Anthologies
Caught Looking (He’s Come Undone)
The Duke Makes Me Feel… (Duke I’d Like to F…)
About the Author
Adriana was born and raised in the Caribbean, but for the last fifteen years has let her job (and her spouse) take her all over the world. She loves writing stories about people who look and sound like her people, getting unapologetic happy endings. Her Dreamers series has received starred reviews from Publisher’s Weekly and Booklist and has been featured in The TODAY Show on NBC, Entertainment Weekly, OPRAH Magazine, NPR, Library Journal, The New York Times, and The Washington Post. She’s a trauma therapist in New York City, working with survivors of domestic and sexual violence.
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My Dirty Duke
Joanna Shupe
Chapter One
London, 1895
It was the social event of the year and Violet was squandering it. She should have been dancing or chatting with friends. Instead, she was propped against the wall, hiding in plain sight, staring at him.
She could not stop staring at him.
The ballroom was filled with titled lords and ladies, but she was always able to find him. He was tall, nearly the tallest man in any room. Elegantly dressed. Starkly handsome, without frills to pretty up his visage. His features were strong, harsh like a Roman warrior, with dark hair, and eyes like twin pools of midnight. If she could photograph him right now, the caption would read, “Feared by most, revered by the rest.”
Once upon a time he spoke to her with kind words, during her parents’ dinner parties when she was deemed old enough to attend. That was before finishing school. Before her debut. Violet fell in love with him then, this intelligent and beautiful man who commanded every room.
At the time, she hadn’t a clue as to why her stomach dipped and swirled in his presence. Now, at eighteen, she understood. She’d read books and seen racy photographs. Moreover, she’d overheard the maids talking about their beaus. So, Violet knew why her breathing quickened around him, knew the reason for the slickness between her thighs when she thought about being alone with him. Why she possessed this mad desire to have him smile at her again.
He never looked at her, though. Not once. Nor did he visit her father, his closest friend, at their home any longer. Since Violet’s debut, he’d not asked her to dance, though most of her father’s friends had indulged her at least once. He hadn’t even spoken to her during her season. It was as if she were beneath his notice.
But then, most of London was beneath him. He was a duke.
And not merely any duke. His was one of the wealthiest and oldest of the titled families, the Duke of Ravensthorpe, Maximilian Thomas William Bradley III. She once looked his lineage up in Debrett’s and learned that the very first Ravensthorpe received the title after thwarting an assassination attempt against Charles II.
“Why are you not dancing?” Her friend Charlotte appeared, her gaze studying Violet’s face. “You are forever on the outskirts, observing. You should be having fun.”
“I am taking a break.”
“Who were you watching?” Charlotte’s head swung about, searching. “Was it that newly widowed viscount everyone is talking about? He is scrumptious—and under thirty years of age.”
“There is a newly widowed viscount?”
“Have you not heard? Honestly, Violet. What do you do with your time at these things?”
Stare at Ravensthorpe, obviously. “Why should I exert myself to learn all the latest gossip when I have you to do that for me?”
Charlotte laughed. “Fair enough. Tell me, at whom are you staring? Perhaps I can help you get his attention.”
“Do not be silly. There is no one here for me. Just a bunch of old dukes and boring dandies.”
“The dandies are quite nice to look at, however. Better than the stodgy dukes.”
Not all dukes are stodgy, Violet wanted to say. Some were quite glorious.
“I wish I had my camera,” she told her friend. “Then I could prove to you how not boring it is to watch.”
Her father had gifted her with a camera two years ago and Violet had been taking photographs ever since. She’d converted a space in their attic into a developing room and had been studying photography at London Polytechnic for the last six months. She liked the challenge of photography, of achieving the perfect image. One of her dreams was to someday photograph Ravensthorpe, to capture the harsh angles and pretty features of his face. The cool stare and the haughty lift of his brow. Then she could have the image forever.
Such was the advantage of photographs. They were a way to record an instant, preserve a memory that might otherwise have been forgotten to the sands of time. Who knew what sorts of discoveries were ahead as cameras grew more advanced?
Violet continued to watch Ravensthorpe out of the corner of her eye so as not to alarm Charlotte. Her friend would try to dissuade Violet from her singular purpose this season, which was to somehow get Ravensthorpe to notice her. Again.
Suddenly, a woman walked behind Ravensthorpe and lightly touched his shoulder. The edge of the duke’s mouth hitched and he leaned to whisper in the woman’s ear. She was a countess, wife to the Earl of Underhill. Whatever the duke said must have satisfied her because she nodded once, and then slipped through the terrace doors.
An assignation?
Envy spiked in Violet’s blood, violent and sharp, like she had poked herself with an embroidery needle. Charlotte kept talking, not taking notice of Violet’s discomfort, and Violet was glad for it. She needed to gain control over her emotions.
Perhaps Ravensthorpe would not go. He would reconsider and decide—
Her stomach sank as he excused himself and followed the countess out the terrace doors. Definitely an assignation. She could hardly catch her breath; jealousy lodged in her lungs. She longed to beckon him to the gardens where she could touch and kiss him, explore that generous mouth and bask in his stern gaze . . .
