by Darcy Burke
“With Mr. Cooper following me like a hawk, I’m perfectly safe.” She canted her head. “Why are you avoiding my question?”
“Why are you avoiding mine?” he shot back.
With a hint of exasperation, she said, “Fine, I’ll answer first. I’m here to return this.” From her reticule, she withdrew the black velvet jewelry box and placed it on his desk.
His gaze smoldered into hers. “You don’t like it?”
“That’s not the point. I can’t accept it.”
“Why not?”
“It’s too expensive. Too much.”
“It’s perfect for you. You’ll wear it.” He returned to sorting his correspondence as if the subject was closed.
“I will not.” She lifted her chin. “Our bargain was for me to scout the ton for you, not dress up in jewels that could feed a family for generations. I’m beginning to wonder if you aren’t sending me on a fool’s errand to keep me occupied. To keep me from doing real detection work. From continuing to track Lily White at The Cytherea—”
“You agreed to this plan, and you’ll stick with it.”
Riled by his dictatorial tone, she said, “I can back out at any time. There’s nothing binding me to our agreement.”
His head snapped up. “What did you say?”
The ominous glitter in his eyes made her recognize her mistake immediately. “I mean, I agreed to let you court me, but nothing is written in stone ... remember?”
The last word emerged with a breathy edge as he rounded the desk toward her. She held her ground, even as he towered over her, more than six feet of lean, bridling male.
“Oh, I remember. And I’m realizing that I’ve been too lax with you.”
The silky menace in his voice spread tingling awareness over her skin. Beneath his civilized exterior, the savage God had awakened, preparing to do battle. And heaven help her, every part of her responded. Beneath the pale yellow muslin of her bodice, her nipples budded, her core blooming with humid heat.
“You don’t own me,” she said. “You can’t tell me what to do.”
“That you believe that proves that I’ve chosen the wrong tactic with you. By negotiating with you, I’ve led you to think that you can manage me. That you can tame me like a lapdog and run roughshod over me.”
The idea of this virile, dangerous male as a lapdog was ludicrous. “I don’t think that.”
“I’ve agreed to let you investigate. I’ve agreed to court you. I’ve indulged you to make you happy,” he went on with deadly calm. “In return, you pester me about matters that don’t concern you, question my motives, and won’t even wear a bloody necklace.”
She knew him well enough now to recognize the stillness of the predator the moment before the strike. Yet she couldn’t resist saying, “Pester you? I’m trying to communicate with you—that’s what people do when they’re courting. How will we know if we’re suited if we can’t carry on a normal conversation?”
“You want us to communicate?”
She gave an emphatic nod.
“Bend over my desk.”
“Pardon?”
“I believe I was quite clear.” His eyes gleamed with challenge. “Face my desk and place your hands there. Do not move them unless I give you leave to do so.”
His sensual authority released a shivering excitement. With blinding honesty, she recognized that she’d been longing for this since their last encounter. Alone in her bed, she’d fantasized about him—about the two of them, bound by nothing but each other and the wicked passion that burned between them. He’d told her that her submission didn’t make her weak, and the knowledge of that paradox fanned the flames of her curiosity.
With him, she was discovering that passion was a form of communication. With every intimate game they played, they opened up to one another a bit more. Trust was a two-way street. To gain his confidence, perhaps she would first have to demonstrate her own faith in their developing relationship.
On a shaky breath, she turned. Placed her bare palms flat on the hard surface.
“Good girl.” He removed her fichu, the scrap of lace-edged lawn landing carelessly on the desk. His breath gusted warmly against her bare nape. “Was that so difficult?”
“You try having someone order you about—”
The rest of the sentence died in her throat as he nipped the tender ridge between her shoulder and neck. Her head arched back at the scrape of his teeth, the scorching suction as he licked the small hurt with sinuous laps that made her fingers curl against the wood. From behind, his erection pressed into her, his arousal unmistakable despite the layers between them. His hands slid up her bodice, cupping and squeezing her aching breasts. When she moaned, he again suckled her neck with delicious force.
