Undercover Duke

by Sabrina Jeffries

  It didn’t really matter, since the end result had been the same—her parents were miserable and had been since before she was born. She didn’t want that for herself. Even if she could only have a marriage between friends, it was better than what her parents’ marriage had become—a marriage between enemies.

  “Tell me about Helene,” she said, forcing herself not to show her pain. Until yesterday, she had never guessed he might have had another woman in his life. If she’d known that, she might not have tried so hard to gain him as her husband. “Did she end up married to someone else? Or did you have to leave her behind in Prussia?”

  He gave a harsh laugh. “You could say that. I left her behind in a Berlin grave.”

  Now that she wasn’t expecting. “Oh! Oh, Sheridan, I’m so sorry. Was she . . . Were you . . . married to her?”

  “No. Merely engaged.” He walked back to his chair and sat down to pour himself a glass of Madeira. “We met during her debut.”

  When he fell silent, she said once more, “Tell me about her.”

  He sipped some Madeira. “She was very pretty.”

  “You don’t need to fudge the details on my account.” Even if it killed her to hear them.

  “All right. Beautiful, then, but in a different way from you. She was tall and thin and had translucent skin. Little did I know that her thinness and skin were because she was in the early stages of consumption.”

  “Good Lord.” Vanessa’s heart went out to him. “That must have been awful, I know. Consumption is an ugly, horrible way to die. Anyone who loves a consumptive has to watch as their beloved wastes away before their very eyes.”

  He shot her a questioning look. “You sound as if you’re familiar with it.”

  “Uncle Noah’s wife died of consumption,” she explained. “I think that’s one reason he’s finally ready to marry again. Being married to a consumptive means losing them bit by bit, until by the end you hardly see the person you knew.”

  “That’s an accurate assessment.” He traced the rim of his glass. “Of course, I didn’t realize Helene was ill when I was courting her. I don’t think even her parents knew at that point. She’d always been thin, and she’d grown tall long before I met her.”

  “You were in love with her,” she said, tamping down her pain at the thought. She mustn’t let it show. She was not going to be one of those women who pined for a man who didn’t love her, could never love her.

  “I was as in love as a man of twenty-three can be.” He cast her a rueful smile. “I didn’t know what love is, to be honest. She was attractive and elegant, the sort of woman who would have been perfect as a diplomat’s wife.”

  “Or a duke’s,” she put in.

  “I don’t know about that. She wouldn’t have wanted to move here, I imagine, even if she hadn’t become ill. When Uncle Armie died, Father was determined that I return with the family so he could prepare me for inheriting the title and estate from him. If I’d had Helene as my wife, if she’d lived, I might have fought harder against coming here. But without her, there was honestly no point to staying in Prussia.”

  And if he’d succeeded in staying there, Vanessa would never have known him. It was horrible and selfish of her, but she couldn’t regret that Helene had died. She only wished the woman hadn’t apparently taken Sheridan’s heart into the grave with her.

  Sheridan sighed. “But, as they say, ‘If wishes were horses, then beggars would ride,’ and all that. She didn’t become my wife and she didn’t come here with me or live there with me, and that was that.” He met Vanessa’s gaze. “It’s all in the past now.”

  “Hardly. I can tell from the way you’re clutching that wineglass that it’s not ‘all in the past.’”

  “I suppose you want the details of my ill-fated romance with Helene.” He stared down at the glass in his hand. “You insist on dragging the whole of it out of me.”

  She reached over to clasp his free hand. “I insist on knowing why it has kept you from marrying. Why you would not have married me if it hadn’t been for our being caught together in the garden.”

  “You do deserve to know that.” He sipped some wine, then set the glass down and gently withdrew his other hand from hers.

  Swallowing hard, she put her hands in her lap and tried not to show how his withdrawal bothered her. But she needed to know the rest, to know what—or who—she was up against.

  “I courted Helene for the whole Berlin season,” he said in a measured voice, as if he were controlling his emotions. “She and I had little in common. But we both loved music, especially Mozart, whom I had seen play when I was nine.”

