Deepest Desires of a Wicked Duke

by Sharon Page

  “I did.”

  Sinclair had seen Willoughby looking at her. Had that made him angry? Had it raised his suspicions?

  The worst thought went through her head. Could Sinclair and Willoughby have argued? Fought? Then—

  No. It was not possible. Portia pushed those awful thoughts away. “I also wondered about the maid,” she said. “There’s only the one, so she works all over the house. Maybe she saw something. Overheard something—”

  She broke off as a low, masculine laugh came from a doorway. So did the smell of smoke. She peeked inside the room.

  The young, black-haired footman sat at a wooden table, having a cup of tea. A cheroot rested between his fingers, smoke rising. Grinning, he reached for the pretty housemaid, catching her by her hips. “Come sit on my lap, love.”

  The young woman—she must be close to Portia’s age of twenty-nine—pushed his hand away. “I haven’t time for the likes of you. I have to do all the work upstairs. I never would have taken this position if I’d known I would be the only maid for a house party.”

  “Orgy, you mean,” the footman sniggered. “Don’t see why they get all the fun. They’re not going to notice if you’re not there. Even that old bugger was going off with two women.”

  “Does Lord Genvere have parties like this all the time? What is he like? Is he handsome?” the maid asked.

  Portia strained to hear, curious.

  “Hopeful?” mocked the footman. “I don’t know what he’s like. I started the day before you came here, love. Never seen Genvere.”

  The maid hesitated. “What do you think about that toff being murdered outside, Reggie? The other one—well, Cook figures he must have had a weak heart, for he was so young. But do you think one of them upstairs is a murderer?”

  “I don’t know,” Reggie answered slowly. “I took a good look around this island when I first got here. Slipped off in the afternoon. There aren’t any other buildings on the island except this house. There’s no one else on it but us.”

  The maid had gone white.

  “I’ll watch out for you, Ellie,” the young footman promised, cockily.

  “And who will keep me safe from you?” she asked pertly.

  So the maid was Ellie, the footman Reggie.

  Reggie took something out of a pocket of the coat of his livery. He threw it on the table. “Did you leave this for me?”

  Portia stared. It was a folded note on thick white paper, with the red wax seal.

  The maid gasped. “Of course not . . . what did yours say?”

  “A warning about all my sins.” His grin widened. He leaned back in the chair. Winked. “What are your sins, love?”

  “I don’t have any sins. Those notes are silly. I thought . . . I thought the butler might have left them. To frighten us, so we work harder.”

  “Why would you be frightened, Ellie, if you have no sins to hide?”

  “I . . . oh, never mind.”

  The maid headed for the door, so Portia moved back, into the shadows around a corner. She realized she stepped right against Sinclair. The duke really was a tall, well-built man. Ellie passed them without seeing them, hurrying to the stairs.

  “I’m going to talk to the cook,” Portia whispered to him. “Can you question the footman? Perhaps he saw something—or he might even be the man who attacked Willoughby.”

  “I will question him. I’ll have the butler send him upstairs.”

  She frowned. “But he’s right there.”

  “And it is customary for me to make a request to a footman through the butler.”

  “That’s ridiculous.”

  “It’s what the footman will expect.”

  She sighed in frustration.

  “As for the footman, did you recognize him as one of your kidnappers, under the wig and livery?”

  “The two men who kidnapped me were quite unappealing in their appearance. And their smell. It couldn’t have been the footman—he’s far too handsome.”

  Sinclair did not look pleased at that observation. “I will go with you to question the cook.”

  “That’s not necessary.”

  “A house like this has to be filled with hiding places. That’s why I’m going to watch over you. Whether you like it or not.”

  “I doubt Genvere or someone will leap out at me from a cupboard.”

  “That footman might. I’ve seen him watch you with a lusty look on his face.”

  He looked so annoyed, so possessive Portia’s anger flared. “Well, I wouldn’t want to keep you from taking a group of men and women into your bed. And you can’t do that if you’re following me around.”

