The Dangerous Duke

by Christine Wells

  Lyle wanted to hold her with every fiber of his being, but he hadn’t the right. He hadn’t quite reached that level of hypocrisy. He was responsible for her distress. And he was responsible for her safety now.

  He’d nearly lost her today.

  “I didn’t believe you.” Her voice was a husky breath.

  “Pardon?”

  She turned her head slightly, as if she heard, but she didn’t look at him. “I didn’t believe you when you said I was in danger. I was stupid. I thought . . .”

  Her teeth sank into the plump cushion of her lower lip, and she gave a small choking sound that wrenched his guts.

  “I thought you had fabricated the whole thing to keep me quiet. I was biding my time until I could get away.” She swallowed hard, and her hand lifted involuntarily to touch the welts on her throat. “I should have listened when you said you wanted to guard me while I bathed but I . . .”

  She flushed and he knew what she’d thought. She’d thought correctly. He’d had no other purpose than to seduce her. Not a thought in his thick head for her safety.

  She lifted her chin, and for the first time, met his eye. “I am sorry.”

  Oh, Christ. Max shoved a hand through his hair. She’d seen through his lies with her clear, quick gaze. She’d been correct in her assumptions. And now, when he’d failed her, she was the one expressing remorse!

  But the lie had become truth now, and it would be safer for her never to know how he’d deceived her. He needed her to trust him or she’d be in greater danger than ever.

  Saying nothing, he steered her closer to the fire.

  “I’m cold. Even standing in front of the fire, I’m c-cold.”

  He’d finished drying all the parts of her he could without taking off that sodden shift.

  Now came the hardest part.

  Trying not to stare—though she’d scarcely notice if he did, she was so cocooned in shock—he peeled the wet fabric upwards, revealing lithe, shapely legs and the triangle of pubic hair between them. Her stomach was flat, with an enchantingly neat navel. He bunched the fabric and lifted it higher. She raised her arms and he pulled off the wet shift. Her breasts . . .

  Don’t think about her breasts.

  With a deep breath, he set about drying her damp skin with broad, impersonal strokes.

  He tried not to look at her. God, he tried. For seconds, all he did was brush the towel over her skin, down the slope of one slender arm, then the other, holding her limp, cold hand in his. Controlling his breathing, praying she wouldn’t see how rampant he was with lust.

  He closed his eyes as he worked but that only heightened his other senses. She might be shivering, but he could feel her womanly heat, and the scent she’d used in the bath tantalized and beckoned.

  He tried not to notice the firm thrust of her breasts or the way the towel snagged slightly on her sweet, pink nipples as it fell. Along the curve of her torso, over her flat belly, down her thighs, avoiding the place between them as too great a threat to his self-control.

  He knelt to dry her thighs, and only then permitted himself a prolonged glance at those slender limbs with their delicate ankles and the pretty feet he’d glimpsed that first night in her bedchamber. That night seemed long ago.

  She stood mute and unresisting as he worked the cloth over her body, until he reached around her to make a last swipe down her back. The small amount of force made her trip forward a little, dangerously close. It took every ounce of will he possessed not to wrap his arms around her, set his lips to hers, and warm her in the most intimate ways.

  Max clenched his fists around the towel until his knuckles turned white. By God, he’d wronged her, and he paid for it now.

  He took another deep, calming breath and unclenched his hands, finger by finger, then he grasped her upper arms and set her away from him. The effort nearly cost him his hard-won composure. Thankfully she was too overwrought to see how much he wanted her.

  “That will have to do.” His voice sounded harsh. He snatched up a wrapper he’d taken from the bathroom and draped it over her shoulders.

  She clutched the wrapper around her, hiding her from his gaze.

  Gently, he turned her and guided her towards the bed. “Get into bed now, and I’ll send for the maid. And you’ll want some ointment for those bruises.”

  Almost without volition, his hand lifted. Softly, he traced the livid necklace with a fingertip. The discoloration was turning a nasty purple.