  “Mozart wrote wonderful music for dancing.”

  “He did indeed. Of course, by the time Helene had heard of him, he’d already been dead for ten years or more.”

  Vanessa didn’t think it wise to point out that Helene might have only “loved” Mozart’s music because Sheridan did. She didn’t want Sheridan thinking she was being petty. But she did know plenty of young ladies who routinely changed their likes and dislikes to suit a man they wanted.

  He set his wineglass on the table between them. “In any case, we discovered we were well-suited temperamentally, both being of a rather taciturn nature.” A muscle worked in his jaw. “I offered for her, and she accepted. But her family wanted a long engagement, so we agreed to wait a year to marry.”

  “A year!” she exclaimed. “That is long indeed.”

  One corner of his lips quirked up. “Considerably longer than a week, to be sure.”

  “True. Though, to be fair, you and I have known each other for a year and a half. We just weren’t betrothed but a week.”

  He gazed at her with an odd expression, then abruptly rose to go stoke the fire. “Anyway, I think Helene’s parents were concerned that as a diplomat, I might take her away from Prussia for my postings. And perhaps they would have been right.”

  Returning to the table, he took another sip of his wine. “Neither of us was pleased about waiting so long, as you might imagine, especially Helene, who wanted us to elope. I refused, thinking of the damage it would do to my diplomatic career. I came to regret that decision, because by the time the year was up she was dead.”

  “That must have been awful for you,” Vanessa said. “And her family, of course.”

  He nodded, as if to acknowledge the veracity of her statement. “As she grew more ill, she told me I should end our betrothal. But that felt . . . wrong somehow. Eventually, Mother prevailed upon me not to visit her, for fear that I might catch the disease myself.”

  “But you went anyway.”

  He started. “I did indeed. How did you know?”

  “Because you’re a good man, a responsible man. And that’s what such a man does.” She smoothed her skirts. “Especially a man in love, who has already committed himself to a woman.”

  “Yet I wasn’t there at the end,” he said in a hard voice. “She died alone in her bed at night. And I—”

  “Felt guilty.” She reached across to cover his hand with hers again. “But you shouldn’t. Many people die alone simply because none of us know when the moment of death will be.” She caught her breath. “Papa died alone. And despite all the awful things he’d done, I still wished I could have been there to say good-bye.”

  He gripped her hand. “Now you understand why my family and I feel compelled to solve our fathers’ murders. Especially my father’s, since he was essentially father to us all. He died alone, too, with only his murderer as companion.”

  A lump stuck in her throat. That explained so much about his and his siblings’ obsession. She remembered Sheridan’s father, a nice man, if a tad reserved. Much like his son, actually.

  Sheridan stared down at her hand in his. “I’m telling you all this now by way of warning you that I’ve lost much because of the deaths of those I love. You asked me why I would have chosen to remain a bachelor if I could have. The truth is . . . I just can’t go through that pain again.”

 
“You’re expecting me to die soon, too, are you?” she quipped.

  His gaze shot to hers. “Don’t even joke about that.” He reached up with his other hand to stroke her cheek. “Losing Helene and then Father hurt so very much that I have no desire to repeat the experience. I would rather have the sort of marriage my parents had than suffer through such agony again.”

  “In other words, you don’t intend to let yourself love me or let me see the real you.”

  He tensed, then nodded.

  “What if our marriage becomes something more like what Grey’s parents had, or, worse yet, the sort of marriage my parents had? Not allowing yourself to love doesn’t guarantee a life free of pain.”

  Releasing her hand, he sat back in the chair. “But it eliminates a primary source of pain, doesn’t it?”

  “You’ll deprive yourself of one of life’s greatest joys out of a determination not to experience the pain love can also bring? That’s like refusing to ride because you fear falling off.”

  He cast her a stony stare. “You can’t understand. You’ve never lost someone who was the center of your world.”