“You’re so responsive, sweeting,” he murmured. “Tell me, are you wet for me?”
Her cheeks flamed.
“Still shy, I see. There’s no room for modesty between us. Can you feel how hard you make me,”—he ground against her—“how big my cock is, how it throbs for you?”
Her eyelids grew heavy. Oh, she could feel him. She could.
He swept his arm across the desk, sending objects crashing pell-mell to the ground. “Lean down all the way.” With his hand at the small of her back, he pushed her upper torso flush against the desk. “Stay just like that,” he said.
With her palms and cheek supported by the cool wood, Emma felt a luxurious calm wash over her. That decadent stillness anchored her as he raised her skirts, layers of silk and linen skimming against her stockinged legs, her bare thighs. The material swished softly over her waist, and she shivered at the kiss of the cool air against her exposed backside.
“Christ, you’re lovely.” His reverent growl curled her insides with pleasure. “Spread your legs farther apart. Show yourself to me, pet.”
Shamefully stimulated, she widened her stance, feeling his rapacious gaze on her, on her wet, quivering sex. Heartbeats passed. His silence, his control stretched her nerves like a clothesline. She squirmed against the desk in helpless anticipation, his steely discipline maddening her, making her arousal unbearable. Why didn’t he touch her?
The realization came as a stroke of lightning. This was a battle, a contest of wills. And the way to victory was … surrender.
“Please.” The word left her in a whisper.
“Please what?”
“Touch me,” she begged.
He smoothed his palms over her buttocks, running them along her thighs, and she purred.
“My kitten likes to be petted.” His words were husky with approval. “Tip your pretty bottom up for me higher.”
Eagerly, she did so, gasping when his fingers slid through her intimate folds.
“Ach, Emma, you’re drenched. Coating my fingers with your sweet honey.”
His guttural tone, the emergence of his lilt, betrayed the fraying edge of his control, and that thrilled her. Wantonly, she circled her hips against his touch. “It feels so good when you touch me.”
“I love petting your soft, wet pussy. Stroking your pearl.”
Her eyes squeezed shut as he followed through on his lusty litany, finding that spot of exquisite pleasure, rubbing and circling, winding the coil in her belly ever tighter. The muscles of her pussy fluttered, clutching on emptiness.
“Do you want more, Emma?”
“Yes,” she breathed. “Give me more.”
His swift incursion, thick and deep, made her moan. “Push your tight little cunny against me,” he instructed. “Fuck yourself on my fingers.”
The rawness of his command inflamed her. Panting, she rocked her pelvis back, impaling herself on his long, thick fingers. His dark praise spurred her wanton ride. Your pussy is so greedy. So hungry. Take me even deeper ... Desperately, she obeyed, the tension inside her building with each filling thrust, each slap of his palm against her mound. The glittering precipice neared, surges of pleasure propelling her closer and closer.
She gritted her teeth, res
isted going over the edge.
His body curved over hers, his breath heating her ear as his fingers drove deep. “What do you want, love? Tell me. Whatever you need, I’ll give it to you.”
“With you, Alaric,” she gasped. “I want to go over with you.”
In the next instant, she was spun around. He sat her up, her bottom landing on the edge of the desk. She glimpsed the desperate hunger in his gaze the moment before his mouth sealed over hers. His tongue stabbed inside, and she responded with eager abandon, sucking on what he offered, drawing him in deeper.
He took her hand, and her breath stuttered when her fingers wrapped around his hot, pulsing cock. She could barely encircle the thick girth of his shaft, the silky skin a riveting contrast to the iron core.
“Touch me, Emma.” His eyes were hooded and hot. “Like this.”
His hand covered hers, tightening her fist, plunging it from the tip of his member to the root and back again. Aroused beyond anything, she took up the rhythm with reckless delight, tugging on his engorged stalk, rubbing her thumb over the seeping head, desperate to share the wild pleasure with him.
