The Desires of a Duke: Historical Romance Collection

by Darcy Burke

  His gut balled as he thought of Laura. How he’d fallen for her words of love. After their wedding, her adoring whispers had warped into insistent demands for his attention. No matter how much he gave, it had never been enough. She’d goaded him, tried to make him jealous, bedded one man after another. All the while, she’d blamed him.

  You’re a selfish bastard. You have no heart. You don’t know how to love.

  Aye, she’d been a manipulative bitch—but she hadn’t been wrong, either.

  He did lack the capacity for softer feelings, and it was a bloody good thing. Because they couldn’t be used against him. Because no one, not even Emma Kent, could twist him to her will. Her stupid whims. Fury frosted his insides. A female investigator? Who ever heard of that?

  She shot to her feet, glaring down at him. “You’re as bad as Ambrose. Why won’t either of you at least give my plan a chance?”

  With a curse, he yanked aside the covers.

  She backed away. “Have a care. Your injury—”

  “Damn my injury and damn your obstinacy.” He stalked toward her, backing her into a corner. Through his teeth, he said, “Next time, don’t bother with the stew and just say what you want.”

  “What does stew have to do with this?” She sounded bewildered. “And I am telling you what I want!”

  “You can’t seriously think you can be an investigator,” he snapped.

  “Why not?”

  “We’re talking about a murder investigation. A dangerous business and one that you are entirely unsuited for.”

  She dared to glower at him. “And why is that?”

  “Because you’re a bloody lass—and an innocent one at that!”

  She scowled. “I’m not that innocent, thanks to you.”

  Of all the times to remind him of blasted Andromeda’s—he set his jaw, struggled to think through his haze of anger and arousal. Why did she always push him to the edge? The idea of her hurt because of this mess set off a maddening beat in his blood. Protective instincts he’d thought long dead roared to life and angered him even more.

  Why did she stir up his old, stupid dreams?

  Experience had taught him that love was just a euphemism for power. In relationships, there were only two options: control or be controlled. He would never be anyone’s puppet again.

  “You’re not getting involved, and that is final,” he gritted out.

  “You cannot dictate what I do.” Her bosom surged.

  “Can’t I? I believe I proved you wrong two nights ago in my library. Care for another demonstration?” Because he burned to give it to her.

  “Stop trying to intimidate me with your … your seductive wiles!”

  “So you do find me seductive.”

  “I do not.”

  “You can’t hide the truth from me, Emma.” In a swift motion, he caught her wrists in one hand, pinned them above her head. He leaned in, heat sizzling in the sliver of air between them. “You melt for me every time we touch.”

  “No, I don’t—”

  In favor of expedience, he kissed her.

  She struggled, and he gave her no quarter, holding her in place. He took her mouth, her flavor flooding his senses, his anger exploding into raw desire. Within seconds, she surrendered, yielding with a delicious sigh. Driving his tongue home, he pressed his hard, aroused body against her willing softness.

  Restrained, her passion burned even more brightly. Her soft little body stretched tautly against his own hard edges, and he felt like he was on a rack of pleasure as she strained against him, her eyes glazed with desire, her stiff nipples teasing his chest through layers of fabric.

  His mind warned him of the dangers; the door was open, anyone could see them.

  That only heated his blood more.

  He tossed up her skirts with his free hand, his lungs burning as he encountered the silken softness of her thighs. He covered her mouth with his own, drinking in her gasp, shuddering as his questing fingers found her damp curls and the slick petals within.

  By God, she had the softest, wettest little cunny.

  When he circled her pearl, she moaned.

  “Be very quiet,” he whispered. “Unless you want to get caught.”

  Understanding widened her eyes. At the same time, her hips lurched helplessly against his hand. She bit down on her bottom lip as he played with her love-knot, stroking it, titillating the bold nub as he held her against the wall. Her color rose, her bosom surging, and he knew she was close to her climax. Rolling her clit with his thumb, he slid his middle finger along her plump cleft.

  He held her gaze as he pushed inside her virginal hole.

  She was hot, wet, so tight. So bloody perfect.

