The Dangerous Duke

by Christine Wells

  She thought of that incendiary kiss . . .

  A reminiscent shiver skipped down her spine. She’d never experienced such passionate heat, not even in the early days of her marriage, when she’d believed herself in love with Hector. What a cruel disappointment their union turned out to be.

  To Hector, Kate embodied wealth, position, and most important, political connections. All she’d wanted was a man to love, one who’d love her in return.

  Hector had made it clear he’d never be that man. So, she’d created one. In a small journal bound in calfskin, Kate wrote about a dark, mysterious lover, someone she could welcome to her bed each night without guilt or consequence.

  She’d filled that journal with her wildest fantasies, the deepest longings of her heart. Admittedly, Kate possessed little experience of lovers, dark and mysterious or otherwise, so she’d improvised quite a lot. Sometimes, she’d write. Other times, she’d read over the entries, and they’d warm her the way a hard, male body might warm her in her bed.

  Now, when her mind endlessly ticked over all the day’s events, the temptation to retrieve her journal from its hiding place tugged at her. Writing in that small book usually comforted her, transported her to another realm, another life, leaving her worries and the aching loneliness of her existence behind.

  But she doubted even her phantom lover could occupy her thoughts now. Stephen’s predicament and Lyle’s strong presence loomed too large.

  What she needed was a plan of attack.

  She must speak with Sidmouth. If she sent for him to call on her, would he come? Or had Lyle warned him of her threats? She might work through an intermediary, but she couldn’t endanger someone else by involving them in what was tantamount to blackmail.

  A letter was out of the question, clear evidence against her if she were prosecuted . . .

  Prosecuted. For the first time, the gravity of the undertaking she contemplated chilled her. She’d spoken to Lyle without considering the consequences. Did she really have the courage to pursue that idle threat?

  But it need not amount to open blackmail. She didn’t have to put it quite so crudely when she spoke to Sidmouth. She knew well how hints and innuendo could convey volumes to a politician. And without witnesses, he wouldn’t be able to prove a case against her.

  So, subtlety was the order of the day. If it seemed like a chance meeting brought them together, that would be best.

  How could she find out Sidmouth’s schedule? He attended many of the balls and parties to which she was invited. They might meet in the next day or so. If only she could be sure.

  Oswald was bound to know. She would call on her sister and brother-in-law in the morning and find out.

  And after she’d made her position clear to Sidmouth, what then? What if Sidmouth told her to do her worst? Would she go ahead and publish her tell-all memoirs?

  No, that would achieve nothing but a scandal for the government and her own disgrace.

  But she couldn’t let Sidmouth call her bluff. She needed to raise the stakes. She needed to show him exactly what it would mean to those politicians to have their dirty linen aired.

  Kate sat straight up in bed. She needed to write those memoirs.

  MAX made his way through the shrubbery to the side of the house, where an iron trellis against the wall supported a climbing rose. Looking up at the window he meant to use, he took off his gloves and shoved them in his pocket. Then he set his hands on the trellis and climbed.

  Unfastening the second-floor window was child’s play to one who hadn’t wasted all the time he’d spent in London’s rookeries. He moved through the empty bedchamber—the master suite, if he wasn’t mistaken—and cautiously opened the door.

  The corridor outside was dark, save for the light from a few candles guttering in their wall sconces. He eased out the door, liberated one of the candles, and looked around.

  As soon as he saw the slice of light under her bedchamber door, he knew he’d arrived too soon. Better to have chosen a night when she was out, but he couldn’t afford to wait. Not with Faulkner on the scent.

  He needed to steal that diary. Of course, Lady Kate could reconstruct her notes from memory, but it would take her much longer than if she cribbed from a detailed journal. If he delayed the execution of her plan, it would give him time he needed to arrange her abduction. He no longer doubted he’d have to spirit her away, if only to keep her safe.

