The Wicked Ways of a Duke

by Laura Lee Guhrke

  Various cakes were handed around. Though everyone else happily partook of the offerings on the tea tray, Rhys refused, explaining he didn’t care for any.

  “No cake? No scones and jam?” Edith laughed. “How unusual. Most men have such a sweet tooth, they are often very greedy over their tea.”

  “Indeed?” Rhys said smoothly. “I’ve always preferred high tea myself. Boyhood memories, I expect.”

  His voice was so cheery, his smile so friendly, and yet, the hairs on the back of Prudence’s neck stood up.

  She strove for something to say. “I should dearly love to know what His Grace was like as a boy, Lady Edward. What foods did he prefer for high tea?”

  There was a pause, then the other woman gave a little well-bred laugh. “I believe…yes, I think Toad in the Hole was always his favorite.”

  “Amazing that you know that, Mama,” Rhys drawled, “since I don’t believe you ever had high tea with us. In fact, I don’t think you ever set foot in the nursery when my brother and I were boys. You were usually in Paris.”

  Beside her on the settee, Prudence felt Lady Edward stiffen, heard her sharp indrawn breath. The tension in the air became a palpable thing, and a sick little knot formed in Prudence’s tummy, but she did not know why. Something was very wrong, but she did not know what.

  “Uncle Evelyn, now,” Rhys went on softly, “he loved having high tea with us. Why, that summer we were here, he visited us in the nursery every chance he had. He played games with us, too. Especially Animal Grab.” There was a long pause. “Uncle Evelyn loved Animal Grab.”

  The clatter of porcelain had Prudence glancing at Lady Edward’s hands. They were shaking as she held her teacup in its saucer, and the clink-clink-clink seemed to reverberate through the room like gunshots.

  Rhys set his own cup and saucer on the mantel. “Forgive me, but I must walk the park and see what needs to be done. Things have been so neglected since I was last here.”

  He once again bowed, turned on his heel and beat a hasty retreat. Prudence set down her tea, excused herself, and followed him. Somehow, she did not like the idea of him being alone.

  Chapter 13

  Miss Prudence Abernathy has embarked on a tour of her fiancé’s estates. We can only wonder what changes she will make, though from what we have heard, anything would be an improvement.

  —Talk of the Town, 1894

  It took only a few moments for Prudence to exit the drawing room, but Rhys had already vanished. She paused a moment in the corridor, listening, and thought she heard the echo of his footsteps on stone. She ran for that monstrosity of a staircase, and as she leaned over the railing, caught a glimpse of him descending—a golden seraph amidst the gargoyles. She grasped handfuls of her skirt to keep from tripping as she raced down the steps after him, calling his name.

  He paid no heed. At the bottom of the stairs she came to a halt, for he seemed to have vanished. But in the distance she could hear the faint tap of his boot heels on those cold marble floors, and she followed the sound across the staircase hall and down a dim, narrow servants’ corridor. At the end, she found a door to the outside standing wide open, and when she exited the house, she could see him on the other side of a weedy herb garden, wading through a field of lavender toward a small stone building. When he reached it, he opened the door and went inside.

  “Rhys, wait!”

  The door slamming behind him was his only reply.

  His desire to be alone could not be more plain, and Prudence paused, uncertain what to do. But as she considered the situation, she remembered the terrible look on his face when he talked about childhood things like high tea in the nursery and games like Animal Grab, his pain like a tangible force, and she knew she had to do something.

  Prudence drew a deep breath and traced his footsteps along the flagstone path through the herb garden, evading the column and sundial in the center. She picked her way through the field of weeds and lavender, and when she reached the small stone house where Rhys had gone, grasped the handle of the weathered oak door. She half expected to find he’d locked it behind him, but when she turned the handle, the door opened, the hinges creaking as she pushed it wide. After the brightness of the late afternoon sun, the room seemed dark, and she blinked several times as she stepped inside.