  Kate didn’t answer, but she still shivered as if she could never be warm again. Hard-hearted bastard that he was, he felt sick to the stomach that such a brave, bright woman could be brought to this.

  He wanted to wrap his arms around her. He wanted to warm her with his body and his kisses. He wanted to protect her, to make her feel safe.

  But there was no time for indulging in such foolish tenderness, and besides, Lady Kate was a job now. Every good operative knew the dangers of becoming emotionally involved in a case. He should have remembered that from the start. If he had, this might never have happened.

  “Do you—do you know who did it?” Her husky voice held a distinct tremor.

  He gave her the truth. “No, I don’t.” That troubled him more than anything. The most likely candidate was Jardine, but somehow, Max didn’t think so. The man might be ruthless, but he had no reason to kill Lady Kate—at least, not at this juncture.

  And Jardine wouldn’t have failed.

  Icy rage swept through Max at his own naivety. Damn him for a smug bastard, he’d taken everything Faulkner had said at face value. He should have known better than to trust that man. He should have been vigilant from the beginning. Faulkner might well have planned this all along.

  From now on, he wouldn’t let her out of his sight. And he’d damn well keep his hands off her into the bargain.

  “Get some rest,” he said curtly, knowing how callous he must seem. It couldn’t be helped. “And tell the maid to pack your things. As soon as you’re well enough, we’re leaving.”

  Nine

  The madness continues. Every night now, and he stays with me until dawn.

  Can my heart contain such secret joy? I wade through misery each day ’til he is here.

  “IT’S getting dark and there’s no moon tonight,” said Lyle. “We’ll have to wait until daybreak.”

  Kate had spent hours in a dreamless, deep slumber, foiling Lyle’s plans for a fast getaway.

  He didn’t look at her, but Kate’s gaze followed him hungrily as he moved around the room, checking windows, examining the lock on the door.

  She needed the kind of warmth and comfort that a fire and a featherbed couldn’t provide. For once, just this once, couldn’t she have someone to hold her? Her phantom lover would not be remotely enough company tonight.

  How ironic that she should desire warmth and flesh and blood from Lyle, the most uncompromising man she’d ever met. The sane part of her mind had registered the expression on his face when he’d found her, naked and shivering in the bathroom. A dark, primal look of sheer rage, swiftly cloaked with ruthless intent.

  He’d moved like a predator, stalking her faceless attacker. He prowled now, restless, waiting. Perversely, stupidly, she wanted him to forget about her safety and concentrate, quite simply, on her.

  Foolish! But her usual staunch self-discipline had been stripped away in that attack, revealing a core that was all need and passion and pure, feminine desire.

  More than anything, she did not want to be alone tonight.

  “Do you need anything? I’ll send a maid up,” he said indifferently, as if she’d spoken her thought out loud. As if she were just anyone.

  Pain flooded her. Humiliating, this craving for his touch, but she didn’t have any resources left to fight it.

  She brushed her forehead with a shaking hand. “I don’t want the maid.”

  He sent her an impatient glance, and his gaze snagged on the tray next to the bed where she lay. “You haven’t eaten.”

&
nbsp; He approached the bed purposefully, as if he’d feed her with his own hands. Part of her thought that might be interesting.

  “I tried,” she said in a scraping whisper. “But my throat—”

  “No, of course.” He stared down at the tray and shook his head, clearly irritated. “I should have known. I’ll have them send up something more suitable. Something soft that will ease your throat.”

  He reached out and touched her bruised skin, letting his fingers drift down her throat with exquisite gentleness that seemed at odds with the sheer size of him, the strength in those well-shaped hands. His eyes smoldered as he contemplated the damage the unknown assailant had caused.

  She caught her breath, willing him to explore her further. But slowly, as if it cost him much, he drew his hand away.

  He started, as if woken suddenly from a trance. “I’m sorry. Did I hurt you?”