“Christ, sweeting, your hands were made to frig me,” he rasped.
“I like frigging you,” she whispered back. “Like sharing this, together ...”
He devoured the rest of her words at the same time that his fingers delved between her thighs, titillating her pearl and driving into her sheath. They panted, straining together toward bliss. She reached the pinnacle first, and he swallowed her cries before shuddering with his own fulfillment, his release lashing hotly over her thighs.
His arms closed around her, and she sagged against him like a rag doll. The sound of their tattered breaths filled the silence. She floated, buoyed by a delicious contentment.
“Don’t deny me, Emma. Don’t push me away.”
Surprise percolated through her languor. Lifting her head from his chest, she saw the stark set of his beautiful face. “I’m not pushing you away.”
“You question my motives. Won’t accept a simple gift. You want to back out of our agreement.”
Despite the mechanical delivery of his words, she glimpsed raw agitation in his eyes. That hint of vulnerability was utterly at odds with the self-assured duke, and it made him ... human. He’d said that he didn’t want love, called it a complication—but was it possible that he secretly desired her affection? When he looked at her the way he was doing so now, she felt as if he did need her. And that feeling made it difficult to deny him anything.
“I’m not reneging on our bargain. But I do want us to be honest with one another. Trust one another,” she said earnestly.
“I want you, Emma. I’m not letting you go.”
“I want you, too, Alaric.” She cast a pointed look at the desk. “Obviously.”
His expression relaxed a fraction. “Good. Then you’ll marry me.”
“You can’t rush this.” When he stiffened, she cupped his hard jaw and looked in his eyes. “We’ll get there if you give us time.”
“I am there. You’re the one who needs to make up her mind.”
Taking a breath, she said, “I’d get there faster if you told me why you don’t want anyone to know that you’re the secret benefactor of Kent and Associates.”
“Devil take it, you’re as obstinate as a mule.”
She risked a small smile.
His chest heaved. “I’m no benefactor. I owe my brother, and I’m merely making amends.”
“Because you married his intended, you mean?”
He stared at her. “You know about that?”
“Annabel mentioned it awhile back,” she admitted. “She blamed Lady Laura for making trouble between you and Mr. McLeod.”
“My sister-in-law is too generous. I made the choice to betray my brother. Fate paid me back by giving me the marriage I deserved, but it’s not enough—not for what I did.” Self-recrimination weighted his words even as he shrugged. “All I have to offer is money. I funneled the funds through the Hilliards because I know my brother’s pride. I didn’t want William to feel obligated to me when it is I who can never right the wrong I did to him.”
Alaric’s guilt, the depth of his remorse, squeezed her heart.
“You have much more to give than money,” she said softly. “And family forgives.”
“Your family, perhaps.” His bleak expression reminded her that he’d been parted from his true kin at an early age. “There’s too much bad blood between William and me. More than just Laura. And before you ask—yes, I’ll tell you about it. Not today, however.”
He’d exposed more to her today than he ever had. Something had changed, deepened between them. Hope bloomed in her for their future.
“Thank you for sharing this with me. I won’t tell anyone,” she promised.
“You don’t despise me, Emma, for betraying my own brother?”
Suddenly, she understood. “Is that why you wouldn’t answer me when I questioned you about the Hilliards earlier? Because you thought I’d despise you?”
At his curt nod, her chest constricted. Did he believe her regard of him so conditional? Then again, she hadn’t exactly been steadfast in their relationship. She cringed, thinking of how she’d first misjudged him, how noncommittal she’d been since.
“I don’t hate you. I couldn’t. I ... I care for you, Alaric.”
Dear lord, it was more than that. Was she ... falling in love with Alaric? He, who’d told her he didn’t want or need her love?
“Then wear my necklace.” His knuckles grazed her cheek, his eyes silvery and intense. “’Tis my gift to you, a token so that you might think of me when we’re not together.”
