The Detective Duke (Unexpected Lords Book 1)

by Scarlett Scott

  He stretched, running a hand over his bare chest, and his eyes fluttered open. Her argument with herself was a moot point. He was awake. And the moment her gaze melded with blue-gray, something inside her shifted. Awareness turned into desire.

  “Good morning,” she told him softly, feeling suddenly shy as well. Her modesty was not in danger; the counterpane was pulled over her breasts. Not that it mattered. He had already seen every bit of her. And kissed and licked a fair amount of that, too.

  The reminder sent heat unfurling through her.

  “Morning, Ellie,” he said, giving her a sleepy smile that transformed his face from handsome to rakishly beautiful.

  Those lips. They were so finely formed. Perfect for kissing. Too large and luxurious for a man, as she had thought before. But now, the observation was accompanied by the sure knowledge they were an invitation to sin. A sin she gladly welcomed.

  “How did you sleep?” she asked him, chasing the thickness from her throat.

  “Astonishingly well.” He reached for her, cupping her cheek in his large, warm palm. “How do you feel, love?”

  He was referring to what had happened between them, and she would not have him think she had suffered a moment. The ache was almost delicious.

  “Wonderful,” she answered, sending him a shy smile.

  This was new for her. She had never paid any attention to gentlemen before. Had never found any man worthy of her distraction. She had never flirted or kissed or played the coquette. And yet, here she was with this magnetic man she had married, utterly in his thrall.

  Likely, she would regret her fervor. Theirs was a marriage of convenience. Hearts were not meant to be involved. Ever.

  But she could not summon a modicum of regret over what they had shared thus far.

  “You feel wonderful,” he said tenderly, his countenance going soft in a new way. “And you look bloody wonderful, too.”

  She found herself smiling at him. “I am sure I look a dreadful sight, my hair in wild tangles and the creases of my pillow on my cheek.”

  “I see neither tangles nor creases. All I see is an incredibly beautiful, desirable woman I was somehow fortunate enough to marry.”

  She turned her head and pressed a kiss to his palm. “You know how to charm far too well.”

  “I am being truthful,” he countered. “As I have told you before, you are undeniably lovely, Elysande.”

  She had never felt lovely before, not even on the previous occasion when he had spoken those words to her. Indeed, her appearance had never been a concern of hers. “I am uncommonly ordinary.”

  “Nothing about you is ordinary.” He traced her lips with the pad of his thumb. “Everything about you, from your intellect to your smile, is utterly extraordinary. I promise you.”

  Heavens. How did he always know what to say? Could she guard her heart from this man? The answer increasingly appeared to be a resounding no.

  Did she care? In this moment, decidedly not.

  “You are too kind,” she managed to say, sure she was flushing from her toes to her hairline.

  He had a way of looking at her, as if she were the only woman he wished to see, that set her at sixes and sevens without fail. And his words…how could she arm herself against them?

  “Never doubt yourself.” He slid nearer to her, his big body and warmth both welcome. “I am a fortunate man indeed to call you my wife.”

  She reached for him, feeling bold. Her arms twined around his neck, and suddenly, she found herself flush against him, chest to hip. Her breasts spilled into the muscled strength of him, her nipples going hard, and when his thick length brushed her belly, molten heat slid to her core at the evidence of his desire.

  “I feel the same,” she managed to say, stumbling over the words a bit as the tide of desire rose ever higher.

  “Damn,” he growled, rubbing his growing beard against her cheek. “You make me want you every second of every hour of every day.”

  She was not certain how she possessed such power over him, but she relished it, for he had the same effect upon her. At least in this madness, they were equals.

  “Is it done to make love in the morning?” The moment the question left her, she blushed furiously, aware of how wanton she sounded. “Forgive me. I did not mean to suggest—”

  His mouth on hers effectively ended the remainder of her sentence. This kiss was different from the drugging, frenzied meeting of mouths they had shared last night. This kiss took its time. He angled his lips over hers, beginning with light, gentle movements. And then on a groan, he licked at her seam. She opened for him, eager and ready for more.

