Deepest Desires of a Wicked Duke

by Sharon Page

  “I was speaking to the women, Your Grace. Then Sadie kissed me.” Then, she couldn’t help it—he’d broken her heart ten years ago because he’d wanted wicked pleasures. Lightly, she added, “Kissing Sadie was rather nice.”

  “It was?”

  She’d meant to tease, but raw feeling strangled her. “It wasn’t as fiery, as intense, as powerful as kissing you. And for feeling that, I’m an utter fool. But unfortunately I haven’t had a chance to talk much to the women. The Wicked Widow—I mean, Lady Linley, fainted when I said Willoughby was dead.”

  “Wicked Widow?”

  Her cheeks burned. “A nickname. But I’m sure Lady Linley couldn’t be capable of killing Lord Willoughby.”

  “If she snuck up on him and knocked him out, it could be possible. However, we’re going to search the island.”

  “That is fine if it was someone from outside. But what if it was one of them? You will all be out there—” Her imagination quickly supplied the frightening image. Sinclair searching along the cliff edge, then a figure stealing up and hitting him over the head—

  The mere thought made her feel as desperate with fear as when children in her home got sick. “You can’t! You will be outside and vulnerable. It’s too dangerous.”

  “We’ll go in pairs.”

  “And you might be paired with a murderer. I’ll go with you again. With the fireplace poker.”

  “Por—my dear, I don’t think you and your fireplace poker could do more than I.”

  “You would be surprised.”

  A smile played on his lips. A grim one. “The island isn’t large. All of us men will go together. You will stay here. But watch out for the women.... Hell, I still don’t like leaving you alone.”

  “I guess, if you are all together, you will be safe. All of the other men can’t be involved.”

  “I damn well hope not.”

  Her heart wobbled. Wobbled terribly. “Do be careful.”

  “It’s all right, angel. I have a pistol.”

  “A pistol?”

  “Brought it because I knew you were in danger. And, Portia—be careful kissing the women. One could be our suspect.”

  “I’m not . . . I . . .” She sputtered, allowing his to be the last complete and coherent words.

  He strode away and rounded up the other men. Saxonby, Rutledge, the Cruel Marquis, the Sporting Corinthian earl—they all filed out through the terrace doors with Sinclair.

  “You really are in love with him, aren’t you?”

  Jasmine perfume teased her nose and Portia whirled around. She faced the Incognita’s green eyes. “I’m not. I am not that foolish. I won’t forget what you said.”

  “You won’t forget it, but I suspect you will ignore it. Let me tell you more about Sin.”

  * * *

  “We should check where Will was found,” Sin said to the other men accompanying him. Even the footman and the thin, aging butler had come out onto the terrace to assist the search. The ocean wind whipped around them, the air filled with moisture and the tang of salt and dead seaweed.

  As Sin looked across the terrace, he wasn’t seeing the smooth flagstones, the grass beyond. He was seeing Portia’s wide-eyed look of sweet surprise, then the sultry look as she kissed Sadie. He was remembering the press of Portia’s rounded breasts against Sadie’s full bosom. Sadie’s hand cupping Portia’s bottom.

  He had to stop thinking about it. He had a murder to solve. Murder had touched him before, a long time ago, and he couldn’t let himself think about that either.

  Sin started across the terrace with long strides, slowed down, and held back, letting the other men overtake him. He watched. Would any of the men go instinctively to where Willoughby’s body had lain?

  One did and it surprised him. The old butler walked to the spot on the still-damp grass and halted. Then he jerked his head around nervously and met Sin’s cool eyes.

  “Your Grace, where exactly was the young gentleman found?”

  “You’re standing there,” Sin answered. “So you obviously know.”

  “I observed the depression in the grass, Your Grace.”

  “There wasn’t anything obvious. The rain beat down all the grass.” Straightening, Sin moved to the butler and glared down at the man. “But you knew where to come.”

  “I . . . It was pure chance—”

  “I don’t think it was. Why did you kill him?”