  “God, why can’t I get enough of you?” he rasped against her ear.

  Her lips parted on a soundless cry.

  He barely restrained his own groan as she came, the lush flutters making his erection jerk beneath his robe, a spurt of pre-spend scorching his belly. He gritted his teeth, fighting the urge to replace his finger with his cock, to take her here and now—

  “Annabel, it’s been lovely chatting.” Marianne Kent’s overly loud voice drifted through the doorway. “I think it’s time we go check on Emma and His Grace.”

  Panting, Emma stared at him in mute panic.

  In the next instant, he shoved himself away from her. In the nick of time, he got back into bed and tossed the covers over himself. His heart hammered, his loins throbbed. Every cell of his body hummed with need.

  “Emma, are you finished visiting?” Mrs. Kent entered with Annabel behind her. “I have other calls to make today.”

  “Y-yes,” Emma stammered.

  “We’ll take our leave then, Your Grace.” Mrs. Kent took her charge’s arm, turned to go.

  He collected his wits. “Miss Kent?”

  “Yes?” Emma faced him, her color heightening.

  “I trust you will not forget our tête-à-tête today.” He gave her his most quelling, ducal stare. “There’s to be no more talk of you sleuthing about. We have an understanding, do we not?”

  Annoyance flashed in her gaze. Her chin high, she said, “You have yours, and I have mine.” Even her curtsy was defiant. “Good day, Your Grace.”

  Goddamnit. Frustration and desire roiled in him as she walked out with the other two.

  Clearly, Emma meant to meddle further in his affairs. His title, his wealth and power—hell, his sexual dominance—none of it intimidated her one bit.

  He wanted to bare his teeth.

  He wanted to screw her senseless.

  He shoved his hands through his hair. Even if he felt the tiniest tug of respect for her audacity, no way in hell was he going to let her run amok in his life. He’d have to keep her under watch. If—when—her behavior went out of bounds, he would intervene. Swiftly and decisively. He would show her once and for all who was in control.

  Anticipation flared in him. The blood of his ancestors drummed in his veins.

  That’s how you want to play it, lass? Then let the games begin.

  Chapter 14

  The next day, Emma paid the hackney driver and descended onto Compton Street, a busy thoroughfare near Soho Square. Storefronts lined both sides of the street, and people and horses jostled along the cobblestone. Emma’s destination was Number Eight, a two-storey building sandwiched between a bakeshop and a pianoforte maker’s store. A small gold placard on the dark green door read simply, “Kent and Associates.”

  Stepping inside, Emma paused on the threshold. The sun shone through the bow window at the front of the room, glinting off the reception desk and stairwell that led up to the partners’ new suites, which had been added in the reconstruction. A small waiting area boasted comfortable seating and newspapers to peruse. The scent of baking bread mixed with the occasional discordant chord of an instrument being tuned.

  Something about the office had always reminded Emma of the cottage in Chudleigh Crest. Perhaps it was the coziness, the hodgepodge of sights, s
ounds, and smells, and the hum of activity. Coming here was like coming ... home.

  She couldn’t give up. She had to convince her brother to give her a chance.

  I am capable of being an investigator, she thought fiercely. I’ll show everyone—especially Strathaven.

  For a brief instant yesterday, it’d seemed as if she and the duke had reached an armistice. She’d discovered his approachable side, a hotchpotch-eating fellow with a heart-melting smile. Then he’d attacked her for no reason, disparaged her goals ... and shown her hot, wicked pleasure, the likes of which she hadn’t known existed. Her toes curled in memory of that mind-obliterating bliss.

  His carnal whisper shivered over her. God, why can’t I get enough of you?

  As if he ... needed her.

  The notion thrilled, confused, and dismayed her. Why did they share this intense physical attraction when they were ill-suited in every other way? Strathaven was nothing like the sort of man she would envision for herself. He wasn’t principled or kindhearted; he wasn’t a man devoted to his family. He was complicated, moody—and a duke to top it off.

  The only thing they had in common, it seemed, was stubbornness. He faced imminent peril and yet he still refused her help. How could he expect her to stand by and do nothing?

