Lyle’s fingers worked her nipple, pinching and tugging it, shooting darts of fire through her body, inflaming her desire.
His mouth found her throat, kissing and licking. And he held her while she shivered with a feverish, thrilling hunger.
She wanted to throw her head back and invite him to feast. On her neck, her breasts, all those sensitive places that had never known a man’s touch. She wanted to feel him, skin to skin, she wanted to wrap one leg around him and press him so close they were almost joined. She wanted to do the most shameful, brazen things . . .
Only whores behave like that . . .
“No!” Gasping for air, Kate recoiled and gave Lyle an almighty shove. She must have taken him by surprise, because he released her, eyes glittering, hard mouth softened with kisses.
The next instant, he reached for her again, but she swung up her hand to slap him. He caught her wrist, his eyes burning into hers, signaling a silent battle of wills between them.
Then suddenly, he looked up, beyond her and dropped her hand.
Instinctively, Kate glanced over her shoulder, scanning the bedchamber, then turned back to stare at him.
But she was looking at empty space.
A string of oaths ran through Max’s mind as he moved silently along the corridor. He’d heard a noise that sounded like it came from the master suite. It might have been a member of the household, but he doubted it. He should have known that damned boy wouldn’t obey him and go home. He ought to have hit him harder.
But whether or not the intruder had been Perry, he was gone by the time Max arrived. Max peered into the darkness outside, trying to discern movement amongst the greenery, but there was none.
He turned to contemplate the empty corridor. He didn’t expect Lady Kate would welcome him back.
Desire still simmered in his blood, but he knew better than to attempt to persuade a furious woman to bed. And if he’d stop thinking with his nether regions for five seconds, he’d admit he’d already lingered here too long.
Max set one leg over the windowsill and almost groaned aloud. He’d very nearly had her. The element of surprise had certainly worked in his favor. Next time, her guard would be up. A pity, but then he’d always relished a challenge.
In moments, he’d escaped the way he’d arrived, with only a tear in his shirt cuff, which had caught on a rose thorn on the way down the trellis.
He fingered the ragged linen, and automatically, his finger moved to his ragged lip. A bolt of pure lust shot through him at the thought of those small white teeth of hers sinking into his flesh. He actually turned back and set one foot on the bottom rung of the trellis before he realized what he did.
Swearing, he pushed away from the wall. How did she do this to him? He’d always considered himself rather more civilized than the general run of men. He had lusty appetites, it was true, but he’d never allowed them to rule him. Lady Kate stirred primal instincts he’d never known he possessed. He didn’t like it. He didn’t like it at all.
Max let himself out the back gate into the alley that ran between Lady Kate’s house and the houses behind. Buttoning his coat, he strode in the direction of the King’s Arms, where his carriage awaited him. The brisk morning air would clear his head and, hopefully, calm his body so he could think.
Reflecting on what he already knew of Lady Kate, he expected the diary would be everything she’d threatened. She possessed that rare combination of beauty, warmth, and intelligence, the kind of woman men admired, but one in whom they also found it possible to confide.
She’d said the diary was coded but he didn’t expect any trouble deciphering it. Presumably, Lady Kate’s code would be primitive at best.
But he wouldn’t make the mistake of underestimating his adversary in any other respect. She was astute, she was experienced in political life, and she would know how to wield this power she held.
She’d expressed herself clumsily to him in the heat of battle. She would be more delicate when she made her threats to Sidmouth, but Max didn’t intend to let her get that far. Stephen Holt would not go free until he had informed on those rebels. Max would make certain of that.
He’d found the diary. The devil of it was that he had not yet decided what he was going to do with the damned thing. Hand it over to Faulkner, his superior at the Home Office, and he’d substitute one blackmailer for another. Faulkner was in a position to do far more harm with the information than Lady Kate ever could.
