Deepest Desires of a Wicked Duke

by Sharon Page

  Her nipples tightened. They blushed dark pink. And the right one vanished into his mouth.

  Portia went weak. “Oh . . . oh, please suck me.”

  His lips pursed around her nipple. The dark, faint shadow of stubble scraped sensitive skin. Her sensitive skin.

  She liked scraping.

  Two men—how greedy was that woman? One man’s mouth on her nipple, his hand on her breast was enough to make Portia see stars.

  Her head fell back and she moaned. Much louder.

  Wait, her skirts were going up. Her bodice was down, her skirts being lifted to meet it.

  His hand, strong and large, slid between her legs. He touched her between her thighs where she was hot and wet. But the ache didn’t feel relieved, it got worse, and she rocked against his hand.

  He stroked her nether lips.

  This was beyond scandalous. They were hidden beneath the stairs, but not completely hidden. True, they had been engaged before. But that wasn’t the same as wed. Now that she was unmarried and on the shelf, and this was something she was not supposed to do. She was a fool to even dream about it....

  But, oh, she wanted it.

  His fingers slipped between her nether lips, which were slick and sticky at the same time. He rubbed his fingertip harder—

  She gripped the hard, strong biceps of his right arm . . . and his erection. She held tight, as he rubbed more and more. Her hips were rocking. Moans and whimpers filled the air.

  Oh no, this wasn’t fun. It went beyond fun, into someplace where pleasure and need were like wicked drugs and she knew something wondrous was just around the—

  Oh goodness.

  Fireworks. Explosions. Any form of combustion paled by comparison to the burst of pleasure she felt. It brought sobs from her throat. Made her wits evaporate and made her fall against him, and he sucked her nipples—both of them, back and forth—while she was rocking with pleasure and floating in weakened joy. She didn’t care if everyone heard her.

  He rubbed again and she gasped his name. “Sinclair. Julian. Oh, oh heavens.”

  Gruff and low, his laugh spoke of the intimacy of this. Shared just between them, because he’d touched her in a way no one ever had.

  He lifted her off her feet. Cradled her in his arms and buried his face in the crook of her neck.

  “You know,” she said, “I had decided orgies were not for me. Maybe I was wrong.”

  He lifted his head. His eyes narrowed. He was about to speak when footsteps clattered on the steps, heading down.

  “Stay here,” he growled.

  “No.”

  He pointed through a doorway. It had to be the sitting room of a butler or housekeeper for there was a mirror over a small fireplace.

  Portia saw her reflection. Mussed hair. A crumpled gown. Her bodice still down. She put her hands over her breasts. Her face was all red.

  Oh dear. She’d felt like heaven. She didn’t look it.

  With her hands clamped over her breasts—they were warm, heating from her pleasure, but not as hot as her cheeks—she nodded. “Oh, all right. Go.”

  He lifted her bodice with one efficient tug; then she set to ensure it was as far up as it could go—and that it would stay up.

  She heard Sinclair shout up the stairs. “Who’s there?”

  Portia couldn’t stay put. Praying her dress didn’t flop down as some seams had torn and she didn’t know which, she emerged and reached his side. Just then the maid hurried down the remaining steps. Pale as well-cleaned sheets.

  “It’s me, Your Grace. I were upstairs, doing the empty bedchambers, when I heard a woman’s scream. The most bloodcurdling sound, it were. I came down to find Mr. Humphries. I weren’t going to take a look on me own!”

  “You go and sit down. I’ll go. Which room?”

  “The one belonging to that old marquis.”

  * * *

  Cautiously, Sin opened the door that Ellie told him was the one for Marquis of Crayle’s bedroom. From the corridor, he saw Sadie was on her knees, nude, her hands braced on a chair.

  The marquis stood behind her, fully clothed. Thank the Lord—Sin hadn’t wanted to see Crayle naked. Then he saw the large bullwhip in Crayle’s hand.

  Hell. If Crayle was hitting Sadie with that thing . . .

  Crayle moved and Sin could see Sadie’s back. Welts, bruises, small cuts made a pattern on her ivory skin.