  Later, perhaps, she would chastise him for silencing her with a kiss. For now, she was basking in the sensual onslaught. He wedged a thigh between hers, the crisp hairs on his leg a new sensation that was strangely pleasing. Yet another evidence of the difference between them and how perfectly they fit together despite their disparities. She surged forward, and his thigh met with her most sensitive inner flesh.

  A rush of desire started in her center and rippled outward. The friction felt good. Very good. And so did he. His lips, his body, every part of him. Making love with him the night before had awakened her in a new way. She was more aware than she had ever been, alive and filled with possibility.

  And yearning. That, too.

  The languor of his kiss gave way to more of the same ferocity of the night before. The pressure of his lips on hers increased, and he caught the fullness of her lower lip in his teeth and tugged hard. A breathy moan fled her lips as he rolled her gently to her back, his large body settling over hers.

  The prominent ridge of his cock pressed into her thigh. He wanted her. The knowledge sent an answering spark to her core, where she was already wet and throbbing for him. Deep within, there was a soreness, the ghost of pain, and yet, even that new ache was the source of so much need.

  “Ellie,” he murmured against her lips, his bright gaze on hers, his breath coasting over her mouth. “My God, Ellie.”

  She loved the way he called her Ellie, and in her delirium, she decided she should forbid anyone else from ever using the diminutive again. It should belong to him alone, as she did. Stupid thought. She had been Ellie all her life. How could this man transform her sobriquet into not just an endearment, but a seduction?

  She did not know, but he somehow did.

  His hot hand skimmed over her waist, her hip. He kissed her again and she forgot to worry about her name. Heavens, she forgot her name altogether. She was nothing but a mass of sensations, a bundle of feelings wound tightly together, dipped in sunshine and longing. He caressed her inner thigh, urging her to open for him, and then his fingers replaced the leg he had inserted between hers. His touch lingered over her bud.

  “So soft and wet.” He said this as if it were the highest praise, and she accepted it as such. His kisses traveled along her jaw to her ear, and he gently bit the lobe. “I could devour you.”

  Her head rolled back on the pillow as he moved down her throat.

  Yes please.

  She was not certain if she said the words aloud or if they only existed in her mind. The difference hardly mattered when he sucked her nipple and thumbed that exquisitely sensitive nub hidden in her folds. A finger teased her entrance, painting the evidence of her desire over her.

  He released her nipple. “Feel how slick you are, love.”

  Her hips were moving now. Seeking. That elusive sensation, so wondrous she had never been fully capable of imagining, beckoned. She wanted to be stretched and filled by him. She wanted his cock deep inside her. He sucked her other nipple and gave her his finger instead, sinking it slowly into her cunny.

  “Are you sore?” he asked softly, tonguing the stiff peak of her breast as he simultaneously worked her nub and slid his finger to the knuckle.

  Not in a way that would prevent her from making love with him again.

  She moved her hips, bringing him deeper. “No.”

  He thrus
t his finger in and out and drew a circle around her nipple with his tongue. One more press of his thumb, and bliss seized her. She contracted around him, sparks shooting through her as she came undone.

  He kissed his way back to her mouth, and then he was completely wedged between her thighs, pinning her in place, the weight of his body familiar and warm. She held him to her tightly, her hands learning the contours of his back. Smooth skin pulled taut over so much muscle. Such barely leashed strength. His lips found hers, and he kissed her tenderly, poised over her on one forearm as those clever fingers of his continued their work, playing over her greedy flesh and making her quiver and writhe beneath him, desperate for more.

  When she thought she could not stand another second, his fingers were gone, replaced by the smooth, blunt tip of him. As he had last night, he rubbed himself up and down her seam, teasing her as he coated his cock with her wetness. A moan slipped from her.

