by Darcy Burke
First, they’d entered together through a gated back entrance flanked by a pair of guards. By “entered together,” she meant that she’d refused to walk and Strathaven had consequently acted like a savage, tossing her over his shoulder and carting her inside. Even from her topsy-turvy perspective, she’d deduced from the richly decorated and quiet corridor that this was an exclusive, secretive place.
Second, another guard had led them to the present chamber which was decorated in alarming shades of scarlet and gold. A fresco on one wall dominated the room: it depicted a naked woman, her nipples painted a lurid red, her body chained to a rock overlooking the sea. The tubular (and rather phallic) head of a giant sea monster thrust ominously from the foamy waves.
Finally, the proprietress of the establishment who greeted them now had a distinctly disreputable look about her. Introducing herself as Mrs. Roddy, she was a handsome, voluptuous blonde who wore more rouge than clothing, and she leered when Strathaven set a bound and furious Emma on her feet.
“Welcome to Andromeda’s,” Mrs. Roddy said. “Games are underway already, are they?”
Games? What games? What does the infernal woman mean?
“I’m being kidnapped!” Emma said indignantly.
Unfortunately, it came out as “Mmf bemf kdmgf!”
Truthfully, she was more angry than frightened. Never in her life had she been manhandled in such a manner—or any manner. She wasn’t used to being told what to do, never mind being forced into places against her will. Strathaven was acting no better than a barbarian!
When she tried to get away from him, his arm circled her waist like a steel band, trapping her against his side. She struggled and succeeded only in rubbing herself against his rigid form. Again, the blighter’s proximity had a queer effect on her senses: her belly quivered, followed by a molten feeling lower down. Her breath hit the linen in quick, successive bursts.
Ruddiness stained the high ridges of the duke’s cheekbones.
“Stop wriggling about,” he ordered.
She glared at him. Then let me go, you heathen!
Ignoring her, he said, “Has everything been arranged, Mrs. Roddy?”
“Yes, Your Grace. And if there’s anything else you need …”
With a suggestive flutter of her sooted lashes, the proprietress performed a curtsy that showed rather too much of her charms. In fact, the robust mounds nearly spilled out of her non-existent bodice. Why bother wearing a dress at all? Catching herself, Emma frowned at the uncharitable thought. Nonetheless, she couldn’t resist darting a look at Strathaven who looked unimpressed by the display.
Not that she cared, of course.
“See that we’re not disturbed for the next half hour,” he said dismissively.
The simpering proprietress departed.
Alone with Strathaven, Emma was torn between fury ... and burning curiosity.
Why did he bring me here? What does he hope to prove?
Her instincts told her that he wouldn’t hurt her; if he wished to, he could have attacked her in the carriage. He’d sworn that he didn’t intend to harm her, and Emma hoped that Annabel was right in saying that his wickedness hid an honorable character.
Honorable is a definite stretch, Emma thought darkly. What does the blackguard want?
He went to a set of crimson drapes and parted them in a bold sweep. Emma blinked as a door was revealed. He opened it, and curious in spite of herself, she craned her neck for a better look. A pulse fluttered at the side of her neck as she glimpsed flickering dimness.
“’Tis your choice, Miss Kent,” Strathaven said. “You can either walk through this door on your own two feet or we can have a repeat performance of our earlier entrance.”
Some choice, she thought in disgust.
She assessed the situation. Standing there in his immaculate charcoal cutaway and trousers, his lean form radiating taut power, Strathaven looked ducal. Merciless. A man who didn’t issue threats idly. If she didn’t make a decision in the next few seconds, she had no doubt he would once again toss her over his shoulder.
“Not afraid, are you?” Now his words held the taunting edge of challenge.
Did he think to intimidate her? She was no wilting violet who was going to faint at the sight of a dark room. Squaring her shoulders, she set forth through the doorway.
She entered the enveloping darkness and heard the door click shut, sealing her and Strathaven inside. The air turned heavy and humid in her lungs. As her eyes adjusted, she saw that they were in a narrow, dead-end corridor. Flickering wall sconces illuminated a row of wooden slats set at eye level on both sides of the hallway. Peculiar, muffled sounds raised goose pimples on her skin, her heart beating a furious staccato.
