her out of here before his resolve faded under the growing pressure at his groin. “No.”
“Why?” Consternation elevated the pitch of her voice. “Am I not attractive enough?”
Ryder almost smacked himself in the head. Of course, she’d think the worst of herself. He was handling this badly, but his cock was tight to his stomach, throbbing to be inside her.
“No. You’re. . .” He searched for the smooth words which always came so easily whenever soothing a piqued female. Yet none came. It was as if all his golden lies had disappeared.
She pushed his shoulders back and stood. “I see.” She started inching around him as if afraid her gown might brush him.
“No.” He laughed ruefully. “I don’t think you do.”
Stopping just out of reach, she looked down on him. Her eyes crackled with frustration. “Well, what is it then?” she asked softly.
Ryder struggled for the words that would somehow make this easier for her. At last, he shrugged. “You are a lady.”
She moved forward, her eyes searching his. “I don’t want to be a—”
“You should.” It was almost laughable. She wished to be a sinner but looked like a saint. That was except for the glow he’d given her.
“But—”
Ryder stood, forcing her to look up at him. “You don’t truly want to be like me or any of the people you’ve read about in the papers. We’re dark and cruel, and we care nothing for love or honesty.”
A smile curled her lips, only this time, it was cold and her gray eyes froze like the stillness of the cold English Channel. “Nor do I, Your Grace. Nor do I.”
He blinked at that. She didn’t wish for love? This lovely little thing that looked as if she’d never known a painful day in her entire existence? But as he looked closer, he could not deny that under her brimming optimism there was just the familiar edge of pain.
Ryder took her small hand in his grasp. His fingers swallowed up the graceful whiteness. “You should wish it and you should find it.”
Her smile warmed, but it was an amused grin. It was like she was now laughing at him. Him, the bloody Duke of Darkwell.
She tilted her head. “In my experience, men proclaim love but do not ever truly feel it.” Her smile tightened. “I think it is far better to mirror their approach to the relations between the sexes than to adhere to a woman’s hopeful heart. Don’t you?”
Ryder blinked, shocked by the sudden anger in her voice. How could he tell her she was completely in error. That men did love. That they could love so entirely it might burn them to a cinder when it was ripped from them. “I—”
She shook her head, her blonde curls caressing her slender neck. “You say I should seek it, but do you seek love, Your Grace?”
Damn. The woman had him there. He’d known love once and had no plan on seeking it out ever again. “Touché.”
“It isn’t that you don’t desire me, then? That you’re sending me away?” she asked, gently lifting her hand and tracing it along his hard chest.
“Don’t desire you?” Ryder took her hand and placed it on the hard shaft pushing at the front of his breeches. His cock twitched at the touch of her hand.
She gasped and pressed harder. “Let me stay,” she whispered. “This once.”
He shook his head and stepped back, away from her tempting touch. A woman like her, whether she was prepared to admit it or not, wanted more than just once. She deserved more, too. Nor was she ready for the way London would take her goodness and shred it to ribbons. Maybe if she’d been harder, a little wiser to the ways of the world. But he would not be the one to cast her into the cruelness of London’s sparkling sham as a woman to be used for a man’s play thing.
“You will leave through the servant’s entrance in one of the maid’s cloaks.”
“I will go out the way I came, thank you,” she clipped. She looked up at him through eyes still hot with desire and her lips curved into a wickedly dangerous smile as she placed her hand on his hip then slipped it down to his hard cock and slightly squeezed. “But you shall regret it. I should have liked to experience what other carnal delights we might share.”
He smiled tightly and forced himself to take a step back. God, the woman was halfway to being a temptress, but he wasn’t going to lead her down that dangerous road. “It was a pleasure.”
“Yes. It was.” She gave a small curtsy then turned to the door. Her hand paused on the handle. She glanced back at him over her shoulder. “No need for goodbyes, I think. After all, we shall see each other again. Quite soon.”
With that, she whisked out through the door.
Ryder stood in the center of the room, staring after her. He never even asked her name. For some ridiculous reason, the realization saddened him. That was completely preposterous. Hell, it didn’t matter.
Slowly, he returned to the small black and gold table. He stared down at the pale ribbon then clasped it in his fingers. Instantly, Jane came to mind. A man could love so much he would never forget and never give his love to another woman again.
Yes. He’d done the right thing. He sent the angel out and now, he’d let his own personal darkness back in, along with the loneliness of the night.
After all, he deserved to be in Hell. That’s exactly where he would stay.
*
“There you are! Goodness, I’ve been waiting half the night!” Imogen Cavendish bounded down the front steps of their newly acquired townhome overlooking Green Park. She grabbed Kate’s hand.
Instantly, Kate started marching up the limestone stairs, passing their spritely butler, Forbes, certain her cousin was going to say something terribly indiscreet before they were able to get into the privacy of their home.
“And?” Imogen demanded as they crossed the threshold and into the circular foyer. Their slippers echoed on the black and white Italian marble. “Did the good duke give your tail a little tickle?”
Kate stepped back and nearly stumbled on her gown in her chagrin. She shot her cousin a warning glare. “The servants!”