Max certainly didn’t intend anyone to use these ministers’ peccadilloes against them. If the diary contained any serious misdemeanors, he’d be obliged to pursue the matter through official channels. But he didn’t think Lady Kate would have kept secrets that might amount to criminal acts. Despite her threats, she wasn’t corrupt.
Might the diary contain information of a personal nature about Lady Kate herself? He quickened his pace, conscious of the slim volume pressing against his chest. He’d rent a room at the King’s Arms and read it. Suddenly, he couldn’t wait until he got home.
As he rounded a corner, a sixth sense made Lyle turn.
No one there. But he’d had the impression of movement all the same.
Slowly, he took his white evening gloves from his pocket and tugged them on. Loudly, succinctly, he said, “All right, Perry. You can come out now.”
Silence answered him.
Max considered confronting his shadow but thought better of it. No need to borrow trouble, after all. Not with the diary in his possession.
Instinctively, his eyes sought cover, in case someone should open fire. He didn’t have a pistol with him, though he wasn’t entirely defenseless if it came to a fight.
He didn’t question this alertness. Instinct had saved his hide on more than one occasion in the past. He wouldn’t shrug off this creeping sense of unease lightly, even if there was no solid evidence to support it.
Despite his vigilance, nothing untoward occurred and he arrived at the King’s Arms in one piece. Max crossed the yard and entered the inn, eager to get a start on reading the diary.
He found his manservant enjoying a tankard of ale in the noisy taproom.
George glanced at him without apparent recognition, a habit borne of caution.
On Max’s signal, he drained his tankard unhurriedly, then tossed a gruff quip to the tapster before shambling over to the table where Max sat.
“Something brewing, eh, guv? I seen that look on your face afore, I ’ave.”
“Perceptive of you, George,” Max murmured. “We shall stay here yet awhile. In fact, I might as well rack up for the night. Get me a room, will you? And make arrangements for yourself and the horses. I’ve work to do.”
“Right you are, guv.” George rubbed his hands. “There’s a pretty wench of a landlord’s daughter—”
“I don’t want to know. Just make sure you’re not caught with your breeches around your ankles if there’s trouble afoot. I might need you.”
George tipped his hat. “Right you are, guv’nor.”
Max sighed. “Is there any chance you might bring yourself to call me ‘Your Grace’? I am a duke now, you know.”
The blue eyes twinkled under shaggy brows. “Not hardly. You wants bowing and scraping, you can get it from one of those fancy-pants new servants of yours. You won’t get it from me.”
Max snorted a laugh and put a hand on George’s shoulder. “Good man.”
“Your Grace!” Max turned to see Perry. Damn the boy, he’d forgotten he’d told him to wait.
“Ah, Perry. I’m glad you’re here.”
The blue eyes glowed. Wasn’t the boy getting too old for this kind of hero worship? Well enough when he was fourteen, but now it had become . . . unsettling.
Max hesitated, trying in vain to think of a task he trusted Perry enough to carry out.
Suspicion dawned in that sulky, angelic face. “You said you’d have orders for me.”
Something trivial. Something that would occupy him, keep him out of Max’s way
for a while. Something simple. Max clicked his fingers. “Ah, yes. I do have a job for you. I want you to go back to Lady Kate’s house and keep watch. If anything untoward occurs, I want you to report back, understand?”
Perry seemed to expand with excitement. “Yes, sir! Your Grace. I’ll go at once.”
“Yes, do that,” murmured Max. “Come and see me at midday to report your findings.” He nodded. “You may go.”
“I won’t disappoint you, Your Grace.”
As his expectations weren’t high, that wouldn’t be difficult. Max smiled, a trifle wearily. “No, I know you won’t do that.”
He watched Perry go. The boy needed weaning.
But the estate Max had inherited demanded his immediate attention. As soon as he’d finished with this arson business, he’d return there to stay for the foreseeable future. He couldn’t afford the time to accustom Perry to the idea of his absence. Besides, a clean break might be best for the boy.