“I’m going to free you now,” Strathaven said in a low voice. “Be quiet if you don’t wish to be discovered—and I assure you, you don’t.”
The instant he removed the binding from her mouth and hands, she whispered fiercely, “What is this? Why are we here?”
“To relieve you of your innocence.”
His reply sent a tingle over her skin. Before she could argue that she wasn’t a naïve chit—that she’d run a household, raised a family—he placed his hand on the small of her back, guiding her toward the wall. He slid one of the panels open. Emma blinked as a glowing hole appeared, her breath catching as the sounds took on a human quality.
“You wanted to know the truth, Miss Kent. Have a look ... if you dare.”
Not one to back down from a challenge, she leaned forward.
A wave of shock crashed over her.
The room was cell-like, starkly furnished with only a plain wooden bench and a table next to it. A fully dressed blond gentleman sat upon the bench whilst a brunette lay on her belly across his lap ... and she didn’t have a single stitch of clothing on! Emma swallowed as the man smoothed a tanned hand over the pale hills of the woman’s bottom.
“Have you been a wicked girl?” he said.
“Yes, sir,” the lady replied in a breathy, cultured voice.
“Do you deserve to be punished?”
“If it pleases you, sir.”
Calmly, the man reached to the table next to him. Emma made out an array of odd implements upon its surface. He selected an object ... a paddle? In a swift motion, he brought it down against the woman’s backside. The loud slap made Emma jerk back in response.
Her back collided with Strathaven, her pulse leaping wildly at the contact. She was acutely aware of his rock-hard frame caging her, his spicy scent curling in her nostrils. Her fingernails dug desperately into her palms as the sounds of slapping flesh filled the chamber.
Breathe. Remain calm.
“Keep watching,” he murmured.
Shivering at the brush of his breath against her ear, Emma saw that the woman was writhing on the man’s lap now. Her face conveyed not pain, Emma registered with confusion, but ... pleasure? How could that be? The lady was being abused, was she not?
“Oh, yes, spank me harder, sir!” the lady cried. “Don’t stop. I’m almost there!”
She wishes to be spanked?
As the brunette’s cries grew in volume and desperation, Emma became keenly aware of her own physical state. Her limbs were quivering, and sweat trickled beneath her bodice, slickening the valley between her breasts, the tips of which had stiffened, throbbing like pulse points. She felt giddy, lightheaded—not like herself at all.
She trembled when Strathaven’s hands closed around her upper arms. He steered her toward the next viewing panel; like one caught in a dream, Emma peered through the revealed hole. Air whooshed from her lungs as she struggled to put two disparate and equally shocking facts together.
First, she was looking into a dungeon.
Second, the people within it were taking part in a wild bacchanal.
The chamber had iron bars in place of walls, and its scantily clad occupants were enthusiastically engaged in debauchery. If Emma had thought that growing up around farms and livestoc
k had given her a general idea of the sexual act, then in that one astonishing instant she was proven wrong. Like a veil, her innocence was ripped away, and she stared at the writhing bodies through wide, disbelieving eyes. Her heart jammed in her throat as her gaze flitted around the cage ...
Oh. My. Goodness.
Her cheeks blazed as she beheld the first human phallus she’d ever seen in the flesh. A shirtless man sat upon a wooden chair, his member thrusting upward from the opening in his black buckskins like a crimson flagpole. If that wasn’t shocking enough, he held a black leather strap, which was attached to the matching collar worn by the naked blonde kneeling between his muscular thighs.
When he tugged, the woman gave him a saucy wink and shuffled closer on her knees. She bent her head. Dizzily, Emma watched as the blonde slowly licked up and down the turgid column of flesh before swirling her tongue over the mushroomed dome.
“Suck it,” the man commanded, “Swallow my cock.”
The blonde’s mouth opened obediently, his member disappearing betwixt her lips ...
