PRAISE FOR THE NOVELS OF MADELINE HUNTER
“Hunter combines desire with mystery and sensuality with adventure, bringing readers the kind of romance that makes their hearts soar. Here, she pits a sexy hero against an independent spinster, mixes in a mystery, humor, and wonderful banter, and gifts readers with a keeper.”
—RT Book Reviews
“Hunter’s effortlessly elegant writing exudes a wicked sense of wit; her characterization is superbly subtle, and the sexual chemistry she cooks up between her deliciously independent heroine and delightfully sexy hero is pure passion.”
—Booklist (starred review)
“Excellent . . . The romance and suspense are balanced perfectly.”
—Publishers Weekly
“There are some writers who are born to write . . . Stellar.”
—Examiner.com
“Smooth, sexy, and sophisticated.”
—Kirkus Reviews
“Passions blaze in this complex story that pairs another marvelously singular couple . . . to the delight of all concerned.”
—Library Journal
“Ms. Hunter certainly proves her reputation.”
—Smexy Books
“Action, adventure, humor, and lots of delicious dialogue.”
—Romance Junkies
“An intriguing read that pulled you in from the first few pages.”
—Joyfully Reviewed
Jove titles by Madeline Hunter
RAVISHING IN RED
PROVOCATIVE IN PEARLS
SINFUL IN SATIN
DANGEROUS IN DIAMONDS
THE SURRENDER OF MISS FAIRBOURNE
THE CONQUEST OF LADY CASSANDRA
THE COUNTERFEIT MISTRESS
HIS WICKED REPUTATION
TALL, DARK, AND WICKED
THE WICKED DUKE
Specials
AN INTERRUPTED TAPESTRY
An imprint of Penguin Random House LLC
375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014
THE WICKED DUKE
A Jove Book / published by arrangement with the author
Copyright © 2016 by Madeline Hunter.
Excerpt from The Surrender of Miss Fairbourne by Madeline Hunter copyright © 2012 by Madeline Hunter.
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eBook ISBN: 9780698156609
PUBLISHING HISTORY
Jove mass-market edition / June 2016
Cover photography by Claudio Marinesco.
Cover design by Rita Frangie.
Cover photo: HEVER CASTLE AND GARDENS © IR Stone/Shutterstock.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
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CONTENTS
PRAISE FOR THE NOVELS OF MADELINE HUNTER
JOVE TITLES BY MADELINE HUNTER
TITLE PAGE
COPYRIGHT
CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
CHAPTER 5
CHAPTER 6
CHAPTER 7
CHAPTER 8
CHAPTER 9
CHAPTER 10
CHAPTER 11
CHAPTER 12
CHAPTER 13
CHAPTER 14
CHAPTER 15
CHAPTER 16
CHAPTER 17
CHAPTER 18
CHAPTER 19
CHAPTER 20
CHAPTER 21
CHAPTER 22
CHAPTER 23
CHAPTER 24
CHAPTER 25
EPILOGUE
EXCERPT FROM The Surrender of Miss Fairbourne
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
CHAPTER 1
The whole world rocked. That was the first thought Lance had while wakefulness slowly came to him—that the whole damned planet bounced through the universe. The violent movement gave him a head fit to burst. Holding on created an exhaustion so deep he yearned to return to blissful oblivion. Only he could not, because of that damned movement.
A bit more consciousness emerged. It was not the whole world. Only his bed. In the next second, an awareness of pleasure slammed into him. What the hell—?
He forced one eye open. Skin. Breasts. Plump thighs. Long tendrils of blond hair.
A woman sat astride his hips. She had made use of his morning erection. Since he had neither initiated this, nor agreed to it, it was the closest thing to a woman forcing her pleasure on him he had ever experienced.
Who the hell was she? He closed his eyes, and enjoyed the ride, as it were. His pained, befogged brain tried to remember where he was and how he had gotten here. The last thing he remembered with clarity was tearing off from Merrywood Manor on his horse two days after Christmas, as soon as he sent his brothers and their wives back to London. Something in him had snapped as those carriages rolled away, and he had ridden hard for miles, full of anger at his impossible situation, until near night he entered a town right across the border to Herefordshire.
The woman groaned. She bounced harder. If he’d had the strength to take over, he would, so maybe his head would not thud like this. He might even stop her, because this did not feel nearly as good as it should.
She must have noticed him stirring. She bent forward, even as she continued her thumps against his hips. She kissed him. She tasted of beer.
She straightened again. Beer. Now he knew who she was. There had been a tavern, and a young woman delivering beer. He had flirted, because, aside from lots of drinking, that was what he was there for.
She finished with a loud groan. His own climax was more of a whimper.