  Even though she could barely see, she realized at once she was in a lavender house, for the scent of that herb permeated the room. The slats of the shutters across the two windows were only partly open, and the windows themselves were small and narrow, to keep out as much light as possible during the drying process. Long hooks to hold bunches of the flowers after harvest were bolted to the ceiling beams. In one corner she saw a still for making lavender oil, and along two of the walls, shelves held dozens of green glass bottles, waiting to be filled with the fragrant oil. Everything was dusty from disuse.

  “I always liked it in here.”

  Prudence turned her head at the sound of his voice. He was sitting on a long, battered worktable against another wall, his back to the stone behind him, his boot heels on the table’s edge, forearms on his bent knees. The light through the partly open shutters slashed across him in stripes.

  “It’s the only part of this damned house I ever did like,” he added. “It always smelled good in here. Like summer ought to smell. Fresh, sweet…” He closed his eyes, inhaling deeply. “Like your hair.”

  She didn’t know what to say. Words seemed inadequate.

  “Oh, God, I hate that house.” He leaned forward, cradling his head in his hands. “I hate it.”

  Prudence could feel his pain, and knew she had to find a way to comfort him, drive away whatever was haunting him. She slowly walked toward him, as one might approach a wounded animal.

  “I tried to forget what a nightmare it all was.” He leaned back against the wall, and as he lifted his head, she could see the weariness in his expression. “I tried so damned hard.”

  Prudence halted in front of him and laid her hands on his knees. “I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I didn’t know. You should have told me you didn’t want to come here.”

  “I had to come. I had to see if the ghosts were gone. It’s been twenty years, for the love of God. They ought to be gone. But they’re not.” His gaze looked past her and he swallowed hard, closing his eyes briefly. “I don’t think they’ll ever go away.”

  “What ghosts?”

  He looked at her and smiled a little, reaching out to run one finger along her cheek. “I thought it would be all right if you were with me. I thought it would be different somehow. That you could wash it all away—” He broke off and lowered his hand to his side. He gave a deep sigh. “Stupid,” he muttered, “to think it would be that easy. That it could ever be that simple.”

  “But what ghosts? Why does this place trouble you so much? What happened here?”

  His smile vanished with her questions, and a frown took its place. “You should go back to the house.”

  “Rhys, I’m going to be your wife.” She curled her arms around his bent knees, her palms on his thighs the closest thing to holding him at that moment. “We have to be able to trust each other. I’ve told you things about my family, about my life. Won’t you tell me about yours? About this place?”

  “This isn’t about trust, for God’s sake!” He sat up and grasped her by the arms. “I don’t want to talk about it, Prudence. I can’t. Don’t ask me to.”

  The vehemence in his voice startled her. “All right,” she said quietly. “We won’t discuss it again.”

  His grip on her arms relaxed and then his hands slid away. “I’m sorry,” he muttered, and again leaned back against the wall. “I never should have brought you here.” With those words he fell silent, staring past her shoulder into space, seeing God only knew what.

  She studied him, not knowing what was wrong or what to do, not knowing what would help or what would only serve to hurt him more. “We’ll leave this place. Tomorrow, if that’s what you want.”

&nb
sp; He didn’t answer, he didn’t look at her. Wanting him to see her, not his ghosts, she reached up and laid her palms tenderly against his cheeks, turning his face toward hers.

  He flinched and leaned forward, grasping her wrists, pushing her hands away. “Go back to the house.”

  She shook her head in refusal. There were wounds in him, deep wounds somehow connected with this place, and though she knew she couldn’t heal them herself, she could perhaps be a balm for them until time and love did the rest. “I’m not going unless you come with me.”

  He was rigid and still as she curled her arms around his bent knees again. She pressed a kiss to his knee, then rested her cheek there. “I love you,” she said.

  A tremor ran through his body, then he jerked with sudden violence. His feet came down from the edge of the table on either side of her and he slid forward, the insides of his thighs brushing her hips.

  “I want you to leave,” he told her. “Right now.”