  She tried to walk away, but his hand caught her waist and he pulled her back. “What are you talking about?”

  “I was told you always take groups of people to your bed. Rather like a dinner party under the covers.”

  “Actually nothing like a dinner party under covers,” he muttered.

  “What you told me—about regret—how can that be true?”

  He frowned, looking like an angered lion. “It is true.” Then his expression softened. Slowly, so slowly, his fingertip traced her lip.

  “But don’t you want that now? Isn’t that what you would be doing, if I weren’t here? When you’re surrounded by all these beautiful women.”

  “Around you, Miss Love, I can’t even see anyone else.”

  “I will go,” she whispered. She had to. Before—before any good sense melted away like sugar in rain. She left him, quietly going into the kitchen.

  Ahead of her, a full-figured woman leaned over a wooden work table. The woman’s back rose and fell as she vigorously drove a rolling pin over dough, flattening it. Obviously this was the cook.

  “Hello?” Portia said tentatively.

  The cook jumped, clapping her hand to her heart. She turned, waving the pin. “Keep back or I’ll—” The woman, her voluptuous form covered by a gray striped dress, reared back. “Oh, I’m sorry, miss. I feared it might be this murderer. He killed that poor, handsome viscount. He’s not going to get me. I’ll bash his wits with this rolling pin if he even tries.”

  Portia stepped back as the woman waved it menacingly. Then the cook pushed back her glossy black curls, leaving a streak of white flour along her temple.

  “I wondered if you had any clue as to who did that horrible crime, Mrs.—?”

  “Mrs. Kent, miss. And you are?”

  “Miss—uh—Love.”

  “I can tell ye I have no idea, Miss Love. I don’t see anything down here. There’s barely any windows. And I’ve got so much work to do, I barely have a minute to think, much less be peering at things that aren’t my business. Murderers are not something a respectable woman concerns herself with. Besides, he was murdered in the night. I were asleep then. I doubt I’ll sleep well ever again. Too afraid I’ll be killed in my own bed.”

  “You heard about the other death. Viscount Sandhurst.”

  “Aye, the other young peer. You’re not going to tell me he was murdered too!”

  “We aren’t sure. We fear he may have been poisoned—”

  “Poison? Ye think I caused his death. That my cooking killed him!” Mrs. Kent waved the rolling pin about in her excitement and Portia had to dodge it.

  “No, of course not.”

  The cook dropped the implement to the table, then reached for her apron ties. “Perhaps I shouldn’t do any more cooking, if ye think I’m killing ye.”

  “We don’t think anything of the sort. Please do not take offense. Your cooking is delicious. I’ve never had such lovely dishes.”

  “Well, if ye think that . . .” Mrs. Kent fiddled with a locket that hung around her neck. It was gold and a small pink ribbon was tied in a bow on the chain above it. Portia stared it the ribbon, remembering the one she’d found when Sandhurst died.

  “What are you staring at?” the cook asked.

  “Your ribbon. Is it something special?”

  “Just a bit of ribbon I found in
the house. Too small to use for sewing. I didn’t think Lord Genvere would mind.”

  Had Sandhurst got the ribbon from the house too? But for what reason would he have tucked it in his pocket?

  “What is Lord Genvere actually like?”

  “I’ve no idea, miss. But surely you know him. I thought his lordship was only inviting friends to his gathering.”

  Portia shook his head. “That can’t be so. Many of the guests have never met Lord Genvere. I certainly don’t know him. But then, I wasn’t invited here. I was kidnapped and brought here against my will. Were you told about that? To expect another person for dinner, a person being brought here against her will?”

  “Good heavens, miss, what on earth do you mean? Are you saying that Lord Genvere had you kidnapped? Surely not. Perhaps it was just a game? There are courtesans here—” The woman sniffed. “I don’t like serving them. They’re no better than they ought to be. But I need this position. If you’re one of them, perhaps he bought you from your madam.”

  “I’m not a courtesan. I’m a respecta—” She broke off. “I don’t have a madam, and no one bought me. I was snatched off the street and brought here. So I want to know everything I can about Lord Genvere.”