  “K-Kill him?” The man’s eyes bulged. “I did not. You must believe me! I would never murder a peer of the realm! I had no argument with Lord Willoughby! I looked out last night. I saw him there. I saw two people—one must have been Lord Willoughby.”

  “Yet you didn’t reveal this before. Did you see Will be murdered?”

  “No, Your Grace. No—if I had known the viscount was in danger, I should have sounded the alarm. Gone to his aid at once. I believed the gentlemen were speaking. And I was warned that on occasion there might be . . . certain behaviors between the male guests. Lord Genvere’s instructions quite clearly stated I was to show utmost discretion at all times. I simply closed the drapes and continued with my duty—which was to ensure all windows were closed for the night.”

  “You thought Will and this other man were having an assignation.”

  The old butler turned red. “It occurred to me that I might be witnessing such a thing, Your Grace. Thus I decided to apply discretion and afford the gentlemen privacy.”

  “Who was the other man with him?”

  “I can’t say.”

  “You bloody well will. That man might have murdered Will.”

  “I mean, I cannot say, Your Grace, because I did not clearly see him.”

  “Was he taller than Will? Bigger build? What about his hair color?”

  “Perhaps similar height to poor Lord Willoughby. He wore a great coat and hat and with the heavy rain, I could make out little.”

  An eyewitness who could give them nothing. Damn it.

  “Did you see him walk? What kind of gait did he have?”

  “They did not walk. I would say I believed him to be inebriated. He staggered once under my observation. I am afraid I can help no further.”

  “All right. What we will do is search the grass for clues.”

  “And if I were the murderer,” barked Crayle, “wouldn’t I pocket any incriminating clues?”

  “I think it was someone from outside. Not one of the guests.”

  “Could be the bleeding footman,” Crayle snapped. The footman had moved off to scour the ground for clues. “Willoughby could have suggested some sport with the footman’s arse and the lad took objection.”

  “Possible,” Sin agreed. “I’m watching him, to see if he hides anything.”

  “Eh, you won’t be able to watch him every second. Let’s get this blasted island scoured. Then I can get back to fucking.”

  Sin jerked. It figured the marquis was still thinking of that after Will had his head cleaved in. Once he would have been like that. Strangely, he wasn’t anymore. The main thing on his mind—Portia.

  As a group, they searched the grass. Sin walked around, eyes on the ground. There—footprints. Several, evenly spaced in a stretch of mud, as if two people walked together, side by side. Did they belong to Willoughby and his attacker? Or had the attacker followed Willoughby? Sin crouched and studied the prints. Both appeared to be made by a man’s boot. One set larger than the other.

  “Interesting,” he muttered.

  “What did you find?” Sax asked.

  “Footprints. Apparently made by two men.” He straightened and continued his search, to see if he would find anything else.

  The island itself wasn’t large and was mainly rock and scrub grass. There were few trees and none provided a hiding place. With the weather improving, Sin tried rappelling down the safer parts of the cliff, hunting for caves, for steps, for rock shelves where a man could hide.

  Sax and Rutledge helped haul him up after his last descent. They had taken turns, explori
ng all the accessible areas of the cliffs. Sin wanted to rappel down the riskier spots, but Sax shook his head. “Too risky. And if we’re afraid to go down there, who else would do it? How could they get back up?”

  “There could be caves there. There could be safe ways to ascend the cliff, using rope, that we can’t see from here.”

  Sax shook his head. “It’s too wet. And I think unnecessary.”

  “But it means we’ve combed the island and found nothing except two sets of footprints,” Sin pointed out. “No sign of anyone else on the island. If that’s true, it has to be someone in the house.”

  12

  Curiosity was driving her mad. But Portia tried to appear blasé, tossing her curls and sipping the sherry handed to her by the Incognita. Syrupy sweet sherry. Gasp. It burned like sin going down, but she held in the splutter she almost made.

  “What do you wish to tell me about Sin? I’m sure it’s nothing I don’t already know.”

  The Incognita smiled. A wicked smile. It only made the woman look even sultrier. “So you’ve done that shocking thing that he likes best?” Clarissa continued.