“Pish! They know all in any case, why pretend?” Glancing back at Forbes who still stood by the doorway, Imogen gave him a naughty grin. “Don’t they, Forbes?”
Forbes cleared his throat and bowed. “Indeed, they do, madam.”
“You see?” Imogen took Kate’s hand and tugged her along the hallway to the French Salon. “Tea, Forbes!” she called over her shoulder.
Kate laughed. The woman was a breath of fresh air compared to the stodgy company she’d kept in the country. Like herself, Imogen was young and very wealthy. Best of all, they were both widows.
Neither of them had liked the idea of living alone and having been friends since they were children in Shropshire, they decided to take up each other’s company in London.
Imogen started to hum, at least a step off-key, and with remarkable gusto for one who sang like an alley cat. She didn’t even stop once they were ensconced in the French Salon, the walls periwinkle and ivory striped silk. She and Imogen had chosen the tables, all French and painted to a glossy white embossed with pink roses, with more cheer than most married couples.
But tea. . . tea meant a chat, and Imogen wouldn’t let Kate go until the last sip was drunk o
r every secret spilled. And right now, she just wanted to patter up to her room without being examined as if she were a dastardly French spy.
Giving Kate’s hand a squeeze, Imogen rushed around to the front of the pale blue watered silk settee and plunked them both down and waited. Her green eyes sparkled in her elfin face and her gold hair shone like copper in the firelight. The folds of her rose silk gown spilled out over the delicate settee and rustled over Kate’s country gown. What was more, Imogen looked as if she were about to burst with excitement.
Kate nibbled her bottom lip.
Imogen leaned forward, still silent. No doubt wanting to know every detail and, yet, Kate wasn’t sure she wanted to elaborate on her experience. It had been bizarre in the extreme, though she wouldn’t trade it for anything in the world. In fact, her mind was already racing with endless possibilities as to how she might meet the duke again.
“You liked him,” Imogen said assuredly.
Just as Kate opened her mouth, the maid popped in with a laden tea tray. The girl set the heavy silver service down before them. An indiscreet smile curled the maid’s lips and she scampered out. Surely, servants weren’t supposed to be so cheeky, but then again, Kate, herself, wasn’t really a model of female virtue.
“Well?” Imogen prodded, scooting even closer.
Kate studied the tea tray with fixed curiosity and began pouring the black liquid into a yellow china cup.
Imogen plucked up the delicate cup and proclaimed, “You did. You liked him. I can tell. Your cheeks are positively glowing!”
Kate snapped up a hand to her face. Indeed, her cheek was warm against her cool palm. A laugh bubbled from her throat. “It was. . .”
“Amazing? Miraculous?” Imogen shivered with delight. “Oh, the Duke of Darkwell! You know, I tried for him once myself. Apparently I wasn’t to his taste. In the end, it was his loss. You see—”
“Imogen,” Kate cut in, taking up her own tea cup. For some reason, she didn’t like the idea of Imogen fantasizing about him. And she wasn’t about to ponder why such an idea might agitate her.
“Of course, he is your duke, my dear, but the scandal sheets report him to be the most—”
“I know what the scandal sheets say.” And she did. Kate glanced back towards a stack of the rags she loved tucked away on the French table by the tall windows. In fact, she had stacks all over the house. They’d been her only entertainment through the long winter months alone in her sprawling country home.
Imogen nodded. “Of course. But you’re not quite as happy as I thought you’d be.” She narrowed her eyes. “Actually, I’d say you’re a trifle snippy.”
Kate shook her head, fighting back a smile. “I’m sorry, it’s just the evening didn’t go exactly as I planned.”
“Ah! Plans.” Imogen took a strawberry tart and plopped it onto her plate. She lifted her tea cup to her lips and sighed. “They seldom go as we desire and sometimes it’s for the best.”
“Yes, but…” She wasn’t sure how to explain. “He sent me home.”
Imogen choked on a sip of tea. “Sent you home? But—But he is the rake of all rakes!”
“Exactly as I thought.” Taking a conciliatory drink of tea, Kate tried to sort out exactly how it happened. One moment he’d been caressing her and the next—well, the next he’d given her the boot.
Which made no sense because he undoubtedly desired her.
“It had to be the dress. I told you to wait. I said, ‘Kathryn, we shall buy you delicious new gowns and then you shall see him’. Did you listen to your dear cousin?” Imogen gestured towards Kate theatrically with her tart. “No. And now you have the consequences of never knowing what it would be like to—”
“It wasn’t the dress,” Kate cut in, knowing Imogen could go for ages. “Indeed, it wasn’t.”
Imogen frowned and took a bite of her tart. “Something did happen though.” She chewed, eyeing Kate with consideration. “I’m positive.”
Imogen would know. Unlike herself, Imogen had already had countless lovers. Her husband had been old and had just wanted a pretty girl to present to company. Also unlike herself, Imogen had never been foolish enough to believe a young man could ever love her just for herself. She was too schooled in the ways of the ton, having married at fifteen.
“Are you going to tell me or shall I have to bring out the rack? No, I have something far more cruel. I shall deny you a strawberry tart.”