  He was ready to launch forward and physically stop the marquis with a punch in the man’s arrogant face. But was Sadie a willing submissive?

  The feminine gasp beside him made him freeze.

  “Oh my heavens!” Portia whispered fiercely. “He’s beating her!”

  He’d told her to stay downstairs—to not follow him to investigate the woman’s scream. He should have known she would not stay put.

  Portia brandished a poker. She must have snatched it up from the fireplace.

  Sin grabbed her arm to stop her rushing in and she stared at him as if he were mad. “Why are you stopping me?”

  He’d hesitated because he had seen these scenes before. He’d done this before. Not with as big a whip, not as brutally. But he’d had to make sure that—for all her cries—Sadie wasn’t willing.

  The next blow let him know. She wasn’t.

  “I’ll deal with him,” he said shortly.

  Two strides took him in front of Crayle. He ripped the crop out of the man’s hands and turned to Sadie. She was on her knees, hair in a messy tumble around her face. Tears streaked her cheeks—they’d taken the kohl around her eyes with them, making wet, dark lines down her face. “Get up, Sadie. Get up and get the hell out of here.”

  “I . . . I didn’t know he would truly hurt me. I never wished for this—”

  Portia was there. She helped Sadie up and put her arm around the girl’s rounded white shoulders. “I will tend you. We’ll bathe you and bandage you. Let us go to your room.” Portia looked up at him, admiration shining in her eyes. “Thank you for coming to her resc—” She broke off, eyes widening.

  He had no idea why. Until he saw the crop jerking in his hand. He was shaking. Shaking in rage—and more. He knew what it was like to be hit until his skin broke. Until he bled. He’d been the victim in strange games. Not just when he went to the House of Discipline. Long before that.

  He snapped the crop over his knee, ignoring the pain of striking himself hard enough to break it. “Touch a woman like that again, and I’ll meet you over pistols,” he snarled.

  Crayle was white. Shaking also. Fear and rage, Sin guessed. “Damn you, Sinclair. No right to spoil my fun. You’ll pay for this.”

  His hands fisted and he was sorely ready to punch Crayle in his face. Not caring that the man was so much older. Weaker. “I’d suggest you get the hell out. Before I knock your teeth out of your head.”

  It came out low, smooth, calm.

  That had its effect. Crayle backed away. But gave one last parting shot, to stand on pride. “You will pay for this.”

  Turning, Sin stalked out of the room. Took the stairs upstairs and found Portia as she was giving direction to the young maid to fetch warm water, cloths, towels, bandages.

  Sadie was on her knees at the side of the bed, resting her chest on it so her back could be tended. “Look at my back,” Sadie whispered. “It’s a horrible, ugly mess. He’s ruined me. My back was lovely—perfectly shaped, without a blemish. He said it would just be a game. Then he turned vicious, trying to hurt me.”

  “I’m sure it will heal,” Portia said. “We’ll clean it up and bandage it, and you will heal.”

  “I’ll be scarred. Forever. He’ll pay for this. He owes me for this—I’ll never find a good protector now!”

  “Calm down, Sadie. I’ll take care of this,” Sin growled. She deserved something to make amends for what he’d done.

  The maid appeared, puffing, carrying a large porcelain basin filled with steaming water. Aware she was struggling with the weight of it, Sin lifted it out of her hands and carried
it to the vanity. The maid followed, towels over her arms. Her gasp of shock made Sadie start crying again.

  “Look how horrified she is! I’m ugly now.” Sadie’s hands flailed and she began to slap her own head.

  Portia grasped her hands, stopping Sadie from hurting herself. “The marquis did a terrible thing, but it looks worse now than it will be. We will tend to you. That way you can begin to heal. If necessary, I can stitch wounds and that will help them heal.”

  “You can do that?”

  “I’ve done it for children in the foundling home—that I once was in.” She added that swiftly. A smart and quick reaction. Sin was fairly sure she hadn’t given herself away.

  “A surgeon taught me how to do it, so I can do it very neatly,” Portia continued.

  But Sadie peered at her. “A foundling home? I was in a foundling home. A long time ago. It was run by a family.”