  Max felt a glimmer of interest in the diary’s contents on his own behalf. He would not stoop to blackmail, of course, but it would be interesting to know . . .

  Balked of his first port of call—a lady would usually keep something so intimate in her bedchamber, surely—he raised his candle and jogged lightly down the marble staircase to the first floor. These were private family apartments, by the looks of it. He made a cursory search of the rooms, but none offered an appropriate hiding place.

  Silently opening the door at the end of the passage, Max’s candle illuminated rows and rows of volumes in what looked to be a small library. A smile spread slowly over his face. Where better to hide a book?

  He stepped inside and shut the door behind him. The more he considered, the more likely it seemed that if Lady Kate had not already relocated it after their argument that evening, the diary would be here. In her bedchamber or sitting room there was always the chance of a servant or visitor noticing it. If she wanted to keep such an important document secret, unremarkable, she might well hide it here, in plain sight.

  The heavy curtains were drawn and no one stirred on this floor. There was little danger of being detected, but he’d have to watch the time. Only an hour or so before the skivvies would be creeping about, lighting fires and preparing for the day.

  Max used his candle to light a lamp and set to work.

  After a long, fruitless search, he stopped and sat back on his heels. He’d worked his way through the classics, botany, and history, but an entire wall of shelves remained to be searched. How could he approach this more scientifically?

  Lady Kate had said she’d kept the diary throughout her marriage, hadn’t she? Then she might have wished to keep it secret from her husband also. In that case, of course she wouldn’t choose the book room. Hector Fairchild had rather fancied himself as a scholar.

  Max rose and dusted himself off, muttering an oath. He looked around. What a waste of— Hang on!

  Novels! He’d bet his life that dry stick Hector Fairchild had never read a novel.

  He scanned the shelves until he found them. An entire collection of the things ranged along two shelves, bound in dull green morocco, with what appeared to be Lady Kate’s monogram tooled in gilt on the spine. Not a trace of dust on those shelves, either, which argued the books had been read recently. Max yanked each volume from its place and leafed through.

  Finally, he found it, and blew out a breath of satisfaction. Inside the cover that should have contained The Castle of Wolfenbach lay a slim, handwritten book, bound in calfskin.

  He couldn’t see very well in the dim light of a solitary candle, but it looked like many of the pages were dated at the top. A diary, certainly. But was it the one he sought?

  He’d have to take the chance. Slipping the book into his waistcoat, he shoved the empty cover and the rest of the romances back into place.

  He ran his fingertip over the monogram on the spine. An image rose in his mind of Lady Kate, sitting up in bed writing in her journal, her hair unbound . . . He shook his head. Damn it, she wasn’t even here and she distracted him! The sooner he solved this case and left London for Lyle, the better.

  Max glanced around the room to make sure he’d replaced everything, then extinguished the light.

  Lady Kate would know someone had been there when she discovered the diary missing but she’d keep the news to herself. He didn’t want the servants raising hue and cry if they found something out of place.

  She’d probably guess he was the culprit. He smiled to himself as he silently made his way along the
corridor. Score one to him.

  Final victory would be sweet.

  KATE set down her candle on the library table. Its small, flickering light cast misshapen shadows on the wall. The surrounding quiet seemed almost oppressive after the noisy gaiety of the ball. She had the wildest urge to scream.

  Oh, she was as twitchy as an unbroken filly! For the hundredth time, she imagined Stephen in his cell, cold and alone.

  She hoped he didn’t catch some terrible disease before she could get him out. She wondered how he could bear such conditions. But Stephen was big and strong and healthy, his trust in the Almighty unshakeable. Even if he wouldn’t give in and cooperate with the authorities, he would never despair.

  Her gaze wandered to the shelves of Minerva Press novels tucked in the bottom corner of the library.

  Her journal . . .

  She hadn’t touched the journal for some time, perhaps not since last winter. Now, the urge to return to the familiar thrill of her imaginary lover propelled her across the room.