Heart palpitating, Emma tore her gaze away, only to have it land on three—Good God, four?—undulating bodies. A woman was on all fours, bookended by two men. The one behind her was on his knees, his expression salacious as he pumped his manhood into her. The one in front lay on his back, the woman’s head bobbing over his groin. Emma couldn’t see his face because another woman was sitting upon it, grinding her hips and rubbing her breasts ...
Sweat misted over Emma’s brow as her eyes shifted to an auburn-haired lady. Her wrists were bound above her head to the iron bars. She stood, her breasts quivering, a black silk blindfold covering her eyes. A man strode over, his fleshy member aimed at her like a lance. Without further ado, he grabbed one of her thighs, hitching it over his hip. The muscles of his buttocks flexed as he entered her in a deep thrust, and the redhead moaned, “Oh, yes. Fuck me harder. Make me beg for mercy ...”
The images swam in Emma’s vision as past and present collided. Lady Osgood tied to the gazebo, her voice filtering through bushes. Are you going to hurt me? Oh Strathaven, please, I beg of you ...
“Can you take more of my rod, wench?” the man demanded.
“Yes, master, screw it in deeper. Do whatever you wish to me!” the redhead said.
Realization cut like a knife through Emma’s shock; the truth bled out.
A depraved sexual game—that is what I witnessed.
Lady Osgood was a willing participant, and Strathaven, he’s innocent ... so to speak.
The scene suddenly vanished, the panel closing. She was whirled around, her back pressed against the wall. Strathaven’s palms planted on either side of her shoulders, trapping her.
In the flickering dimness, a wild, silver fire lit his eyes. Controlled savagery burned beneath his polished facade. Waves of tension rolled off his powerful frame, and every fiber of her being responded to his potent energy. Her skin was hot, sweaty. Her limbs trembled.
“Now do you understand?” he demanded.
She couldn’t look away from his gaze, the heat and the ice. A magnetic force hummed in the sliver of space between them. Her heart thumped, the tempo reckless and uncontrolled. Wordless longing tumbled through her. She wet her lips.
His eyes honed in on the movement of her tongue. His nostrils flared. A sound left him—a groan or a curse—and his mouth crashed upon hers.
She couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think. Strathaven’s firm, hot lips roved over hers with masterful intensity. Sensation overrode everything, a tide of pleasure washing over her, so strong that she lost her bearings. Her lips clung desperately to his, and his kiss grew even more potent and seductively demanding. His drugging male flavor weakened her knees, and he caught her, held her against the wall. She shivered when his tongue swept against her bottom lip.
“Open for me,” he whispered. “Let me in.”
Senses spinning, she obeyed, and his tongue plunged boldly inside. Somewhere in the far recesses of her mind, she registered that her first kiss was unlike anything she could have imagined. He tasted her as if he owned her, and his unapologetic possession sent a strange, singing sweetness through her blood. Her awareness of anything but him faded. Instinctively, she followed his lead, letting him in deeper, meeting his tongue with her own.
A sound tore from his chest, and the kiss grew even more torrid. He penetrated her mouth with a stabbing force that made heat bloom at the center of her being. Fire unfurled over her skin, the tips of her breasts pulsing, itching for contact. She pressed herself against his hard strength and moaned at the sublime sensation, needing more ...
His hands found her breasts, and she panted into his mouth as he found the aching tips, teasing them, causing them to rise against the layers of fabric. When he gave a sharp tweak, liquid rushed between her legs, a frantic need rising in that same place. As if he were attuned to her every desire, his thigh wedged into her skirts, and she moaned, rubbing herself against the hard trunk of muscle, desperate for the friction, release from the sweet ache—
“Dearies? Time’s up.”
The words sliced through the moment like a guillotine. It took a moment for Emma to recognize Mrs. Roddy’s voice. Before she could gather her senses, she was shoved behind Strathaven. His broad back to her, he faced the approaching bawd.
“Ah, there you are.” A knowing gleam lit the bawd’s eyes. “Enjoy the show?”
“We’re done,” Strathaven said.
Dazed by the sensations still coursing through her, Emma watched as he dropped a small purse in the bawd’s waiting palm, the coins landing with an ignominious clink.