Perry’s father had run a series of prostitution rings, the worst of them involving children. Max had been triumphant when he finally secured the evidence to prove his suspicions, but Perry’s father was a member of an old, powerful family. Faulkner, the sycophant, had tried to sweep the whole affair under the carpet, but Max had used every ounce of influence he possessed to force it into the open. Perry’s father had stood trial and been sentenced to hang. The villain had used all of his influence to get his sentence commuted to transportation, but he had died on the voyage to Sydney.
The man’s crimes had been heinous enough. Worst of all, he hadn’t limited his evil to strangers. He’d debauched his own son.
A familiar surge of impotent rage and deep pity doused the last embers of Max’s exasperation. Punishing the blackguard couldn’t erase the damage he’d done his son. However irritating Perry became, Max could never forget what a terrible childhood he must have endured.
Something ought to be done for the boy when Max left London for good. Now, however, Max needed to put that sad history out of his mind and concentrate on Lady Kate’s diary.
A modest room awaited him upstairs, which suited his purpose well enough. As soon as George had removed his boots and left, Max slipped out the diary and turned it over in his hands. An unassuming little book to hold such power.
Something made him hesitate. He had the strangest feeling that reading this small, elegant volume would change his life.
Trying, for once, to ignore his instincts, Max poured himself a bumper of brandy, sat in a comfortable armchair by the fire, and opened the book.
KATE stood in the middle of her bedchamber, flushed and breathless, for too many moments before she realized.
He wasn’t coming back.
She strode to the door and wrenched it open, scanning the corridor.
But it was empty, the house quiet. Some objects on the floor caught her eye and she hurried to retrieve them. Her ink bottle, pen, and paper still lay on the floor where she’d dropped them when he’d surprised her. Her slipper lay quite a distance away, as if she’d kicked it there during their struggle.
She found her candle and used her fingernail to scrape up the wax that had dripped and hardened on the floor.
Gathering up her implements, she took them back to her bedchamber, and spilled them with a clatter onto a piecrust table.
Trembling, Kate gripped the table’s edge and bowed her head. “Oh, God!”
The old, familiar humiliation welled inside her, sickening and hot. Cringing at the memory of her wanton behavior, she clutched her gaping night rail together and sank onto the nearest chair.
How did this keep happening? She had almost . . . She shuddered to think how close she’d come to throwing her virtue to the winds.
Stupid, stupid, stupid! And he hadn’t even cared enough to stay in the room with her while she did it! Poor, overzealous, love-starved Kate.
What must he think of her? Why had he left so abruptly? What had she done?
Her gaze fell on the bed, and she squeezed her eyes shut as the heat flooded her face and pricked behind her eyelids. She hovered on the verge of tears, a weakness she hadn’t indulged in for years.
But to have guarded her precious virtue so well for all that time, only to throw it away on a man who by rights she should treat as her enemy!
And she didn’t even like him.
She should be utterly thankful he’d left before she’d let him do more.
Kate could not pretend, even to herself, that she would have said no to him. What a terrifying thing to contemplate, that she should forget her morals and plain common sense as soon as an unscrupulous man took advantage of her. They had only just met!
Waves of embarrassment crashed over her as she thought of how she must have looked when he left her. Hair a wild, slatternly tangle, breasts exposed, eyes dazed. She’d panted for him like a bitch in heat.
If he hadn’t meant to go through with her seduction, why had he returned to the house in the first place?
Stephen. That was it. That could be the only explanation. He’d come to try to seduce her into acquiescence, or perhaps even into helping him. The mystery was why he’d left before he could achieve his aim.
Perhaps . . . She swallowed past the lump in her throat. Had he found her so repugnant he couldn’t bear to touch her, even for the sake of his investigation? Ugh! She wished she’d resisted him, as any sensible woman would have done.
It couldn’t be helped. She’d been rash and stupid, but there was no going back.
She needed to calm down. She needed to take deep breaths. Far, far more important than the Duke of Lyle was getting Stephen out of jail.