  “Miss Kent, what a pleasant surprise!”

  Mr. Hobson, the bespectacled clerk, came bounding down the hallway toward her with a tea tray in hand. Around her age, he had a puppyish quality owing to his downy golden-brown hair and cheerful disposition. His eagerness to please was matched only by his innate clumsiness—a fact that exasperated Ambrose and his partners to no end.

  If Hobson hasn’t spilled or broken something, then the day’s not over, Mr. McLeod was wont to grumble.

  What Hobson lacked in adroitness, however, he made up for in loyalty, optimism, and unquenchable enthusiasm. One couldn’t help but like him. Even if he constantly splattered ink over everything and smashed all the good tea cups.

  From experience, Emma knew to keep her distance from the tray in his tenuous grasp.

  “Hello, Mr. Hobson. Is my brother in?” she said.

  “Indeed.” The clerk lowered his voice. “He’s with the Mr. Hilliards upstairs. They dropped by unannounced.”

  “Ah,” Emma said.

  The Hilliards were the father and son bankers who had provided the loan for the rebuilding of the office. Shrewd businessmen, they popped in now and again to ascertain the health of the business—and their investment.

  “I was about to bring up tea. Got cakes from the bakery. Thought they might sweeten the two up a bit,” Hobson whispered.

  Emma looked at the tray. Two of the cakes had fingerprints embedded on the glaze. The other two had clearly crumbled and been put back together ... oddly. They now resembled haphazard little haystacks.

  “I had some trouble getting them out of the box.” Hobson’s brow pleated. “Do you think anyone will notice?”

  She was saved from the need to reply by voices and footsteps coming down the stairs. Ambrose appeared with the Hilliards in tow.

  “Emma,” he said in surprise. “I wasn’t expecting you. You remember the Hilliards?”

  She curtsied politely. “Good day, sirs.”

  “And to you, Miss Kent.” Mr. Hilliard Junior bent over her hand. Dressed in somber black relieved only by the white of his shirt, he reminded her a bit of a penguin. He was short and rotund, a younger replica of his father. “Father and I are most impressed with the progress that’s been made here, and Mr. Kent tells us you played a hand in things.”

  “I’m always happy to assist where I can,” Emma said.

  “A young lady who isn’t afraid to roll her sleeves up, eh?” Mr. Hilliard Senior winked broadly at his son. “Don’t find many of those around these days.”

  His son’s ears turned red.

  “I’ll see you out, sirs,” Ambrose said abruptly. “Emma, wait for me upstairs?”

  As the men went outside, Emma headed up to the new floor, which was bisected by a main hallway with offices on either side. Ambrose’s suite was at the end of the corridor, a comfortable space paneled in oak. Leather seats were clustered by the stone fireplace, and a shelf of books took up one wall. The desk sat by the front window.

  She went to look out the curtains and saw Ambrose talking with the Hilliards by their carriage. Idly, her gaze went to his desk ... and landed on his appointment book. Before she could question her actions, she was flipping through the pages.

  Her brother had been busy in the last week, making many enquiries on Strathaven’s behalf. Leafing through, she found the record of the visit to the duke’s cottage and memorized the address in St. John’s Wood. Hearing footsteps, she quickly closed the book and dashed to the other side of the desk, plopping herself into a chair. Her pulse thudded guiltily.

  “Sorry to keep you waiting, Em,” her brother said as he entered.

  “Is everything all right?” she said. “With the Hilliards, I mean?”

  Ambrose sat across the desk from her, his expression rueful. “As long as we make our monthly payments, they’ve no basis for complaint.”

  Emma’s guilt doubled as she saw the strain on her brother’s face. He was a man who disliked debts; such a large one must sit uneasily on his broad shoulders. She felt an acute yearning for the old days, when he’d shared his burdens with her. When they’d been a team.

  “Please let me help,” she blurted.

  “Don’t worry your head over it, Em,” he said. “The agency is doing fine. Our clientele is expanding—we’ll keep the Hilliards happy.”