  She couldn’t argue with that. It was true. She took another tack. “And when we have children? Or are we having children?”

  “I would like to, yes,” he said warily.

  She leaned forward to fix him with an earnest look. “Will you try not to love your children, too, so you don’t suffer pain if one of them dies? Parents do outlive their children sometimes, you know.”

  He rose from the table, his lips set in a thin line. “Of course I will love our children.”

  “Just not their mother.”

  He whirled on her, his eyes blazing. “And what of you and how you feel about me? You’re in love with Juncker. That probably precludes your ever being in love with me, doesn’t it?”

  Oh, but he knew how to turn the knife, didn’t he? She stood to face him. “I never said I was in love with Mr. Juncker.”

  “You didn’t have to. It was painfully obvious when I caught him kissing you and you not stopping it.”

  She should tell him that she didn’t give a fig for Mr. Juncker. That she never had. But then Sheridan might figure out that the only object of her affections had always been him. And not only would he be convinced she’d somehow manipulated the situation so he would have to marry her, but she would look like a pathetic fool for wanting a man who could never love her. She had too much pride for that.

  “To use your own words,” Sheridan said in a hollow voice, “‘Tell me the truth no matter how much you think it might pain me.’ Are you in love with Juncker?”

  He would find any answer she gave to that unsatisfying. It was time she turn their discussion to something both of them would find more satisfying.

  She walked up to clasp his head and kiss him soundly on the mouth. When she drew back, she said in a low voice, “I don’t want to talk about Mr. Juncker or Helene or even the murders.” She untied his cravat and tossed it aside. “I don’t want to talk at all.” She tugged on his coat, and he obligingly shucked it off. “This might be the closest thing we’ll have to a honeymoon, and we’re alone.” She began to unbutton his waistcoat. “I’d much rather do something more . . . enjoyable.”

  Seizing his hand, she placed it on her breast. He just stared at her, as if he couldn’t believe she was being so brazen. She couldn’t believe it herself. But how else was she to take his mind off of Mr. Juncker except by seducing him? She wasn’t quite sure how to go about it, but she would work it out as she went along.

  She kissed him again, this time lingering over his mouth. And he stayed frozen for about half a second. Then he shrugged off his waistcoat and slung his arm about her waist to pull her hard against him for a kiss as darkly needy as it was delicious.

  “Damn it, Vanessa,” he whispered against her lips. “You are . . . making this bloody hard.”

  She certainly hoped so. Because she had no intention of being wed to the saint everyone took him for. What she wanted was the sinner, the part he only showed her. Sinful Sheridan was at least capable of love. “I think”—she whispered back—“you are the one making this hard.” And she put her hand on his trousers, right where a bulge was forming most pleasingly.

  With a groan, he grabbed her hand and held it more firmly against that evidence of his arousal. Then as he moved it up and down, he turned to kissing his way down her neck to the low scoop of her bodice. “Turn around, my temptress,” he said in a rough voice that sent shivers along her senses.

  She did as he bade, her pulse quickening in anticipation.

  Swiftly, he undid the fastenings of her gown, then untied her corset and shoved it all off, leaving her in her shift and stockings. As he circled back around in front of her, she untied her shift. Before she could remove it, he pulled the opening apart and loosened the tie so he could bring the front down far enough to bare her breasts. “I never tire of these,” he growled.

  Taking her by surprise, he lifted her onto the table, then pulled his chair around so he could sit down and feast upon her breasts. There was something so . . . carnal about having him sucking and licking and teasing her nipples while sitting casually at the table. “I like having you . . . feed on me,” she said with a little laugh as she buried her fingers in his silky curls.

  “I like having you for dinner,” he murmured against one breast. “You smell good. You taste good. You make me so . . . very . . . hungry. . . .”

  The husky way he said it shot a thrill through her. “You are . . . a flatterer.”

  Perhaps the way to a man’s heart truly was through his stomach. The thought made her giggle, and he paused to stare up at her with a raised eyebrow. Not wanting to explain, she said, “When will you take these off?” and tugged at his trousers’ waistband.