  She shook her head. “Lyle, I—”

  “I have things to attend to.” He turned to leave. “I’ll have that food sent up, and then you’d best get more rest. You’ll need your strength for the journey tomorrow.”

  Without a backwards glance, he closed the door quietly behind him.

  Despair swept through her. She didn’t want him to go. She wanted . . . him.

  Kate shifted restlessly, trying to persuade herself it was better this way. She was shaken and weak, not herself at all. She might want him now, but it would be far better for her in the long run if he left her alone. He’d chosen not to take advantage of her vulnerable state. She ought to be grateful. Instead, she felt cheated, rejected, and so alone.

  Angrily, she punched her pillow. Oh, buck up, you stupid, sniveling female! This is not the time to feel sorry for yourself. How are you going to help Stephen now?

  Obviously, if someone wanted to kill her, she must accept Lyle’s protection and stop looking for ways to escape.

  That said, how might she yet campaign on Stephen’s behalf? Would Lyle help her? It seemed that he, as the inheritor of the estate on which the arson occurred, should have some say in the matter of Stephen’s freedom.

  Perhaps she could persuade him to use his influence on Stephen’s behalf?

  Truly, she was not thinking straight. On the morrow, after a decent sleep she might be calm and well enough to plan. For the moment, she needed all her strength to get through the night.

  All kinds of terrors awaited her once darkness fell. She was prone to nightmares, and that horrifying attack lent itself to reenactment in her dreams.

  Kate stared at the canopy over her soft, luxurious bed and wondered when she’d be able to swallow again without feeling like she forced a jagged rock the size of a cricket ball down her gullet.

  When the maid came in bearing a tray, her throat contracted in anticipated agony, but she dragged herself up and allowed the girl to bank the pillows behind her back and place the tray across her knees.

  Smiling her thanks at the maid, she nodded a dismissal. When the door closed behind her, Kate picked up a silver spoon and prodded the gelatinous syllabub, watching it quiver on the plate.

  She spooned it into her mouth and let the alcoholic custard slide down, rich and soothing.

  After one mouthful, she realized she was ravenous, and finished the syllabub in short order. Checking under the second cover, she inhaled the fragrant steam of chicken broth. Her stomach grumbled and she smiled at its rude insistence.

  Having demolished every last morsel of the supper Lyle had so thoughtfully ordered her, Kate put the tray aside and sank back into the pillows with a replete sigh.

  The meal had worked wonders. She almost felt like her old self. Except she’d never felt this alone before.

  Of course she’d been lonely. Hector hadn’t touched her for years before he died. Hence the phantom lover, the man she’d fabricated to take the edge off her pain.

  The pain had been general, a dull ache, a desire for company—male company—but she’d never wanted anyone in particular before.

  Now, the yearning centered on one man, but it seemed she was too late. Had she succumbed to the duke’s wiles that morning, or even if she’d accepted his teasing offer to watch over her bath, she would have him now, to hold her and soothe her with those magical hands when she needed him the most.

  Once again, she bent her knees to her chin and hugged them, wondering when they’d managed to dress her in one of her ridiculously staid night rails. Nothing like the scandalous garment she’d worn that time she’d made her final attempt to seduce her own husband. Her eyes squeezed shut with renewed humiliation.

  Think about something else.

  Perhaps Lyle avoided her because he thought she needed more rest. But she’d had rest—hours of it—and shouldn’t she be the judge of whether she was fit enough for company?

  Kate blew out a breath in frustration. Lyle couldn’t wait to be alone with her that morning. And now she needed him, he pulled away. He was hot one minute, cold as black ice the next. Was he playing some sort of game with her?

  Hector had displayed similar ambivalence early in their marriage. There must be something wrong with her.

  MAX paced his bedchamber restlessly while Lady Kate slept on. He needed to act. He hated leaving others to do his work but he wouldn’t trust anyone else to guard her now, not even George.

  A low whistle signaled George’s approach. From the look on his servant’s face, Max knew the news wasn’t good.