Violet fanned herself vigorously as she burned with curiosity. What would Ravensthorpe and the countess do in the gardens, kiss? Fellatio? Sexual congress?
There was so much more she needed to know. For example, was Ravensthorpe a bold and demanding lover? Selfish? Or was he eager to please, as many of the erotic photographs she’d seen depicted? Perhaps if she learned more about what he liked, then she stood a better chance of getting him to notice her.
Charlotte must have perceived that Violet’s attention had wandered. “Violet? One minute you are flushed and the next, pale as flour. What is wrong with you?”
She had to go. She had to see what was about to happen in the gardens. There wasn’t a moment to lose.
Gripping Charlotte’s arm, she kissed her friend’s cheek. “I apologize. I’m not feeling well. I think I shall tell my father I’d like to go home.”
Charlotte nodded, her expression brimming with affection and concern. “Excellent idea. Go on, then. Rest. I’ll call on you tomorrow.”
Violet bid Charlotte good night, then wove through the crowd, pretending to search for her father. In reality, her goal was to lose Charlotte and blend into the crush. With a final check to ensure no one was watching, she slipped through the French doors and onto the terrace.
The night smelled of lilacs and fresh dirt. Only a sliver of moon added to the soft torchlight along the edge of the garden path. Lifting her skirts, she moved carefully, desperate to not make any noise. She had been to this house before and knew the garden was designed as a large square, with a fountain at the far end. Tall hedges surrounded the path, high enough to offer cover to any couple. Her guess was that Ravensthorpe and the countess would meet near the fountain, farthest from the house.
She found a break in the bushes large enough to slip through and continued along the outside of the hedges bordering the lawn. Likely her slippers were ruined but she could not stop, not when she was close to discovering more about the duke. S
artorial sacrifices were necessary in the pursuit of all things Ravensthorpe.
Silent, she made her way along, allowing the hedge to be her guide in the dark. Near the final corner, she heard a lady’s light laughter and a deep chuckle.
Ravensthorpe.
She crept closer, hardly daring to breathe. She needed to hear and see it all, so she bent and peered through the branches. After some maneuvering, she finally located the perfect vantage spot. Two figures were locked in an embrace, one of them clearly the duke.
Light from the house provided enough illumination to see that Ravensthorpe was kissing the countess, her body pressed tightly to his long frame. He clutched her waist with one hand while his other hand massaged her clothed breast. Violet’s own nipples stiffened to peaks under her corset, the crisp air a delicious torture on her hot skin. The couple was ravenous, their mouths attacking one another between gasps of air.
In a flash, Ravensthorpe spun the countess so her back rested against his front, with both of them now facing Violet. He wrapped one set of his long fingers around the woman’s throat as he shoved his other hand into her bodice. He lifted her breast out of her dress and undergarments, exposing it before caressing the plump flesh. His mouth slid along her cheek as the countess’s lids fell shut, her lips parted with her rapid breathing.
“Look at you,” he said, his voice like smooth silk. “A dirty girl with your gorgeous tit out. Ask me nicely and maybe I’ll play with you.”
“Please, Ravensthorpe,” the countess whispered on a groan. “Oh, please.”
Violet swallowed, her throat clogged with desire. Could they hear her heart pounding inside her chest? She would give anything to trade places with the older woman. Had the countess any idea of her good fortune?
“How pretty you are when you beg, Louisa.”
Using the pads of his fingers, he stroked the taut bud at the tip of the countess’s breast, pulling and pinching it. Louisa writhed, rubbing her body along his as he continued to work her, his other hand never leaving her throat.
Blood pooled between Violet’s legs, her quim pulsing in time with her heartbeat. He was beautiful and compelling, an angel of sin and lust. Light reflected off the threads of silver at his temples, the effect like a match to her insides. She had never wanted anything or anyone more in all her eighteen years.
“If I lift your skirts, will I find you wet?” he asked.
Yes, Violet wanted to answer. So very wet.
The countess panted. “Oh, God. You . . .”
“Yes?”
“I cannot think. Please, do not stop.”
“Do you need my cock, Louisa? Shall I place you over the end of that bench there and fuck you?”
Violet pressed her thighs together to ease her aching flesh. Sweet mother of mercy, he was potent. The angles of his face were harsh and unforgiving, his mouth almost cruel in its lasciviousness. Again she longed for her camera, wishing she could capture him in this stolen moment.
The countess shuddered at his words. “I cannot. As much as I crave you, I must return.”
“What is another moment when I can make you come so hard?”
“Oh, you devil.” She drew in a deep breath and covered his hand to stop his movements. “Unfortunately, I need to get back. I’ve been away too long. My husband will be wondering where I’ve gone.”
“Hmm.” Shifting her clothing, he tucked her breast away. Then he released her. “I suppose we will need to pick this up later, then.”
The countess turned and bit his jaw, then drew her fingertip along the heavy ridge in his trousers. Ravensthorpe sucked in a breath, and she smiled. “Tonight, Ravensthorpe. Leave your side door unlatched. We’ll play one of our naughty games.”