She did not move. She giggled, and bent to kiss his chest while she caressed it. “Poor thing. All these bruises. Fought like a tiger, you did. Three against one ain’t fair, but you held your own, didn’t you?”
Each kiss sent a little jab into his head. Bruises. No wonder he felt thrashed. Only he could not remember a single moment of it. All the same his pride stupidly glowed at hearing he had held his own.
Her mouth pressed his lower chest. Then another pressure came, on a spot on his shoulder. His mind pondered that. It felt as though—
“For a man who took all those blows, he did not disappoint.” The voice that spoke those words sounded deeper than the blonde. Older.
One half of his brain snapped alert. It painfully sorted through the last five minutes. He opened his eyes to see just what was what. The blonde smiled up at him from where her chin rested on his torso. Another smile beamed at him from his shoulder.
There were two of them.
He took in his surroundings. The walls showed the half-timbering and rough plaster common to ancient inns. The bed would barely fit two, let alone three. Yet here they all were.
He paid att
ention to his body. Oh, yes, lots of blows. That was clear now. He stretched his right hand. The knuckles did not want to straighten completely. Damnation, it must have been one hell of a fight.
The blonde reached down and caressed him. She grinned. “I think, if I am not mistaken, that you are ready again.” She began that lowering descent of kisses.
“No.” His voice sounded strangled. His face hurt. He raised his hand and felt it, gingerly. The aches said that but for his beard, he probably looked half dead.
“No?” the older voice asked, teasing. “Such a gentleman he is, Joan. Not that you’d have known it two hours ago. I’ve not seen the likes of it, Jamie.”
Jamie? He had used a fictitious name. Shrewd. It would not do for the Duke of Aylesbury to be here, with two women. Not when he was supposed to be living the most boring, tedious, and disheartening life imagined, to prove how very good he could be. If on occasion he went up to London or rode to Herefordshire to pretend for a few hours, or a few days, that his life had not become so insufferable, he could be excused.
He sat, which meant both women had to move. He gestured for the blonde to get out of the way, so he could swing his legs off the side of the bed. He reached for his clothes.
“Ladies, I need to leave. I thank you for your company.”
Peals of laughter greeted that. “Oh, no, sir we thank you,” the older woman said. “Pity no one will believe us when we tell about it.”
“Such a gentleman he is too. Did you hear that? Ladies, I thank you for your company.” The blonde sighed. “You must promise to come back.”
He might, if he had any idea where he was. Since he didn’t, he just smiled. Which hurt his face. “How much do I owe you?”
The older woman tucked her head against his neck while she pressed against his back with her breasts. “You already paid all you owe. We did not mind all those extras. Did we, Joan?”
“Not at all. It was a magnificent night.”
It was deucedly annoying to be the only one who did not know what the hell they referred to. When a man was magnificent, he wanted to savor the memory, damn it.
He began pulling on his clothes. Still they did not leave. He ignored them, and the bruises, and his cramped hand, and the way the top of his head carried a leaden weight.
Finally dressed, he bowed and left them giggling. He found his way down some stairs and into a blinding December sun and abrasively crisp cold air. Both made him groan.
From all evidence, he had enjoyed quite a night. A good fight, a good drunken party, and a good rut—that was just what he wanted when he went looking for trouble. Normally a night like this could sustain him for a month or so.
It irritated the hell out of him that he could not remember any of it. Not a single thing.
CHAPTER 2
The flower had noticed him.
That was what Lance first thought he saw through the branches—a flower abloom in the graveyard despite the January cold. Impossible of course, unless someone bought a bouquet from a hothouse to lay on Percy’s grave. He could not imagine anyone doing that. It would be a very belated sentiment after nine months, squandered on a man who left no positive legacy.
It was not a flower, but a vision just as pretty, as it turned out. A woman had ridden here, on a horse the same dappled gray as the barren branches. The horse ate grass near the low wall surrounding the graveyard. She must have used the wall to dismount. Now she examined Percy’s grave without emotion. She might be viewing a new painting.
The deep rose hue of her riding habit contrasted starkly with the dull trees. Even the steel-toned stones of the chapel appeared designed to make her more obvious. Her copper hair, shot through with gold, drew attention to her deep blue eyes.
It had been some time since he had enjoyed the sight of a lovely female at Merrywood Manor who was not a relative. His blood stirred. He might be one of these old oaks, and spring had arrived.
She had noticed him now, and to lurk in the woods would make him a fool. He stepped forward, to the edge of the clearing.
She arched one eyebrow. Whatever she saw in him did not impress her much. He could see the conclusions she drew about the musket and hares that he carried. He stepped over the wall, then set the gun and the day’s kill down on the ground.