  And then, he was at her entrance. His hips moved. The thick length of him thrust into her in one smooth motion. There was a slight sting as her body grew accustomed to this still-new intrusion, much larger than the one which had preceded it. But she was impatient as he held himself still, her hips rocking into his. Her hands reached for his bottom, pulling him nearer.

  He tore his lips from hers to kiss her cheek and nuzzle her throat. “Patience, sweetheart. I don’t want to hurt you.”

  Patience? She had none. Every part of her was raging for him to move. To go faster. Deeper. Harder. Was he not feeling this same excruciating torture?

  She wrapped her legs around him, urging him on.

  At last, a word escaped her. “More.”

  Yes, that was what she wanted. More. More Hudson, more kisses, more friction, more pleasure.

  He groaned and sucked on her throat. With another thrust, he was all the way in, his cock throbbing deep inside her. As it had last night, the sensation of him fully sheathed, their bodies joined, filled her with a dizzying combination of wonder and pleasure. He felt so good inside her, but now she knew that the only feeling better than having him inside her was movement. That was what she needed, what she wanted. To make love.

  Her hips rocked into his with a mind of their own, spurring him into a rhythm. He gave her what she wanted, thrusting in and out of her as she tightened around him. She recalled the way he had separated himself from her almost completely before, watching the place where they connected, the raw desire on his face as he had done so. This coupling was different. He was a heavy weight upon her, his body anchoring hers to the bed in a primal way as he claimed her thoroughly.

  Their skin was damp with perspiration, bodies straining as one. His fingers glided over the place where they connected, finding that highly sensitive bud and rubbing her there in fast, precise measures. The next burst of pleasure took her by surprise, overwhelming her swiftly. She clung to him tightly as he increased his pace, stroking into her again and again until his body stiffened, and he withdrew.

  This time, he spent into the bedclothes at her side, holding his cock in a tight grip as he closed his eyes and surrendered to the force of his own crisis. Her breaths ragged, she lay there admiring him, all the lean, slashing angles and planes. The dark beauty of his ruggedly handsome face.

  And it was then that she realized the opportunity to guard her heart had already passed. She was in love with the man she had married.

  When Hudson had been a very young lad, he had invented a game to occupy his thoughts and time. None of his siblings had lived long enough to become a playmate for him, and he had often spent a great deal of time alone while his mother slept or his nurse was distracted. The game involved the pursuit of a cunning villain, who would have performed some manner of misdeed, and led to Hudson chasing the imaginary criminal through the house. On one such occasion, before his mother’s death, he had been running in the parlor, and he had broken his mother’s favorite vase. It had shattered into dozens of shards on the floor.

  He had gone to confess, guilt eating at him, the shards stuffed into his pockets. She had been furious with him. The vase had belonged to her mother.

  Careless, stupid boy, she had said, and cuffed him on the ear.

  It had been the only time his mother had ever done him violence, and he had never forgotten either the moment the vase had fallen or his mother’s reaction.

  The premonition of the same mistake arrived that morning just after breakfast when the butler informed Hudson that Chief Inspector O’Rourke had arrived to see him. Elysande had wanted to accompany him for the meeting, but he had denied her. This was his particular battle to wage.

  Last night, he had been reckless.

  This morning, he had been careless.

  Making love to Elysande was wrong when he did not yet know what would become of the investigation into Maude’s death. Although he had not spent inside her, there remained a risk of pregnancy, and he had no wish to leave her with a child should he be imprisoned for murder. He needed to take greater care with his actions. To ensure nothing ill would befall her.

  To protect her.

  O’Rourke awaited him in the small receiving room with its threadbare rug and window that overlooked the street below. Hudson steeled himself for the interview ahead as he crossed the threshold.

  A sergeant who had been promoted in the wake of Hudson’s withdrawal from the Yard, O’Rourke was eager in his desire to prove himself. Hudson had known that, but he feared now that he had underestimated the man.

  “I hope I have not intruded upon your breakfast, Your Grace,” O’Rourke said with patent insincerity.

  His lip curled.