  Portia half expected what the cook would say and she was right. “I can’t tell you anything,” Mrs. Kent said. “I’ve never seen him. In the time I’ve been on this island—only a few days, I admit—he’s never been here. The butler and I were hired and came here at the same time.”

  She tried more questions, but learned nothing more. She thanked the cook and left. Outside the kitchens, Portia sagged against the stone wall. Mrs. Kent seemed so normal—surely she wasn’t poisoning food and killing viscounts. So who was?

  She heard low voices and saw Sinclair speaking with the butler—the thin, balding butler must have come downstairs.

  Questioning people was exhausting. She’d thought it would not be so difficult—she liked to solve puzzles. She’d always insisted she had as good and clever a mind as her brothers.

  But now she realized she had no idea how to lure someone to incriminate themselves.

  She knew she should wait for Sinclair—

  What on earth was that sound? It sounded like someone struggling to breathe.

  It came from a doorway that stood across from the one that led to the kitchen. Portia hurried there, even though she was alone.

  Cautiously, hands on the rough stone blocks, she peeked around the door into the small room—it was some kind of pantry.

  There was panting. There were naked male bottoms. There was the lovely widow, sandwiched between the muscular, raven-haired Earl of Rutledge and the sinewy, handsome, equally raven-haired footman.

  13

  “Both men were—were thrusting into her. How on earth can they do that, if there are two of them? Do they take turns? Does one stop to allow the other his chance?”

  These seemed perfectly logical questions to Portia. Given Sinclair had spent ten years holding orgies, she thought he would answer. But he caught her elbow and hauled her away from the stunning scene, taking her into shadows under the staircase.

  As he did, she could see the sweep on color following his high cheekbones. “You’re blushing.”

  “I am not.”

  “Yes, you are! Are you really shocked?”

  “No, damn—I mean, no. You want to know what they are doing?” It came out hoarse and harsh. “They do not take turns.” Sinclair’s finger went around his collar. “One man fucks her in her pussy. The other in her rear.”

  “In the rear? What on earth do you mean? Do you mean he goes in from the rear?”

  “Are you trying to kill me, Portia?”

  “Of course not. Why are these questions painful?”

  Hair-raking ensued, as did pacing and growling. Sinclair paced like a caged lion, in a slow but lithe movement in front of her, spiking his fingers through his hair. He paced through the shadows beneath the stair, his boot soles striking the flagstone floor. The basement smelled of damp and the sea, of fires and hanging, dried spices.

  Finally Sinclair stopped. “You want the truth of what they are doing? Both men are making love to her, in her pussy and arse. One is inside the hot grip of her pussy, the other man has slid his staff up her butt. She is being doubly penetrated, which is an intense, arousing sensation for most women.”

  For some reason, his words came into her brain slowly. Pussy. Staff. Butt. It took a few ragged heartbeats for her to understand what he meant—

  Oh!

  Of course, she’d heard whispers that two men could do intimate things together, but she’d never really grasped how it could happen. And now she—

  Oh my. My.

  What would that feel like?

  Her blush swept over her like a raging fire touching dry hay.

  In the other room, the widow cried out. It was a shriek of sensual agony that made Portia’s legs wobble.

  She wanted to see how this . . . worked. She moved toward the doorway again. Sinclair hauled her back. All of a sudden, all she could see was his dark gold waistcoat with fanciful embroidery of lions. Her heart beat rather swiftly. The soles of her feet tingled. That was mystifying. But suddenly her whole body felt aware.

  “Protecting you from men is not my only duty, Portia,” he rumbled. “I also want to protect your innocence. You should not see things like that.”

  “You look. You do that all the time at orgies.”

  “It’s different for—”

  “For men. Of course. It always is.” She crossed her arms over her chest. “My life is entirely different from my brothers’ lives. I have to be maid, cook, schoolteacher. No man would ever do that. He would think he was far above all that. Besides, what man could actually do it all?”