  She glanced over her shoulder at the door across the room, where she could clearly see the latch and bolt. Returning her gaze to his, she shook her head.

  “I said leave.” But even as he spoke, his hands gripped her arms, as if to prevent her from obeying his command.

  “You don’t want me to go,” she said, reaching up to smooth back a lock of his hair. “If you didn’t want me here, you would have locked the door.”

  “Damn it, Prudence, I’m not made of stone, you know. If you stay, I won’t be able to keep to that promise I made you this morning.”

  She considered that for a moment, but oddly enough, the stringent moral principles with which she’d been raised seemed curiously irrelevant now. He needed her, and though she didn’t know why his emotions were in such turmoil, no one had ever needed her before. “I understand that.”

  “Here? In this dusty old lavender house—is that what you want? Because that’s what will happen if you stay. There’ll be no holding back. No calling a halt.”

  “I won’t call a halt.” Her fingers tenderly caressed the nape of his neck. “I love you.”

  He wrapped his arms around her, pulling her closer, until her abdomen was pressed against the hard edge of the table. His thighs tightened at her hips, keeping her imprisoned between his legs. “God help you for it,” he muttered, and captured her lips with his.

  His kisses that morning had been lush and tender, but there was nothing tender about the way he kissed her now. Nothing in it to beguile or persuade. This kiss was hard and blazing hot, demanding and possessive, and if she hadn’t already known there would be no going back, his kiss would have told her so.

  Her eyes closed and her lips parted willingly beneath his. He gentled the kiss, relaxing his hold to slide his hands beneath her arms. His palms flattened against her back, his fingers pressing her shoulder blades, his thumbs brushing the sides of her breasts. Because she was in a tea gown, she wore no corset or corset cover, and with only a few thin layers of clothing between them, his touch seemed to burn her skin even more hotly than it had that morning.

  As he kissed her, she raked one hand upward through the thick, silky strands of his hair. Her other hand touched his face—the sandpapery texture of his beard-roughened cheek, then the hard line of his jaw, then the velvety soft skin just below his ear. She breathed in the earthy, smoky scent of him along with the lavender in the room, the two fragrances a potent combination that went to her head like strong wine. His body was hard and aroused where he was pressed against her stomach.

  Suddenly, he tore his mouth from hers with a groan. His hands pushed her back a step and he slid off the table, his feet hitting the floor. His arms still around her, he turned their bodies, slid his fingers into the knot of her hair and pulled her head back, then recaptured her lips in a deep, long, slow kiss that seemed to drive all the air from her lungs and spread aching warmth through her entire body.

  He was so much larger than she. Prudence’s arms tightened around his neck as if to bring him even closer, and she stirred in his embrace, glorying in the hard strength of his body pressed so intimately against her.

  He groaned against her mouth. Still kissing her, he pulled back far enough to pull off his jacket. He tossed it onto the table behind her, then his hands opened at her hips, grasping fistfuls of her tea gown and petticoat. He caught up the layers of pink mousseline and white muslin, bunching fabric between their bodies as if to keep it all out of the way, then cupped her buttocks in his hands.

  She broke their kiss, sucking in a deep gasp of surprise as his hands tightened on her buttocks and he lifted her onto the table. Her skirts fluttered down around her hips and over her knees in a puffy circle of silk and lace. His hands slid from beneath her, and he worked to unfasten the hooks that held up her drawers.

  “Lean back and lift your hips,” he ordered, and she complied, leaning back on her arms and raising her body. He tugged the drawers down her legs and over her feet, dropping the garment to the dusty stone floor. The silk lining of his jacket, still warm from his body, felt slick against her bare bottom as she sat up.

  His fists closed over the lacy frills at the edges of her tea gown, and he slid the long robelike jacket from her shoulders and down her arms. She pulled her hands out of the sleeves as he began unfastening the hooks at the front of her bodice.