She would not let the duke distract her from her purpose. She would write the first chapter of her memoirs so that she had something to bargain with. If it was true she courted danger by making these veiled threats, she needed insurance.
Nerves twanging with tension, Kate tied the strings of her night rail together and braided her hair into a severe plait. Arranging paper, pen and ink on a small table, she sat down to write.
PERRY knew how to move silently through the darkness when he needed to. One of the many things he’d learned from the duke.
His Grace, the Duke of Lyle. Perry savored the title his mentor now held. Duke. The highest rank of nobleman in the country. Wealth and power beyond most men’s wildest dreams.
He’d known Lyle would resign from the Home Office on inheriting the dukedom, of course. Why would anyone who’d landed such a bounty remain in the employ of the government, under the authority of a man like Faulkner?
As head of operations, Faulkner was methodical and unimaginative, subtle as a battering ram. Self-satisfied, too. He saw Perry as his own instrument, but Perry’s allegiance was—and always would be—to Lyle.
He owed Lyle his life, and a great deal more than that besides.
A rustle of leaves heralded the one he awaited.
“Mr. Perry.” An excited, young, female voice.
He cursed under his breath. Turning, he saw her, all plump eagerness, with her big, cow eyes and the equally bovine abundance of her breasts.
So womanly and curvaceous. She made him want to vomit.
But he would do it.
For Lyle.
“I thought you weren’t coming. You’re never late.” Louisa Brooke turned back from dismissing her groom and studied Max from beneath the brim of her hat.
The black gelding beneath her snorted and tossed his head. He looked like a temperamental brute, too strong for most ladies, but Max knew better than to offer assistance. His sister rode as if she’d been born in the saddle and never took kindly to a suggestion that she might not be able to manage for herself.
“My apologies. The delay was unavoidable.”
He hadn’t yet been to bed. He’d spent the rest of the hours before dawn and beyond trying to translate Lady Kate’s diary. Written in Italian, damn her. He knew Latin and Greek—he’d learned them at school—but not more than a smattering of Italian
words, most of them lewd. What he’d managed to extrapolate from the Latin he knew didn’t seem to make sense at all. He couldn’t take the diary to an official government translator. He didn’t want the Home Office to know the diary existed. He couldn’t immediately bring to mind anyone else he trusted enough with the task.
Max had meant to catch a couple of hours’ sleep before presenting himself at Whitehall, but then he’d recalled the engagement to ride with Louisa in Hyde Park. It was too late to cancel the outing. Then he remembered that many women of his class knew a little Italian. Perhaps Louisa might help him translate the diary.
He glanced at her, sitting straight-backed on her horse, precise to a pin with her blond hair tied back severely from her face and a rather ugly hat that he supposed must be the high kick of fashion on her head.
He made his sisters a generous allowance. The more extravagant they were, the more it pleased him. He needed to make up for the lean years following his father’s death.
“You learned Italian at school, didn’t you, Louie?”
“After a fashion, yes.” She glanced at him, a flash of intense blue. “I learned more from Mademoiselle Renaud.” At his enquiring look, she added, “Our governess was half Italian. Don’t you remember?”
He frowned, searching his memory. “Was she pretty?”
“Not particularly.”
“Then I wouldn’t remember her.”
She snorted. “You’re atrocious!”
“No, my dear. Just a man.” He smiled, unabashed at her outrage, and it felt like the first time he’d smiled in years.
So, Louisa was fluent in Italian. He could trust her with the diary, but if he did give it to her to translate, would he jeopardize her safety, too? He might be watched even now, though he hadn’t sensed anyone trailing him.
At least the park wasn’t crowded at this time of the morning. He and Louisa could speak freely without the danger of being overheard.
“I’d like you to translate something for me,” he murmured. “Could you do that?”
“Something in Italian? I expect so. Is it to do with—”
The Dangerous Duke Page 6