“Are you paying your respects?” he asked as he walked closer to her. He thought her upturned little nose and wide mouth very attractive. Of course, in his current state of isolation, he would probably find any young woman appealing. Abstinence did that to a man. Right now it had him thinking he preferred little upturned noses to all other kinds.
“I personally did not know any of them.” She pointed to the monstrous pyramid. “He must have been much admired, to have such a sepulcher built for him.”
“He built it himself. Or at least began it, then left funds for its quick completion should he die early.”
“You mean like the pharaohs of ancient Egypt. It is said those pyramids were started as soon as a man became king, because each one dared not trust his successor to see it done for him.”
An educated flower, it appeared. She had the kind of face that would appear fresh, friendly, and girlish even when she grew old. Bright doe eyes, full cheeks, dimples . . .
“Are you a visitor to the manor?” He knew she was not, but he wanted the conversation to continue.
She shook her head.
“Are you lost?”
“No. I was just curious. I suppose I am trespassing.” She gave him a sly smile. “Like you?”
It was an excellent opportunity to explain who he was. Only if he did, she would most likely flee. His reputation had never been the kind to encourage nice young ladies to dally, and this past year even grown men treated him with caution. The Wicked Duke, he had come to be called, his valet had mournfully told him. So much for almost a year of living like a monkish country squire, concerned only with the welfare of his neighbors.
That had been his brother Ives’s idea—that correct and moral living would lead people to think the best of him. Ives tended to be too optimistic about his fellow man.
“I am not trespassing. I am allowed to be here,” he said. “It is required of my situation. I am not a poacher, if that is what you assumed.”
“Oh.” Her color rose. She glanced to the musket and hares. “Of course. Why have hunting lands if no one hunts? No doubt a duke has many huntsmen. The wonder is that I did not see one today before this.”
“I am such a sure shot that Aylesbury does not need an army to fill his kitchen and the winter pots of his tenants.”
He ambled closer, watching her much as he watched his prey when he hunted, looking for signs she would bolt. He hoped not. This simple exchange had him enjoying himself more than he had in weeks. Months. The sap had begun to flow strongly now. Given half a chance and the slightest encouragement, he might pluck a pretty flower today. Sniff his fill of its nectar’s scent. Nibble and lick the velvet surfaces of its petals—
He put such considerations out of his mind. He was not really a wicked duke. Well, not with the daughters of county neighbors. Not normally, at least.
Only he could not remember seeing her about in the county in the past. “Do you live on one of the neighboring properties?”
She thought before answering, which he found peculiar. “Yes and no,” she said.
Even more peculiar.
“I am visiting a relative,” she explained. “He has offered that I live in his home. I am dependent on him, but I am not sure I like the idea of being that dependent.”
“He sounds to be a generous man. Perhaps you would do well to allow him to help you even more than he has.”
“It does sound generous, doesn’t it? Since he is not by nature that kind of man, I am suspicious.” She blushed, and made a little waving motion with her hand. “I am sure all will be well.” She turned her attentio
n once more to the monstrous sepulcher. “Do not tell the family anyone said so, but it is not well carved, perhaps due to its haste in construction. The figure of this man here is unnatural in appearance, and almost deformed in the way he is twisted.”
As was the character of the person whose body lay beneath the pile. “That is the thing about grave markers—it is considered rude to take them down later. It will remain as you see it for generations, I expect.”
“Maybe the new duke will grow some ivy over it.”
She paced between the other markers. He trailed along, far enough not to alarm her, but close enough to catch the scent of rose water. She even smelled like a flower. He wondered if it were warmer inside the little chapel, and tried to remember if there were any cushions that might make a rough bed.
Not that he was so wicked as to seduce an impoverished young woman related to one of his neighbors. And if he were that wicked, which half of him contemplated being and the whole of him badly wanted to be, he would never do it in a chapel on a cold stone floor. Even driven mad by isolation and boredom, he had some standards.
The tree canopy broke above the center of the graveyard. She stepped into a pool of sunlight that formed beneath it. The golds in her hair shined brightly and her eyes took on the color of violets. He pictured her hair unbound, falling freely around her shoulders, mussed from a night in bed.
She peered down at his father’s marker, as plain in design as his brother’s was bold. “I used to live in this area,” she said. “Years ago. I remember this duke. He was known as a good man.”
“He was one.” A good man, but not perfect. Still, not bad. Not twisted and not wicked. “When did you live here?” No images came to his head of a girl who looked like her, but she could not be more than twenty-two or so. If by years ago she meant even five years, he would have paid no mind to the girl she had been when she last inhabited his world.
“It has been a long time. Still, I know some people.”
“Then you will not feel uncomfortable if you attend county assemblies. There should be one at the next full moon.”
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