  Portia jerked. Sin saw her sudden reaction. She was soaking a cloth and water sprayed. She looked startled.

  “Do you know of it?” Sadie asked her.

  What would Portia say?

  Softly, she said, “I knew of homes like that, of course, because I grew up in one.”

  Not a lie, but not the exact truth. Delivered smoothly. Sin had no idea Portia could lie so well. With him she always seemed to be completely honest. Brutally honest at times.

  “What family ran the home, Sadie?” Portia asked softly.

  “They were named Woodcock.”

  “Oh, that was not the one I lived in. But of course, if we had been in the same one, we would have known each other. Now, you must lean over the bed and grip the sheets,” Portia instructed. “If it hurts, do try to bear it. It’s important to clean the wounds. But let me know if it is too terrible.”

  With a cloth, Portia began to bathe the wounds. Sadie cried out in pain.

  “Too much?”

  Sadie nodded.

  “Can you bear it? We must clean them. I could give you brandy—”

  “I will be all right,” Sadie muttered.

  Portia set back to work. Suddenly Sadie said, “If you were in a foundling home, I guess you never knew your mother or father either. Were they dead or were you just abandoned?”

  He saw a look a panic flash on Portia’s face. She could lie, but he saw she didn’t like it.

  “I know very little—”

  “They told me almost nothing about my past.”

  “Perhaps they didn’t really know,” Portia said softly.

  “It’s hard not knowing who you are. I used to dream—” Sadie broke off abruptly. She looked scared, and he thought it was not just because of her wounds.

  “It was hard to not know my mother,” Portia said. “To know she would never come for me, but to wish I could see her. And of course I entertained silly thoughts that she had been forced to give me up, but she would come back to me.”

  Sin could tell Portia hated to lie. He was astounded that sounded so believable. So natural.

  “But she didn’t, did she?” Sadie asked bitterly.

  “No. But were you happy there? At the Woodcock home.”

  Sadie winced. “I don’t know. How could I have been happy? They wanted me to do lessons and be respectable. They told me I must hope to become a governess or nurse or companion. But that’s really just a servant. I wanted so much more than that. And now . . .”

  She began to sob.

  “Shhh,” Portia admonished. “I am almost done cleaning you. You don’t need many stitches. The wounds are not large. Not as terrible as I thought.”

  “But they will scar, though, won’t they?”

  Sin watched Portia command boiling water from the maid. “I don’t know if I can ask for that in the kitchen now, miss. Mrs. Kent told me not to disturb her.”

  “Mrs. Kent must accede to my request. I am sure she is busy, but I must ensure the thread and needle are both clean.”

  “She won’t like it. She acts like a duchess, that one. And Humphries has given me a million tasks to do—”

  “If you could do this for me, we shall speak to the butler and insist that you can no longer be run off your feet. And that Mrs. Kent behave decently to you.”

  The maid shook her head. “He won’t do a thing. One maid there is—me!—and he acts as though there is a staff of twenty!”

  Off she went and she did return quite quickly. “Mrs. Kent was boiling water for tea and it had just boiled when I got there. She let me take it when she knew it was for a wounded girl.”

  “Very good of her,” Portia said, rather distractedly, as she took the basin and set it down.

  Sin went over. “I’ll help.”

  Portia washed the needle and thread she intended to use. “My father always insisted that everything be clean. He had noticed that if it is not, there is always infection.”

  Sin intended to help, but there was little for him to do. He held things. Portia was in charge, working swiftly but carefully. As she concentrated, her tongue dabbed her lip in the sweetest way.

  Soon she was done. “You should rest, Sadie,” she said.

  “Am I ugly now?”

  “Of course not. There may be scars, but they won’t be large. We shall have to wait and see.”

  “He’s going to pay. Crayle.” Sadie shook with rage. “I want him to pay for what he’s done to me. He gave me nothing but promises, and I won’t accept having my career come to an end with nothing!”

  Portia shushed Sadie. Helped her into her bed, where she lay on her side.

  As they closed the door, Sin heard Sadie’s sobs.