  Hudson was more than aware his change of situation had led to bitterness and resentment from some of his former colleagues. It mattered not to them that he had inherited nothing but bad debt and a mountain of ceaseless obligation along with his title. He had become a duke, and that title was forever beyond the reach of most men in all of England, let alone the members of Scotland Yard.

  “I have just finished,” he answered O’Rourke coolly, careful to keep his expression neutral.

  Whereas his previous interactions had never led him to believe O’Rourke was the enemy, he had reason to think otherwise now. His suspicions had been raised.

  “You have a few moments more, then, to speak about the death of Mrs. Ainsley, I trust?” the inspector asked.

  He inclined his head. “I always have time to aid in the efforts of solving a crime. I may be the Duke of Wycombe, but that is all which has altered. Please do find a seat. Would you care for coffee or tea?”

  “None, thank you,” Chief Inspector O’Rourke declined, though he did accept Hudson’s invitation to sit, settling himself in a chair. “I took my coffee this morning with Mrs. O’Rourke.”

  Hudson sat as well, wondering what the devil this new interview could possibly be about. He stretched his long legs before him, crossing them at the ankles in an indolent pose he hoped would affect an aura of comfortable ennui. “Tell me what it is you require from me, Inspector.”

  “I wished to pay you the courtesy of informing you that a new witness has come forward, a young woman who was in the vicinity of your rooms at the time of the victim’s murder.”

  A new witness? Hudson frowned, considering this revelation. “Several days have passed since Mrs. Ainsley’s death. Why would the witness only come forward now?”

  “As you know, the time can be lengthy between a crime’s commission and word spreading sufficiently to those who might assist in its solving.” O’Rourke offered him a smug smile. “One of my most challenging cases involved a woman who had disappeared for three months before her closest kin—a brother she was in a rift with—contacted Scotland Yard. She had been strangled, her hacked-apart corpse left in potato sacks strewn all over London. I don’t suppose you will recall the case, being as young as you are.”

  The inspector’s pointed words were a reminder of another reason why some Scotland Yard colleagues disliked him. He had been promoted within
the ranks quite quickly. His determination and ability to solve cases efficiently and with haste had led him to his prominent role. He had been chosen above men who had been a member of the ranks for far longer.

  Men such as O’Rourke.

  He offered a mild smile, wondering if O’Rourke expected him to cower before the mentioning of the abused corpse or grow angry at the thinly veiled condescension toward his age. “I am more than aware of the nature in which a case unfolds. My surprise in this instance is not drawn from ignorance but rather from the significant public cry Mrs. Ainsley’s murder has raised.”

  “The lady in question was traveling through the city unescorted,” O’Rourke explained with a grim smile of his own. “She was, regretfully, involved in an affair of a somewhat scandalous nature, and struggled with the ramifications of coming forward with her tale. Her conscience won over her desire to keep her husband from learning about her nighttime endeavors.”

  So, the lady in question had been meeting a lover. Hardly surprising. Nor was her wish to keep her sins a secret if her husband was not the forgiving sort.

  “And what new clues has this witness offered?” he asked, knowing there was a reason for O’Rourke to pay this call.

  A reason, too for the self-satisfied air the inspector wore this morning as blatantly as his coat and well-trimmed mustache.

  “She reports that she saw a man entering your rooms at approximately ten o’clock in the evening.” O’Rourke raised a brow. “The man she described is tall and dark-haired, broad of shoulder, lean of hip. He was wearing finely tailored clothing and had a squared jaw, and eyes that were either blue or green. In short, the man resembles you, Your Grace. As you know, the post mortem suggested the victim died at approximately half past ten.”

  Ah.

  Here it is.

  O’Rourke believed he had amassed more evidence pointing toward Hudson’s guilt.

  “Quite a bit of detail for the lady to report on a dark night,” he observed calmly. “Particularly when the streetlight near the apothecary was not functioning that evening. One wonders how this witness would have been capable of discerning eye color.”