  Kate reached out for the volume that hid her illicit prose, but snatched back her hand just as her fingertips touched the leather spine. Tonight, of all nights, she should not delve into those fanciful meanderings. She should think only of Stephen.

  Biting her lip, she marched over to her escritoire and sat down to write the first chapter of her political memoir. That would put her mind to more effective use.

  It would also take her mind off . . . irrelevancies. Like the hot, velvety smoothness of the duke’s lips when he’d kissed her throat. Like the dual feeling of security and terror when his arms had banded around her that first time.

  Stop it! Really, the last thing she needed at the moment was this complication, this . . . distraction.

  Kate shivered. The library was cold and she hadn’t brought a shawl. She would collect the necessary implements to make a start on her memoirs and take them back to her bedchamber.

  She selected paper, pen, and ink, then picked up her candle and left the library.

  A creak on the stair made her jump. Without thinking, she hurried along the corridor and out to the landing, her candle’s flame flickering wildly. She looked up the staircase, but saw no one amongst the shadows.

  It took moments for her heartbeat to slow. Foolish! The house always creaked in the night. As a light sleeper, she should know that very well.

  She hurried up the stairs to bed.

  A glow on the staircase made Max duck back into an empty bedchamber and ease the door so it was almost shut. Was it Lady Kate? He couldn’t resist hoping as he watched through the crack.

  The glow headed his way, and in moments he glimpsed her elfin figure, clad in flowing white, with that lovely chestnut hair cascading down her back.

  Temptation gnawed at his bones like a ravenous wolf. He burned to go after her, to sweep her into his arms and carry her back to bed. If he could wait that long. Once he touched her, they might not make it as far as her door.

  Reason told him he’d have all the time in the world for seduction once he’d taken her somewhere safe. But the heady element of risk heightened his sensual need, clamoring for precedence over his logical brain.

  With a struggle so violent it was almost physical, he made himself stay hidden. He was a professional, damn it! He needed to stop chasing skirt long enough to make a dent in solving this case.

  It was vital that he secure the diary without his friends at the Home Office knowing. Then, he’d have time for everything he wanted to do with her.

  He couldn’t delay. Dawn threatened and Faulkner would expect him to report his findings in the morning. He needed to get back to that master bedchamber and escape the way he’d come.

  When he heard the door snick shut, Max left his hiding place. He stepped out into the corridor . . .

  And came face to face with Lady Kate.

  She must have closed her door from the outside.

  He was upon her before she’d opened her lips to scream. Covering her mouth with his hand, he used his body to pin her to the door, crushing her breasts against his chest.

  In the semidarkness, he saw her eyes grow wide and frantic. She pummeled his arms and pushed at his shoulders, to no avail. Her breath came hard and fast and hot on his palm.

  She choked and cried out, but his hand muffled the sound. Twisting and bucking, she tried to get free, but she was no match for him. All her squirming achieved was her own frustration and his escalating arousal.

  Fighting his body’s reaction, he pressed his lips against her ear. “Don’t be alarmed,” he breathed. “It’s Lyle.”

  Abruptly, her struggles stopped. Then they started again with renewed vigor.

  Max spun her around and clamped her against him with his forearm locked between her breasts, his hand still covering her mouth. With the other hand, he fumbled for the door handle. She jammed her elbow into him just as the door gave way and they stumbled inside.

  Pain exploded in his ribs. With a grunt, he let her go. She staggered backwards, her fingers pressed to her mouth.

  “Careful,” he said. “You know how it’ll look if you scream.” Without taking his eyes off her, he straightened and closed the door behind him gently with his heel.

  She was panting, which did wondrous things for her breasts, even covered by that crisp, white nightgown. Her hair clouded about her face in thick, glossy waves. He wanted to plunge his hands through that soft mass and wind it around his fingers.