  “But you could use an extra pair of hands. I know Strathaven’s case has taken up much of your time. I’ve been thinking,” she plunged on, “about ways I could contribute. For instance, if you’d give me a chance to interview his staff—”

  “We’ve been through this. I don’t want you involved.” Though quiet, Ambrose’s tone possessed an edge of steely finality. “Especially with the Duke of Strathaven.”

  “I—I’m not involved with him.” Her cheeks heated.

  “I see the way he looks at you,” her brother said flatly. “He’s a rake, Emma, an unsavory sort. You’re too innocent to understand, but I assure you his intentions are not honorable.”

  A foreign and mutinous urge crept over her to tell her brother that she not only knew what Strathaven’s intentions entailed, she’d already experienced them. Twice.

  Instead, she bit her tongue and said, “I owe him, Ambrose. After how I misjudged him—”

  “I’ll take care of it.”

  Frustrated, she stared at her brother. “You used to trust me.”

  Surprise flickered in his amber eyes. “I do trust you. But this is men’s business, rife with danger. I won’t allow you to get hurt.”

  “There’s nothing I can say to convince you to let me help?”

  Why are you treating me like I’m useless?

  “None at all, though I appreciate the offer.” He came over and patted her on the shoulder. “Run along, Em. I’m sure you can find something to do at home.”

  Emma had never willfully disobeyed her brother before, and her heart and head were in turmoil as the hackney entered St. John’s Wood. She felt guilty over defying Ambrose, yet her sense of resolution was stronger. She knew that both he and Strathaven needed her help, and she couldn’t stand by wringing her hands. She was a Kent, after all.

  In this case, she would have to act first, apologize later.

  Follow the wisdom of your heart.

  That advice brought her to Alaric’s “cottage,” a luxurious Italianate villa nestled within a bucolic setting of woods and flowering plants which seemed a world away from the city. As the hackney rolled up the long drive, she observed the privacy afforded by the towering trees and hedges.

  When she rang the bell, a woman in her middling years answered. Her black taffeta dress and firmly secured knot of grey hair announced her as the housekeeper.

  “How may I he
lp you, miss?” she said.

  “I am Emma Kent.” Squelching her guilt, Emma handed over the business card she’d filched from Mr. Hobson’s desk on her way out from the office. “Kent and Associates was hired by His Grace to investigate the matter of Lady Osgood.”

  Frowning, the good lady looked at the card, then at her.

  Emma assumed her most professional expression.

  “Those gentlemen from your firm were here earlier this week,” the housekeeper said.

  “I’m following up,” Emma improvised. “I have a few more questions.”

  The woman scrutinized her for a few more moments before standing aside. “I am Mrs. Millbury, the housekeeper, and I’ve already told the gentlemen what I know about Lily Hutchins, which is very little. If you must, however, you may speak to the maids again.”

  Emma could barely contain her excitement. “Thank you, Mrs. Millbury.”

  She was brought to wait in a salon, which had been decorated with an exotic flair. Bronze bamboo-patterned silk covered the walls, and the furnishings were upholstered in a rich shade of Oriental blue. The overall feeling was one of decadence. Thinking of the guests Alaric must entertain here, Emma felt her chest tighten with a foreign feeling ... jealousy?

  Surely not. She had no attachment to him, no claim.

  You’re here to find a murderer. So focus.

  Two maids entered, a plump brunette and a ginger-haired girl. Both bent their knees.

  “Good mornin’, Miss Kent.” The brunette was bran-faced, with dimpled cheeks that hinted at a jolly disposition. “Mrs. Millbury said you wanted to speak wif us?”

  “Yes, Miss …?”

  “I’m Jenny.” Clearly the leader, the brunette jerked her chin at her companion. “And this ’ere is Gretchen.”

  Gretchen ducked her chin shyly.

  “Won’t you both sit down?” Emma said.

  “Don’t mind if I do.” Jenny plopped herself on the divan while Gretchen perched on its edge.

  Taking the adjacent wingchair, Emma pulled out a pencil and notebook from her reticule. “I understand that both of you knew Lily Hutchins. Would you describe her to me?”