  “Oh—er.”

  “I had never done anything so naughty in my life. How did he want you to do it? What position?”

  Oh ack. This was maddening. She had to play along, but what was she going to be claiming she’d done? What was the thing Sinclair liked best?

  She was so curious, but also afraid to find out.

  The Incognita nudged her. “You must tell me how he wanted you to do it. I thought I’d gag. It was far too huge of course.”

  Gag? Huge? Did she mean taking Sin’s erection in her mouth? Portia had taken him in her hand. On the night they got engaged.

  “And then with the rope,” continued the Incognita. “I mean, really.”

  Rope? “Oh, er, yes.”

  “And then, involving the hounds. Utterly shocking.”

  “The hounds?” Her sherry tipped over and spilled on her skirt.

  The Incognita took Portia by the arm and led her toward the windows. “You have no idea what I’m talking about, do you?”

  “Of course I do,” Portia insisted, but knew it was a losing battle.

  “I made all that up, darling. But I’ve never known Sin to want an innocent. He likes his women tremendously experienced. He liked punishment, as I said. Whips, spanking paddles, riding crops. Even blades. I’ve seen him endure all kinds of cuts. I would be sick with pain and fear, but he was aroused. His cock was harder than I’d ever seen it. And then he climaxed with so much force, he broke the chair he was sitting on.”

  “Oh God,” Portia muttered.

  “Would you be willing to share him with other women? What about other men?”

  “Other men? I don’t understand what you mean—”

  “Innocent, just as I thought. Why are you here, darling?”

  “Because someone kidnapped me in London and brought me here,” Portia said. Her heart still pounded from the things the Incognita had said. But she had had enough. “Were you responsible for that? Someone was. Have you ever met our host, Lord Genvere?”

  “You were kidnapped. What are you—a virgin dragged off the streets?” Clarissa’s dark brows shot up. “You are!”

  “I am not—oh, er, I don’t know.” Did she admit to innocence here?

  The Incognita tapped her lip. “And Sin came to your rescue? He can be dreadfully noble when he wants to be. He’s more fun when he’s naughty.”

  “I am going to find out who is responsible for kidnapping me.” Portia watched the woman’s green eyes.

  “So you should. If I can help you, I will.”

  “You will?”

  “I do not believe women should be subject to such danger. I was innocent once. Dragged off the street, as well, only I was sold to a brothel. Sold, like a slave. The money was handed over to the man who had no rights over me. In those first days, I wanted to die. Then I wanted revenge—and to get revenge, I needed money, power, and my freedom. I achieved all three.”

  “Did you get revenge?” Portia asked. The woman’s story had her under its spell.

  “I did.”

  “You had him arrested.”

  “Arrest would do no good. He is dead now.”

  “You killed him—”

  “Oh, my darling, I would never admit to that. Suffice to say his greed and brutality were his downfall in the end.”

  Portia stared. The Incognita was smiling. Humming, actually. She looked utterly proud of herself.

  She was astoundingly ruthless. Portia opened her mouth to speak—

  The doors leading to the terrace opened. Drapes tangled in the wind, and the air blowing in was cold and wet.

  The Duke of Saxonby came in first, holding his hat to his silver hair. The Cruel Marquis followed, muttering, “Damned waste of time.”

  White-faced, the butler entered, along with the handsome dark-haired footman who had a few grass stains on his breeches. The Earl of Rutledge came in, followed by the Earl of Blute, then Sin.

  Sinclair, she meant.

  “Bollocks,” barked the marquis. “Have no idea who attacked Willoughby, but I came for an orgy, and I’m damn well having one. Willoughby would. He wouldn’t sit about, mourning. He’d be buried deep inside some lass, pumping as if his life depended on it. Carpe diem. Seize the tarts and rut all day, I say. I’ll be more than generous with the woman who satisfies me.”

  Sadie launched up. “I will,” she simpered. She slipped her hand in the crook of his elbow, and with that, the marquis and Sadie left the room.