  Max’s gaze roved her elegant, gently curved body and snagged on her feet. Only one of them wore an embroidered pink slipper. She must have lost its mate in their struggle. That naked, vulnerable appendage with its toes curling into the carpet held a fascination all its own.

  She’d caught him. He wasn’t sorry. Perhaps he’d wanted to be caught. He didn’t even need to think of an excuse for being there. She was reason enough.

  “Get out of my bedchamber.” Her voice trembled with rage, or fear, or passion, he couldn’t tell which. “Get out of my house.”

  She didn’t think he’d meekly do her bidding, did she? He moved towards her. “Not until I have what I came for.”

  “Oh! This is unpardonable! This isn’t about my brother—”

  “I wanted to see you.” It felt like the truth. He couldn’t get enough of her. And there she was, naked under that modest night rail, with her hair tumbling over her shoulders and a large, inviting bed behind her . . .

  Desire blazed inside him, fierce and consuming. It was far too soon, but he couldn’t help himself.

  “See me?” Her eyes widened. “You cannot seriously think that I—that we . . .” She trailed off, swallowing convulsively. “No.”

  He took another step. “No?”

  She backed away, looking about her, perhaps searching for a weapon. “You—you wouldn’t force an unwilling woman.”

  The uncertainty in her tone sent another rush of blood to his loins. He’d never forced any woman, but he was so hot for her there was no telling what he might do. He’d never felt like this before.

  Closing the distance between them, Max caught her chin in his hand. “But you’re not unwilling. Are you, Lady Kate?”

  “Yes, I . . .” She trailed off, her eyes large and luminous. She didn’t seem to want to fight him anymore.

  Triumph surged inside him, but some remnant of civilization stopped him ravishing her on the spot. He’d make it as good as he could for her, but in his present state, he doubted he’d last long. At least, not the first time.

  Moonlight traced the pure outline of her features, and he remembered her vaunted virtue, the strange innocence of her kiss.

  Forcing himself to slow down, he rubbed his thumb along the seam of her closed lips, coaxing them to part, then dipped inside. His breathing hitched as he invaded the moist, enveloping warmth of her mouth. His heart thundered in his chest. This was going to be extraordinary.

  The voice of reason in his head sent a warning—he’d meant to leave her alone tonight, just take the d
iary and go—but the jungle drums in his blood drowned reason out.

  He had to have her now.

  Four

  The dance is not a waltz. He does not embrace me. But his gaze holds me, entranced.

  I falter a step.

  And he smiles.

  KATE closed her eyes, overwhelmed by the intense desire that seemed to radiate from Lyle like heat from a blaze. She was shaken, off balance, not thinking clearly. Not thinking at all.

  There’d been moments before he’d identified himself, when she thought she was going to be hurt or even killed by this large intruder who attacked her without warning. And her only thought beyond breaking free was what a waste she’d made of her life.

  Knowing who perpetrated the assault hadn’t calmed her. Even now, her heart raced and her breath came in short pants. She wanted to run but she was caught in his sensual snare.

  Almost in a daze, she felt urgent, deft fingers work at her night rail, tugging at the ribbon that closed the gathered bodice.

  Each brush of his skin against hers burned like a brand. A large hand, with a latent strength, a roughness that was somehow right but unexpected, slipped inside and skimmed over the swell of her breast.

  She gasped, and he said, “Open your eyes,” but she didn’t want to, because she didn’t want to accept that this was real. Then she’d have to pull away. Then she’d have to tell him to go.

  His hand cupped her breast and his mouth found hers and this time, she kissed him back. There was no need to resist, because he wasn’t really there. It wasn’t Lady Kathryn Fairchild who was doing these things, it was the dream version of herself, and she was safe.

  His palm flattened and rolled over her nipple. She shuddered and her lips clung to his as if she was drowning and he her only source of air.

  “Open your eyes, Kate.” He breathed the words, hot and soft into her mouth.

  She made a muted, negative noise in her throat and turned her head aside. She wished he wouldn’t talk so much.