Kate glanced at the taunting strawberry tarts glistening with sugar and cream. Imogen could eat heaps and never worry about her figure. She, on the other hand, had only to look at the delicate little confections and had to go off on a bracing walk. “Hardly a punishment.”
Imogen rolled her green eyes. “Come now, you are purposefully avoiding the subject.”
Shifting on the settee, Kate drew in a breath. Imogen was her closest friend and her ultimate guide to scandal. Still. . . she’d never talked about such things, not with her mother and most certainly not to Percy. In fact, if she’d mentioned such things to him, he probably would have called her an un-virtuous wife. Even though he saw nothing hypocritical about splashing his name about with countless women of ill repute in the sheets.
“He commenced seducing me.” Kate lowered her voice to a hush. “It was divine. He touched me. Stroked my legs.”
Imogen glanced about the room. “I’m sorry, are you concerned about an audience?”
Kate sat back as she pinned Imogen with a dagger glare. “It’s all very well to you, but I’ve never done anything like this. You met Percy, you know what he was like.”
Percy had firmly believed a wife should be a paragon of modesty and not know the joys of the flesh. A mistress on the other hand, well apparently, she was perfectly qualified to be given care and satisfaction. Once, she’d seen him with one of his women, just outside the coaching inn leading to London. He’d kissed her quite in public, his hands roving over the woman. He hadn’t seemed to care about modesty at that moment.
“Silly is what that situation was. I don’t know how you ever thought of him as a potential lover, let alone a husband.”
Kate ground her teeth. Yes. Percy was a particular sore point. When she’d first met the russet-haired gent, he’d been so charming, quoting Shakespeare and Dryden. He’d said he loved her and longed to cherish her. Much to her shame, she believed him.
“Kate?”
She smiled tightly, shoving Percy out of her head. “Pardon. Old ghosts. In any case, it was going splendidly.” Kate’s hands shook as she thought of the intensity she’d felt under the duke’s ministrations. “Oh, I never thought it could be so. . .” Percy had only ever climbed into bed with her, lifted her shift, parted her thighs and prodded at her till he’d shook like a tree leaf and collapsed. All the while, touching her as little as possible.
“I’m glad you’ve finally known a bit of fun.” Imogen patted her hand. “No one deserves it more. So then?”
“He simply told me to go and I should find someone to love me.”
Imogen’s mouth dropped open till she looked like the fish in the Serpentine. “What?” she demanded crassly. She put down her tea cup and wiped her hands together brushing away the crumbs. “Did you tell him who you were?”
Kate paused. She supposed it was a bit odd she hadn’t said a word. But Percy Darrell had made their name quite infamous with his goings-on. The last thing she wanted was to be thought of as his widow. “No.”
Imogen lowered her chin. “What did you tell him?”
“I—Ah, . . .” Kate lifted her cup and mumbled into it, “I told him I wished for pleasure without a husband.”
Imogen lifted her hand to her forehead in dramatic frustration. “My dear, whatever shall I do with you?”
“Now look here, Imogen, I know I’m a bit green, but really!”
“Green? Dearest, you’re greener than a field in Ireland. And you let him think you were a virgin! Or at least a woman of no experience. No wonder he didn’t make love to you. Vi
rgins are far too much trouble.”
Kate gaped, suddenly seeing her own idiocy. “So, if he had known I was a widow?”
“You would have been bedded till you thought nothing but bliss.”
The fact she had been so close to actually bedding the duke was beyond irritating. She could only imagine how wonderful that would have been. “Blast.”
“Blast, indeed.” Imogen tapped her finger against her chin. “Do you still want him?”
The thought of the duke’s strong hands on her thighs flashed through Kate’s mind. Good lord, she longed for his touch even now. “Yes. And I have every intention of seeing him again.”
“You mean you didn’t botch it?”
“Absolutely not.” Kate wiggled her eyebrows. “In fact, I know he desires me.”
“How is it that you know? Did he tell you?”
Kate couldn’t quite bring herself to tell Imogen about how he had taken her hand and placed it over his hard sex. It had been so strong and firm beneath her grasp. “Trust me. I just have to find a way to convince him that his sense of honor is misplaced.”
Imogen leaned back, understanding brightening her face. “The seducer shall become the seduced?”
Laughing, Kate gave Imogen a little salute with her tea cup. “Let the seduction begin.”
Chapter 4
“Good God, man,” Jack Eversleigh, the Duke of Hunt, said over the din of practice blades clashing. “Are all the women in London in heat? I refuse to believe it’s just you that has them rapping on your door. And in the middle of the night.”
Ryder’s hand stilled on the hilt of his rapier. He snapped his gaze from the series of lined up dueling strips to Hunt. He had made friends with the man over ten years ago and, in that time, he, Hunt and another duke, the Duke of Roth, had formed the Dukes’ Club. A club where they could be themselves and never had to worry about sycophantic bowing and scraping. Equals in power, they could all be brutally honest with each other.
It had been an incredible relief to find two other dukes who had also lost their fathers at a young age. At present, Roth was on the continent, but Hunt was always a good source of entertainment and could bring Ryder’s spirits up when they were lagging to a dangerous point.