  She looked up, studying his face in the afternoon shadows as he undressed her, and it struck her anew just how beautiful he was—sheer, masculine beauty like nothing she had ever seen in her life until she’d set eyes on him. His was truly a flawless face, grave now, with his attention fixed on his task, his long, straight lashes lowered over his extraordinary eyes.

  As he unfastened the hooks of her gown, he slipped the tiny pearl buttons of her chemise free as well, his knuckles brushing her breasts. She gave a soft sigh, and he paused to look at her face as he slid his hands beneath the edges of her garments with purposeful intent. When his fingertips grazed her bare nipples, she moaned, closing her eyes against the shameful excitement that began flowing through her even as she flattened her palms on the table and arched her body toward him.

  “Does that please you?” he murmured, and when she nodded, he rolled her nipples between his fingers as he had that morning, so tenderly and so sweetly that she moaned again, her hips stirring against the warm silk beneath her.

  “What about this?” he asked, opening his hands over her breasts. “How does this feel?”

  She made a faint sound, striving to answer, but as he shaped and cradled her breasts in his palms, the warmth within her deepened and spread, making her ache, and she couldn’t seem to form a single word.

  “And this?” He bent his head, opening his mouth over her nipple, and Prudence’s whole body jerked at the sweet sensation of it. To her amazement, he began to suckle her, pulling her nipple with his lips, scoring it gently with his teeth, and the pleasure was so exquisite she could not stop the soft cries that came from her throat. “Does this feel good?”

  She nodded, a quick, definite affirmation. “Yes,” she gasped. “Yes.”

  He pulled and teased one nipple with his mouth and the other with his fingers, and as he did, she cradled his head, exhilarated by his touch. When he slid his free hand beneath her skirts, a powerful wave of anticipation surged through her, for after their experience that morning, she knew what he would do next.

  But he confounded her, for instead of touching her as he had that morning, he ran his hand up and down her bare thigh in a light caress.

  Her hips writhed, need clawed at her. “Rhys,” she moaned, holding his head to her breast, her hands tightening in his hair. Each time his palm slid up her thigh, he came a little closer to what she craved, but it was a teasing that soon became unbearable. “Oh, don’t! Don’t!”

  He lifted his head a fraction. “Don’t?” he repeated softly. His tongue licked the pebbled skin around her nipple, and his fingers paused at the apex of her thighs, tickling. “I said there would be no stopping, remember?”

 
Stopping was the last thing she wanted. Desperate for the same sweet pleasure she’d experienced earlier, she reached for his hand.

  “Touch me,” she whispered, hotly embarrassed by her own lack of modesty, even as she pressed his hand to the place he’d touched before. “I don’t…don’t want you to stop.” she managed, struggling to get the words out past her panting breaths. “Oh, don’t stop.”

  Rhys pushed her back until she was lying on the table. He slid his hand between her thighs, but then he once again began to tease, caressing her in feather light circles all around that magical spot he’d touched so deliciously that morning. She arched her hips again, urging him closer to what she wanted, but he ignored her, still teasing. She groaned his name, a plea and a command, but he still didn’t give her what she wanted. “Touch me,” she ordered, desperate, unable to stand this sweet torture. “Touch me.”

  “I am touching you.”

  She shook her head, becoming frantic. “You know what I mean,” she panted, her entire body flushed with heat. “Touch me the way you did before.”

  “No.” He pulled his hand back, and she gave a cry of frustration that changed to a moan as he pressed a hot, wet kiss to her stomach. “I have something better in mind, tipsy girl.”

  She couldn’t imagine what could be better than what he’d done to her on the train, but then his hands spread her thighs apart and he opened his mouth over the same special place he’d touched that morning.

  She cried out, her body jerking at the exquisite sensation evoked by that carnal kiss, and he stopped, lifting his head a fraction. “Do you love me?”

  “Yes,” she panted, her hips writhing, arching upward. “Yes.”

  He raked his tongue ever so lightly over the spot where all her pleasure seemed centered. “Say it. I want to hear you say it.”

  “I love you, Rhys.” Her fingers curled in his hair. “I love you.”