  At once he sat back and pulled off his boots. “Touch yourself,” he said.

  “Wh-What? Where?”

  “Your breasts. Touch them. Don’t you ever touch yourself?”

  “Only to bathe. Why?”

  He groaned as he stood to unfasten his trousers. “Pretend you’re bathing. Better yet, pretend I’m bathing you.”

  “Ohhh.” Why did the very idea make her all trembly?

  Feeling a bit self-conscious, she began to rub her breasts. It felt so-o-o naughty, especially since he still wore half his clothes.

  But not for long. As she fondled her bosom shamelessly through the opening of her shift, he continued undressing, his gaze eating her up. “You’re a feast for a man’s eyes, my wanton wife.”

  She surveyed his now-bared chest with its impressive muscles, then his undertrousers, or whatever they were called, which were bulging impressively. “As are you, my wanton husband.”

  Only when he was completely naked did he resume his seat in front of her. Spreading her legs, he said in a harsh rasp, “And I do believe I’m ready for dessert.” He pulled her shift up just enough so he could thrust his head beneath it.

  Then he kissed her right on her privates, a spot she’d never imagined anyone wanting to kiss. As she caught his head to her, he began to stroke her down there with his tongue. At first it tickled, but the more he used his tongue in long, hot caresses, the more it stirred her already heightened senses. And it was . . . marvelous. He made her quiver on the inside, he made her quiver on the outside, he made her quiver everywhere a woman could.

  Oh. Heavens. How amazing! The man was clearly a master of the bedchamber.

  As she squirmed beneath the rasps of his tongue, his thumbs stroked small circles on the inside of her upper thighs, which had suddenly become quite sensitive.

  “This . . . seems very . . . wicked,” she choked out.

  He paused long enough to ask, with a ghost of a smile, “Do you mind being wicked?”

  “With you? No.”

  “Good,” he ground out, then returned to teasing her down there with his lips and tongue and teeth until she thought she might explode out of her skin.

  “Sherida
n . . . I want . . . I want . . .”

  “What do you want, my wicked wife?”

  “You . . . inside me. . . .”

  He tormented her a bit more with his clever tongue, then asked, “Are you sure that’s what you want?”

  “Oh, yes . . . please . . .”

  “Very well,” he said, and wiped his mouth on her shift.

  Then he pulled her off the table and onto him, so she was straddling his thighs, with her knees resting on either side of his narrow hips on the seat of the wide chair.

  “What are you doing?” she asked.

  “If you want me inside you, then mount me.”

  She blinked, at first not understanding. Then it dawned on her. He wanted to do what they’d done last night, only in reverse. How very . . . intriguing.

  And this way, she would have all that male glory in front of her while she “mounted” him.

  “Well?” he asked, with one eyebrow quirked up and his lips smirking.

  “That sounds like something I might enjoy.”

  “Might? I will make sure you do.” He grabbed the hem of her shift, which was already bunched about her hips. “But first, let’s get rid of this.” And with a quick motion of his hands, he dispensed with her shift. “That’s better,” he said, his eyes gleaming.

  “You like seeing me naked, don’t you?” she said, preening a bit.

  “You’re still wearing stockings.”

  “Shall I take those off, too?”

  “God, no.” He smoothed his hands up her thighs to her garters. “I like you in stockings.”

  “You like seeing me almost naked,” she teased. “In pearls. Or stockings.”

  “Oh, yes.” He gazed at her breasts. “I certainly do.”

  “And I like seeing you . . . beneath me.”

  “Witch,” he said, and smiled. “Now it’s time you see me, feel me . . . inside of you.”

  Sheridan had never imagined a picture as erotic as Vanessa perched naked atop him in stockings, which somehow made the image even more erotic. His duchess proved a quick study, too. All he had to do was give her a few instructions and guide her down his rigid cock to have her encasing it in pure, delectable heat.