  Hell, he’d never thought much about Sadie before. She came to his orgies because he invited dozens of courtesans. Variety was the point of an orgy—he needed large numbers of willing women. He realized he’d thought of her simply as a creature who could provide sexual favors, and who enjoyed sex.

  Watching Portia tend to her had made him see that Sadie was a person. Right now, a frightened one.

  Portia’s hand touched his. A flare went through him as he turned to her, outside Sadie’s closed door.

  “It must be him,” Portia whispered. “Surely it must be the Cruel Marquis who attacked Willoughby, for some reason. He must have taken Willoughby by surprise.”

  “Cruel Marquis?”

  She flushed. “I gave them all names in my head. Identities. Sandhurst was the Innocent Viscount. Sadie is the Brash Courtesan. Then there’s the Elegant Incognita, the Cruel Marquis, the Peacock Girl, the Wicked Widow. And the Old Madam.”

  “Harriet won’t appreciate that. Sax wouldn’t appreciate Georgiana’s moniker, but it’s apt.” He knew it was a stupid thing to do, but he asked casually, “Do you have one for me?”

  “Why would I? I know who you are.”

  “You know their names as well.” How did she see him? Heartbreaker? Swine? The Dastardly Duke?

  “Their nicknames help me to remember the kind of people they are. I don’t need that for you.”

  “Come on, love. You must have thought of one for me.”

  She shook her head, and asked, “What should we do? About the Cruel Marquis?”

  “We don’t know Crayle is responsible. He’s the type to abuse people weaker than him. A woman like Sadie, yes. I doubt he would attack Willoughby.”

  “If he took him by surprise.”

  “It’s possible. I’ll find him and question him. I need to make him promise a settlement for Sadie. She won’t heal fully and there will be disfiguring scars. I know you were trying to make her feel better. I intend to find him and make him pay.”

  “Sinclair, the scars truly weren’t as bad as I feared. And what do you mean—you intend to make him pay?”

  “The way honorable men do.”

  Panic flashed in her eyes. “Oh no, you can’t.”

  “I can.” On that, he stalked away.

  It took him half an hour to locate Crayle. What he didn’t expect was to find the man hanging by his neck in an unused bedchamber.

 
“Oh my goodness,” Portia said.

  Sin whirled to block her view of the sight in the room. The sight of Crayle hanging limply, rotating slowly, his neck broken, his eyes bulged, and his tongue hanging out.

  “He hanged himself,” she whispered. “Out of remorse.”

  But Sin didn’t believe it. A peer like Crayle believed he would have divine right to do whatever in hell he wanted, including abusing a woman like Sadie. As he turned Portia away, he had the nagging doubt that something was wrong.

  There was something wrong—

  Could he believe the marquis had tied a rope from a hook in the ceiling of the room—where in hell did he get a rope? And why was there a hook there? He would have brought a chair over, stood on it, positioned the rope around his neck. Would he even have decided to kill himself over whipping Sadie? If he had, he would have tightened the rope, then kicked the chair—

  Damn. That was what was wrong.

  “There’s no chair in the room.” As he said it, the full impact hit him. “There’s no chair. He didn’t hang himself. He would have needed to climb on something to put the rope around his neck. If he’d kicked the chair away, it would still be in the room. If he’d used any other piece of furniture, it would have been dragged close. I don’t believe he took his own life, Portia.”

  She wrapped her arms around her body. “You mean you think that in the time we were away from the room, someone murdered him.”

  It sounded mad, but he said, “That’s exactly what I am saying.”

  “I think you are right.” Her voice was just a whisper. She pointed shakily to the bed, which was stripped and covered in a white sheet.

  In the center of the bed lay a piece of pink ribbon.

  14

  The mysterious death of the Cruel Marquis—and Sinclair’s announcement to the guests that it was murder, not suicide—changed everything.

  Outside, rain pounded, running down the glass and turning the outside world into a blur of darkness.

  Inside, the guests huddled in the drawing room. The butler had built up the fire into a grand blaze, but Portia couldn’t feel warm. From the way they shivered, the other women also looked ice-cold and frightened.

  Even the gentlemen were white faced. Rutledge and Blute held drinks, but did so with shaky hands. Saxonby was pale as a ghost.