How could she refuse such a request?
“And you say I’m stubborn,” she muttered.
“It takes one to know one, pet.”
She debated for a moment—and hit upon the perfect compromise.
Meeting his gaze, she smiled. “I’ll wear the necklace ... if you’ll do me a favor in return.”
Chapter 22
“I cannot believe I agreed to this,” Alaric said.
Emma beamed at him. “’Twas a fair bargain, Your Grace.”
She looked as smug as if she’d haggled with the butcher and secured a prime cut at a steal of a price. Certainly, she seemed to have no qualms whatsoever about being in a third-rate, ramshackle theatre several blocks from Drury Lane. “Actresses” were milling about, and their skimpy robes and painted faces suggested that The Cytherea’s main source of income was not the ribald plays it put on, but the entertainment it offered to male patrons afterward in the “visiting” chambers.
As usual, Emma was too focused upon her goal to take any notice of the impropriety of her being in such a place. What would she do without me to protect her from herself? Alaric wondered wryly. He’d taken the precaution of posting guards around the theatre and greased the palm of the manager to let him and Emma backstage.
“Who should we approach first?” she said.
His lips twitched. Truly, she looked like a child in a confectionary, her eyes wide and shining as she considered all the options.
“You’re the one who wanted to come here and investigate. I thought you had a plan,” he said.
“Of course I do.” She pulled her shoulders back. “Just, um, follow my lead.”
Because he found her determination to help him so damned adorable—and coming in her sweet palms had put him in an indulgent mood—he complied. In her primrose walking dress, she was a blast of sunshine in the windowless space. She meandered between the rickety vanities that served as primping stations for the cast. She stopped at one and, clearing her throat, tapped the shoulder of a ginger-haired actress who sat powdering her face before a cracked looking glass.
The tart eyed Emma in the reflection. “Gor, ’oo are you?”
“My name is Emma Kent,” she began. “I’m looking for an actress who used to work here by the name of Lily White.”
“I don’t know n
othin’—which is what I told that other investigator who showed up askin’ questions about Lily earlier this week.” The woman turned her attention back to the powdering.
“But it’s vital that you speak with us. You see, Lily may be involved in a crime and—”
“She could be involved wif the King o’ England for all I care. I don’t poke my nose where it don’t belong. Now I got a show to ready myself for.”
Alaric stepped forward. “Excuse me, Miss ...?”
The actress turned in her seat to face him. Her sooted eyelashes fanned, and she readjusted the neckline of her robe, showing more of her twin assets.
“Well, ’ello, luvie,” she purred. “Didn’t see you there. The name’s Miss Bloom, but you can call me Daisy.”
Out of the corner of his eye, Alaric saw Emma frown.
“Miss Bloom,” he said, “finding Miss White is a matter of some urgency. Anything you recall would be helpful, and I will be happy to compensate you for your time.”
“What kind o’ compensation do you ’ave in mind, ’andsome?” she cooed.
“He means with money.” Emma’s hands fisted on her hips.
Alaric hid a smile. It was nice to know his kitten felt as possessive over him as he did over her. For an instant, the memory of Laura’s crazed jealousy raised its malignant head—and he pushed it aside.
This was different. Emma was different.
She had every right to defend what was hers; if the situation were reversed, he wouldn’t countenance any man propositioning her.
He removed a small purse from his pocket and saw Daisy’s ears perk as the coins within jingled. As she reached for the bag, he kept it just out of reach.
“For your assistance,” he said.
“I like a man who drives a ’ard bargain.” Winking, she said, “Onto business, then. Lily worked ’ere for about six months before she upped and left well o’er a month ago.”
“Do you know where she went?” Emma said.
“We weren’t bosom friends. In competition, weren’t we, for the best, ahem, patrons.” Daisy sent him an arch look. “Lily couldn’t act worth a farthing, but she ’ad the kind o’ talent coves admired, if you know what I mean.”