Duke of Treason

by Lisa Torquay

  Mindlessly, as they continued kissing, she peeled neckcloth, waist coat finally to find his hot skin under the gaped shirt. The marble-like ridge of him pressed her middle over her skirts and she could not wait to take it in her.

  He unbuttoned, unhooked, unlaced, unwrapped her until her skin met him still dressed. His bristle scratched her deliciously on her long neck, delicate shoulder and breast, his trousers and shirt abraded her length, sensations mixing and heightening.

  His torso lifting, he went on to finish undressing and she followed him kissing him, nibbling him, caressing him as the fabric gave way to his muscled frame.

  And then they fell back on the mattress, arms and legs entangled, one more starved than the other, seeking, caressing, suckling, arching, grazing everywhere at the same time. When his bristled square jaw found her centre, she was so far gone that she sobbed his name at once.

  She pulled him to her, their eyes meshed in the hearth’s sultry light. He filled her with his rock-hard erection, extracting from her a moan of longing and delectation. They feasted on one another, moving deeper, madder, in torrid sighs and grunts. They gave, they received, they took each other to the brink of agony towards paradise.

  Still meshed in each other’s stare, they held it no longer, both surrendered to the wrenching conflagration and rode it with abandoned carnality. He fell on her, as their languorous bodies found repose at last.

  The small hours saw them in a jumble of bed covers, pillows and satiety. In a slumber after their intense encounter, they entwined together, holding one another, surrounded by warmth.

  Romulus watched Annabel sleep, wild ringlets lining her pillow. The passionate woman was a study in angelical serenity in her sleep.

  The previous evening, they had made a gigantic effort to contain themselves while the butler took their hats and coats. She sent him to his rest, the house going finally quiet. In the dark hallway, they gave up the pretence and had grabbled each other in an anarchy of voraciousness that had nearly not made it to her chamber. But when they did… He scarcely believed in the unsurmountable strength of the ardour that overtook them. Their lovemaking so consuming he did not recognise his usually composed self. Still did not.

  What mostly baffled Romulus, though, was the depths involved in it. On his part, at least. He had never seen this happen in his life. It had to be daunting. He did not wish to be scared, but he should not deny being intrigued by the way she drove him to the hell fires. In and out of bed.

  She stirred with lassitude, her back against his chest. “What time is it?” She whispered sleepy.

  “I have no idea.” He answered, as his lips caressed the rim of her shapely ear, lazily.

  “Hm.” She moaned and turned to him.

  The low fire on the hearth played with her midnight hair, in bluish streaks. She placed a butterfly kiss on his shoulder as his fingers dived in the dark mass of her ringlets.

  Their eyes clasped together, a wealth of undercurrents transiting between them. They got lost there for a long time. Seemingly demure, she broke the contact going to the parts of him that did not lie under the coverlet. Her fingers followed, they reached his biceps, a small scar there.

  “Is this from war?” She asked, her hand on him.

  Reluctantly, he snatched his gaze from her to see to what she referred. “This? No.” He caressed the indentation of her spine unhurried. “A little accident when I was running around with my brothers as a boy.”

  “Didier is so congenial, by the way.” She played with the hair that peppered his forearm, a tiny peaceful smile on her kiss-swollen lips.

  No smile when he looked at her with so much focus. He did not think he would be able to top staring. “He has always been.” The rasp merely audible. “He has inherited the most of my mother’s Gallicism.”

  “It shows.” She placed a kiss on the top of his chest and it had the usual effect. “I wish I had met her.” She lifted her head to him.

  He nodded. “She would have liked you on the spot.” And wiped a strand of hair from her face.

  “And I would have reciprocated it, I am sure.” She strolled lower on his chest.

  Her hand joined in. “Annabel?”

  “Yes.” She murmured on his skin.

  “What are you doing?” His fingers lowered along her spine.

  “I thought it was obvious.” She did not stop.

  “You cannot continue this unpunished.” He moaned when she found his nipple.

  “I was counting on it.” She smiled on his warmth.

  He pulled her to him and they took all the time in the world.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  The stairs to Lord Wingfield’s office were deserted when Annabel climbed them a couple of mornings later. She wondered what kind of mission would be in store for her, since they summoned her here with haste. She came by hackney, as the busy streets would make it difficult to have her carriage wait.

  These last days had been a shocking whirlwind. Romulus and she could not seem to disentangle from each other. They met at his house, or at hers, in the dead of the night, to spend it with excruciating urgency and greed. She started being a tad worried with this overwhelming need she displayed towards him. It was a precipice of difference compared to her debutante’s time. She had been naïve then. Now? It burned her whole body, mind and soul so completely, she was at a loss what to think. And she did not want to. She wanted to feel, to explore this, to lose herself in it, even if they had no future. They could not have. He was a Duke and had possibly to marry a pedigreed debutante to continue the line. Not a Viscount’s daughter who was a widow on top of it. This being another thing she did not want to cogitate about this moment.