  “Anything to report?” Max subjected his groom to a piercing stare that usually cowed lesser men. George took it without a blink.

  He shook his head. “Silent as the tomb out there, guv. You oughter get some shut-eye.”

  “I will in a moment. Do we know how the fellow got in the house?”

  George shrugged. “No muddy footprints anywhere, which suggests he might have walked in through a door. Off the terrace, mebbe.”

  It scarcely mattered. The place wasn’t a fortress. Though the servants had locked up for the night, there were any number of ways an intruder might get in.

  Well, he would stay on watch tonight. Then he’d take Lady Kate to Hove and lock her in the tower where no one could get to her.

  And, equally important, where she couldn’t get out.

  Despite the scare she’d received, he wouldn’t trust the woman to keep herself safe and stay out of sight of her own free will. Her apparent fragility hid a tiresome streak of independence. She was liable to get herself into further trouble if he didn’t restrain her adventurous spirit. Lady Kate was one of the bravest woman he’d ever met, and one of the cleverest, but she simply didn’t know what she dealt with. The ruthlessness of those in his business far surpassed anything she could imagine.

  George cleared his throat. “Any notion who done the deed, guv?”

  Max frowned. “No, and that’s the devil of it. A gently bred lady can only have so many enemies, after all. My first thought was Jardine, but the fact her ladyship is still alive seems to discount his involvement. Unless . . .”

  Faulkner himself? Now, there was a thought.

  He dismissed George and sipped his brandy, swirling it around his glass. Firelight danced and flickered in the amber liquid. He took another swallow, refusing to let it remind him of Lady Kate’s eyes.

  Concentrate on the matter at hand, he told himself. Faulkner. Max frowned. Hadn’t Jardine mentioned something about Faulkner losing his grip? What had that been about? The head of operations had seemed his usual abrupt, soulless self at Whitehall the other day.

  Internal wrangling had never interested Max, but perhaps he ought to take an interest in this case. He wondered if Perry knew anything. He’d always been a favorite with their head of operations.

  There were endless possibilities. Perhaps a member of the government had discovered Kate’s intentions. Had she mentioned them to a friend or acquaintance? Someone with a secret they’d do anything to hide?

  Hopefully, Louisa had translated the diary by now. When he read the translation he’d be in a p
osition to assess how dangerous Lady Kate really was, and to whom.

  Max stretched his arms above his head in an attempt to revive his cramped muscles. Using an armchair was a good tactic if he wanted to sleep lightly, but it played merry hell with his back.

  It was highly unlikely that the unknown assassin would strike again so soon after his failed attempt. His very nearly successful attempt, Max corrected himself.

  He’d never forget the pure, white-hot terror that gripped him when he’d heard the sounds of struggle from the bathroom. Thank God he’d been nearby. Thank God.

  His gut twisted every time he thought of Lady Kate sitting in the bath, blank-eyed and trembling.

  He should have stopped to help her, but faced with crisis, his brain and body fell back into habit—catch the criminal and let others care for the victim. Only this time . . .

  How had she managed to crawl under his skin in a matter of days? Protecting her wasn’t just a job. It was far more than that.

  Damn him for a fool! Getting sentimental about a woman was the worst thing he could do. Emotion clouded one’s judgment. The first thing he’d learned at the beginning of his career was to keep his feelings out of a case. If he was going to keep Lady Kate alive until the threat passed, he’d need to quash this foolish obsession.

  And what was so special about her anyway? What did she have that a hundred other women didn’t share?

  So very many things, honesty compelled him to admit. The sparkling intelligence in her eyes when she challenged him over her brother in that ballroom, the daring that led her to use her knowledge as a weapon, her staunch physical courage when she threw herself out of that carriage, and again, braved that hideous assault in the bathroom. And that lovely, lithe body . . . Max shut his eyes. Even while she was trembling, cold, and bedraggled from the shock of the attack, his baser self had noticed all kinds of things about her as he toweled her dry.