“Thank you, Your Grace.” Fluttering her lashes, Mrs. Roddy said, “If there is anything else—”
“That is all,” the duke said imperiously.
The bawd curtsied low.
He turned, and Emma’s lungs constricted as she saw his expression. ’Twas as if a curtain of ice had fallen over him, his face frozen in hard lines, his eyes a glacial jade. She flinched when his large hand closed around her arm like a manacle.
“We’re leaving,” he grated out. “Now.”
Chapter 9
The next evening, Emma wondered what in mercy’s name she was doing. Given all that had transpired in the past day, the last place she should be was here in the foyer of Strathaven’s palatial townhouse. On her last visit here, she’d been distraught over the news of Lady Osgood’s death, her assumption of Strathaven’s culpability; she hadn’t taken note of the surroundings. Now she saw that checkered marble gleamed beneath her half-boots, crystals dripped from the tiered chandelier overhead, and in front of her, the twin wings of the mahogany stairwell seemed to float up toward the paneled ceiling.
Surrounded by the incontrovertible proof of her host’s wealth and power, she couldn’t feel more ill at ease. Yet her honor had demanded that she come. Ambrose and Marianne had taken the rest of the family to a performance at Astley’s tonight, and pleading a headache—plausible, given her return visit to the magistrates earlier that afternoon—Emma had stayed home. Soon after, she’d slipped out of the house and hailed a hackney to the present address.
As much as she hated deceiving her family, she had no choice. She had a debt to settle and the sooner the better. The catastrophic mistake she’d made—the man’s reputation that she’d recklessly ruined—gnawed at her insides.
As did the memory of what had happened yesterday at Andromeda’s.
The kiss washed over her, thrill and dismay swirling in its wake. Of all the times for her to discover that she was indeed capable of feminine passion, of all the men she might have discovered it with ... why in God’s name did it have to be Strathaven?
The butler returned, and she noticed how shuffling and painful-looking his gait was.
“His Grace will see you in the library, Miss Kent,” he said with a thick Scottish burr.
For an instant, Emma was tempted to flee—but she’d never been one to shirk duty, no matter how unpleasant it mi
ght be. She’d made this mess; she would tidy it up.
She straightened her shoulders. “Thank you, sir.”
“’Tis Jarvis, miss.” His countenance was kindly.
She gave him a small smile and followed him down a long corridor hung with gilt-framed paintings. She had no idea how Strathaven would react to seeing her. The carriage ride home from Andromeda’s had taken place in silence. He’d been white-lipped, foreboding, and she’d been too dazed to say anything herself. He’d deposited her at the corner of her street; the moment she’d entered the house, his conveyance had sped off.
Jarvis held open a door. “In here, miss.”
“Thank you.” Emma heard the uncharacteristic quiver in her own voice.
Pull your chin up. A Kent always takes responsibility for her actions.
Expelling a breath, she entered the large, high-ceilinged chamber. Only a few lamps were lit, and in the flickering dimness, she saw shelves of books lining the walls and leather furniture clustered around a glowing hearth at the center of the room. At the far end was a desk framed by tall bow windows. Strathaven stood there, staring out into the dark gardens.
His still, solitary pose wrought an oddly resonant pang in her breast. Juxtaposed against the starry night sky, he looked ... alone. As if he carried the weight of the dark heavens upon his broad shoulders.
At that moment, two shapes darted from the shadows, and Emma let out a startled breath as large paws planted onto her thighs. She found herself looking into the shaggy, grinning faces of two Scottish deerhounds. Their cheerful welcome was infectious.
She scratched them both behind the ears. “Friendly boys, aren’t you?” she murmured.
“Phobos, Deimos—down.”
At their master’s sharp command, the dogs obeyed at once, padding off to curl up in front of the fire. She looked up, her smile fading. Before now, she’d never seen Strathaven in anything but impeccable attire. In his shirtsleeves, his potent virility was even more pronounced. The fine lawn shirt stretched across his wide shoulders, draping over his narrow hips. It was partially unbuttoned, revealing the corded column of his throat, an intriguing glimpse of his muscled chest …