  The Earl of Rutledge growled. “The old bugger is right. Come, Clarissa. Come and please me. I’ve got some fun games in mind with your pussy, my cock, and a dildo.”

  Blute grabbed Nellie’s bottom—apparently that amounted to a seductive invitation in his mind, for he then hauled her to him and began kissing her neck with loud suction.

  Despite her previous experience, Portia actually wished she had more sherry. She needed that bold courage she’d felt before.

  Someone was going to notice how shocked and awkward she looked. She’d been curious about the orgy, but now knew this wasn’t for her.

  She should talk to the servants. In a household, servants knew everything. The maid could know something—could have seen her be brought here. And there was the cook. Portia couldn’t see how the cook could poison Sandhurst without killing everyone else, or why she would want to poison him, but—

  It was an escape.

  Portia slipped out of the drawing room, heading for the baize servants’ door.

  Just as she reached it, someone put his hand out behind her and prevented her from opening it. “Understand this,” growled Sinclair. “You are not going anywhere in this house alone. If you think you can escape me, you are mistaken.”

  “I wasn’t escaping you. I was escaping . . . what was about to happen in the drawing room.”

  “I thought you wanted to watch,” Sinclair said coolly.

  It was embarrassing to admit, but she couldn’t bring herself to lie. Sighing, she shook her head. “You were right and I was not. I don’t belong in this world. I’m not right for it at all. I’m dull and proper and boring. Working like a maid in a home is what I was meant to do.”

  “Damn it—” He grabbed her.

  His hands clamped to her bottom and he dragged her right against him. Something huge pressed against her tummy. It couldn’t be him, could it? They must have got the fireplace poker stuck between them somehow. . . .

  No, heavens, it was him.

  Hot, demanding, his mouth claimed hers. His tongue teased, tangled, thrust, and made her weak in the knees. If his tongue hadn’t been in her mouth she might have . . . might have begged him to take her.

  Suddenly he let her go. Moved his mouth, his hands, his body. She almost staggered and fell. Only the wall, that she slapped her hand hard against, saved her.

  “I hope that proves you aren’t dull and boring,” he said. “And that
it proves I kiss a damn sight better than Sadie.”

  She was not going to let him know how he’d made her feel dizzy. And so, so lusty.

  “I doubt the Marquis of Crayle would agree about your kissing,” she said evasively as she pushed open the baize servants’ door. A staircase led downward. The walls were stone and only one lamp lit the space—it was placed below, so walking down felt like entering the pits of hell. She spent so much time downstairs at the foundling home, she should not be frightened to enter a basement. Ahead she could smell the warm scents of fires in the stoves, of fresh cooking. And she could smell the salty damp of the sea.

  Portia made her way down briskly, with Sinclair behind her. She did feel safer having him with her.

  At the bottom of the stairs, in the basement, Sinclair had to duck. He rested his hand on one of the thick wooden beams of the ceiling. “What do you hope to learn from the cook?”

  “I don’t know exactly,” she admitted. “I know that if she poisoned Sandhurst, she would hardly admit it. And why kill him and not the rest of us—if she’s mad enough to do such a thing? As for Willoughby, why would a cook attack him?”

  They approached the kitchen. Huge, black iron stoves stood along a stone wall. Large fry pans hung from hooks in the ceiling, as did drying herbs. She looked at the frying pan. “I suppose, if she’d wanted to hurt him, she did have weapons.”

  “I am astounded you can assess this so coolly.”

  “I’ve read a lot of gothic novels. I feel like I’ve fallen into one. All I need is a handsome but tormented earl who wants to ravish me—”

  “You already have that. Any man here would want to ravish you.”

  She knew she’d blushed. “Not with those other voluptuous, experienced women here.”

  “Yes, any one of those men would bed you in a heartbeat. Willing or not.”

  “Even Saxonby, your friend?”

  “No, Sax wouldn’t. Willoughby would. I saw him looking at you last night. At dinner. I didn’t like the way he was doing it.”

  “He smirked at me once.”

  “He was looking at you like he wanted you in his bed. Pure lust.”

  “What? At me?” she squeaked. “I never noticed.”