Without waiting for his agreement, the countess hurried along the path toward the house. Ravensthorpe stood unmoving for a long moment, his chest rising and lowering in his evening clothes. A lock of dark hair had fallen over his forehead, a stripe of ink slashing his perfect skin. Violet could not look away, completely entranced.
He finally raised his head—only to pin her with a dark stare. “You may come out now, little mouse.”
Violet froze.
Little mouse?
Was he talking to her? She had been so quiet, completely concealed by the hedges. Heavens, she was standing on the lawn. He couldn’t possibly know she was there.
Cold terror filled her lungs as he walked directly toward her. She considered running, but where would she go? He’d see her for certain the instant she took off.
Bending, he came eye to eye with her from the other side of the hedge. “Come out of there, Violet. Now.”
The tone was decidedly ducal, one used to being obeyed, and dread and embarrassment washed over her entire body. Violet prayed for the ground to open up and swallow her whole. She’d wanted him to notice her, but not like this. Never like this. She’d only wished to watch him with the countess like a voyeur hidden in the dark.
The hedges parted thanks to Ravensthorpe’s arm, and there was soon enough room for her to slip through the branches. She tugged her skirts free, no doubt ripping the delicate silk. Clothing, however, was the least of her concerns.
Ravensthorpe’s eyes were like frozen ice, a winter storm that chilled her to the bone. He put some distance between them, and his mouth was set in a flat, unhappy line when he whirled around. “What in hell do you think you are playing at?”
Her mind blanked in the face of his anger. “I went out for a walk.”
“A lie. No lady walks on the lawn and risks her slippers.” He pointed to her now-ruined footwear. “Again, what are you doing here?”
What happened if she admitted the truth? Would he finally see her as an adult, not some silly child he’d ignored for the past two years? She hated that he no longer talked to her. He acted as if she didn’t exist, instead spending time with women who were married to other men, like the countess. What was so wrong with Violet?
“You are trying my patience, little mouse.”
The truth fell from her lips. “I followed you.”
“That is obvious,” he said, the words like icicles, sharp and brittle. “What I cannot fathom is why.”
“I was curious as to the type of woman who attracted you.” She winced, but there was no taking it back now.
“Again, why?”
God above, was it not obvious? Was he actually going to make her speak it aloud?
You have nothing to lose. You have already embarrassed yourself.
“Because I wished to take her place, Your Grace.”
Ravensthorpe dragged a hand down his face. Turning, he went to the iron bench near the fountain and sat, his long legs spread out before him. Violet wrapped her arms around herself, feeling like the world’s biggest fool.
“Violet, you must return to the house and forget this ever happened. You must forget me. There are dozens of men in there tonight who would gladly share a tryst with you.”
“But they are not you,” she whispered.
He winced as if struck. “I am far too old for you.”
Old? She paused, blinking at him. He was not old. He was male perfection wrapped in a cloak of confidence and swagger. She’d seen plenty of decrepit men and Ravensthorpe was far from that group. Besides, it was nothing for a lord his age to wed a debutante. Such matches happened every season. “You are forty-one. Hardly old.”
“No, but I am too old for you. I am your father’s friend. I’ve known you since you were born, for God’s sake.”
“You are two years younger than my father, if memory serves.”
He gave a dry laugh. “Christ, Violet. Are you trying to say two years makes a difference?”
“I don’t care how old you are.” There. She’d said it.
“You should. It would be far better for you to find a man your own age. Or close to it.”
She cared little for the men her age. Foppish fools who worried more about appearances than anything else. During dances, they merely stared
at her bosom and stepped on her toes.
Besides, how could she ever be interested in anyone other than Ravensthorpe? He’d starred in her dreams for so long there wasn’t room for anyone else in her head. “I don’t want a man my age.” I want you.
“You are eighteen. You have a lifetime ahead of you. Find someone to share that life with, someone who makes you happy.”
He appeared less angry at the moment and more like the kind man she remembered, so she decided to present him with a reasonable argument. “Many girls my age marry older men. It’s common amongst the ton.”
“Are you . . . Is this about becoming a duchess?” He sounded horrified. “Even if we were closer in age, I am not interested in marriage, ever. I will never take another wife.”
She hadn’t known his feelings on marriage, but she didn’t care about titles. She wanted the man, end of story. If that was outside of marriage, so be it. “I am not proposing marriage, Your Grace.”
“Christ, do not use my honorific in that tone of voice.”
Why? She’d called him “Your Grace” hundreds of times. “I apologize, duke.” It was a more personal form of address, one he would reserve for intimate members of his circle. She hoped to one day join that inner circle, whispering in his ear whilst they were in bed.
“Fuck, that is worse.” Standing, he put his hands on his hips, an imposing tower of disapproval. Something about his scowl made her want to bow and scrape for his admiration. She nearly licked her lips. He said, “You are the daughter of my closest friend. This is inappropriate and needs to end, Violet.”
She would not back down, not without answers. “Is that why you stopped talking to me? Why you won’t even look at me anymore?”
He glanced away, not meeting her eyes. “I have no idea what you are talking about. I do not interact with children.”
“You did. With me. For years and years. And then you stopped like I’d contracted smallpox.”
Duke I’d Like to F… Page 44