  A smile touched his lips. “I meant that it’s different for me. Since I’m an unrepentant sinner. Hence the nickname.” He frowned. “It sounds as if you are worked like a slave.”

  “It takes rather a lot of work to run the home. And, if I wanted to, I could just step around you and go and see what the Wanton Widow is doing,” she added stubbornly. “Why shouldn’t I know what it’s like for a woman to have pleasure?”

  “You should be shocked,” he growled.

  “Maybe I’m not. It’s exciting to see two men serving her, caring about giving her pleasure. They have put her desires above their wants. They are willing to not fight over her, to work together to please her. It’s rather stunning.”

  Partly she was teasing him—but partly, she ached so much, it was crippling. It hurt.

  His brows shot up, to vanish under his wind-swept chocolate brown hair. His gaze went over her, slowly. Something changed about the air—it became thick, hard to breathe, and felt as if it was charged with static, could spark and shock them.

  In the shadows beneath the stairs, she put her hands on his chest, her fingers stretching over the embroidered lions, touching the solidity of the duke, the warmth through his clothing.

  That touch was like striking a match and having the sudden whoosh of heat and flame.

  He bent to her. His lips so soft, his lower lip slightly thrust forward, ready to claim her mouth.

  No, no.

  Yes.

  Look at the Wanton Widow. Was she tying herself in knots over what she should or should not do? Not in the least. She wasn’t waiting for another marriage. She was enjoying her pleasure.

  Portia knew she didn’t belong in the world of orgies. But right now she wanted Sinclair. She ached for him.

  What if she kissed him? With no fears, no worries, no expectations. What if she just kissed him . . . for fun?

  She slipped her hands to Sinclair’s shoulders. And kissed him.

  She opened her mouth. Parted her lips. Let her tongue slide into his mouth to play with his. Their tongues tangled and she felt the ache intensify. She pulled closer to him, pressing against his broad, hard body.

  His hands slid down to her waist, skimmed over her hips, cup
ped her bottom. She knew his next move—to lift her so she was poised over the hard ridge in his trousers, where she would be going half-mad feeling him press against her.

  What if she caressed him instead of the other way around?

  Her palm pressed against the thick, firm bulge contained behind the fine fabric of his trousers.

  Taking charge was fun, after all.

  “Touch me,” he murmured. “Stroke me, love.”

  She moved her palm over the length of him, until she felt a change in shape. A ridge, then a rounded shape, and she knew she’d reached the head of it. Rolling her fingers around the bulge, she explored its girth—rather big. It was hot even through his trousers. Oddly, with each stroke she was sure the length and girth changed. For the larger.

  Sinclair moaned.

  The hoarse, deep, vulnerable sound of it drew a moan from deep inside her. A whisper of a moan, answering his because she’d made him feel like that.

  “It’s good, Portia. I love your touch. For ten years, I dreamed of having you touch me.”

  She wanted to shout at him: For ten years, I could have been touching you everywhere. Except you didn’t want it.

  No, this was about fun. Meaningless fun. Her heart wasn’t to be engaged. Or threatened.

  She was going to behave just like him. For once.

  Her hand stroked, squeezed his erection, while she was panting into his mouth.

  He kissed her, a long kiss that seared her. He squeezed her bottom, drawing her close, until her hand was trapped. Squished between her soft tummy and his rigid ridge. He retreated, so he was back against the wall.

  Daringly, she squeezed him harder.

  His mouth moved from hers on a ragged moan—

  Next thing she knew, his mouth closed around the bodice of her scandalous gown and he sucked. She felt the tug on her nipple through silk and muslin. She was gripping his erection hard, but it was as much out of shock as to pleasure him.

  “I want you. Can’t have you, but damn I want you.”

  Even as he spoke, Sinclair gently tugged her bodice down. It was so scandalously low, it didn’t need much effort. As it went down, over her breasts with a slight rending of seams, her breasts popped up. They sat on top of the taut fabric of the bodice, pointing right at his mouth.