  The end of the flight saved her from further musings. At the office door, she knocked before her superior admitted her in there.

  In the essentially masculine room, two men stood talking as they were old friends. Lord Wingfield acted like a proud parrot, preening beside the blasted Duke. What the darn was he doing here? No matter, her entire being reacted to the man as if it would implode, though they parted mere hours ago. Inevitable flushing surfaced on her cheeks as she tried her best to keep her composure.

  “Lady Winchester.” Lord Wingfield bowed over her hand. “I am sure you have heard of the Duke of Blackthorne.” He introduced.

  Heard? His deep caressing voice, yes. And seen his magnificent figure. And touched his muscled body. And taken him in her…. Dear me!

  She curtsied to the man, his murky depths pinning her where she planted her feet to steady herself. “Your Grace.”

  “My lady.” Came his bone-melting greeting, as he bowed, his eyes never leaving her.

  “Lord Blackthorne has come to me with an unexpected request.” He smiled at the top of his vanity.

  “Indeed, my lord.” She replied pleasantly as suspicion took over her. The man did not miss a trick.

  Naturally, she told him for whom she worked, but she had no doubt he would discover the information if he put his mind to it.

  “His Grace requires your services to be transferred to his operations.” The older man adjusted his suit coat as if this was the height of his career.

  What the blast did he plan? She wondered, none too trustful. Done without even consulting her. Vexation originated in her insides. “I am happy working for you, my lord.” She cast him a murderous stare. How dare he?

  Blasted Romulus stared back, the picture of amenity, hands behind his back, impeccable attire, hair in a queue.

  “And you will be even happier working for the Duke.” He said oblivious to the charge in the room.

  She would be happier strangling his neck, more like it.

  A composed smile managed to surface on her pursed lips. “I would like to know why I have not been consulted on this.”

  Needless to say, the ‘request’ of a Duke meant order, in reality.

  “The Duke claimed a kind of hurry in this, my dear.” He smiled paternally.

  What the insufferable Duke wan
ted was to take her out of her job and manipulate her to his own ends. She formed no illusions on this.

  “Lord Wingfield told me of your outstanding accomplishments.” The Duke himself uttered in that tone she would never be able to resist. Said accomplishments he witnessed himself.

  “And he said it will be perfect to what he has in mind.”

  She knew perfectly well what he had in mind.

  Ogling him combatant, she received a pleasant side-smile.

  “So you work for him now.” The older man inserted.

  The deuce she did!

  “It will be an honour, Your Grace.” She tilted her head graciously to hide the volcano exploding inside her.

  * * *

  He was in for a titanic war of wills for sure, Romulus mused as he led her to his carriage. And it started pretty soon.

  “What do you think you are doing?” She asked after they sat inside, annoyance all over her.

  “It is rather clear, is it not?” He devolved keeping a casual stance. “I am bringing a new talent to my team.”

  “I do not believe this nonsense for a single second!”

  Smart as she was, she would not, of course. He did not want her risking her life just to be a pawn for those smug lords in the office. She must conceive herself as worth more than this.

  “You are in your right, evidently.” He shrugged, inwardly planning his strategy to go through this.

  “I refuse to work for you.” Her high chin spoke of determination.

  “The contract you signed with them obliges you to three months’ notice.”

  “Not if I change organizations.” She insisted.

  “It does not specify this which means I can claim it.” Altercations with her proved to be… stimulating.

  “You are delusional if you think I will abide by that.” Expression closed, she did not give any sign of acquiescing.

  “Breaking the contract has consequences.” What did it say about him that he wanted her even when she confronted him like that?

  “Which are…?” Her beautiful lips curled, her delectable body demurely clad, her neck showing with her high chin. The woman was a goddess.

  “A considerable sum of money.” He informed matter-of-factly.

  “I will pay.”

  “You cannot afford it.”

  “I will sign promissory notes.”

  “I do not accept it.”

  Her fury escalated with vivid crimson infusing her perfect skin. She took in a deep breath and remained silent for several minutes, trying to calm down, he supposed.

  At last, she turned her liquid eyes to him anew. “Where will I be working?”

  “Blackthorne Castle.” At that, her gaze squinted, so distrustful he wondered if she disliked the place.

  “What position?” She came again.

  “Duchess.” Then he crossed his arms and waited.

  Though the carriage jostled on, she froze. Still, he waited. Her expression motionless. He inhaled. Her spine ramrod-straight, her hands fisted tight. His chest constricted.

  Reaction did not delay.

  Her eyes bulged sulphurous. “You must be out of your mind!” She hissed hotly.

  “Probably.” He himself did not know exactly what he was up to here. His first plan had been to take her out of danger. He did not conjecture anything beyond that.

  “Stop the carriage!” She commanded haughty.

  “No.” He countered, beginning to lose his cool.

  “Stop it, I said!” She put her hand on the handle, he covered it with his.

  “And I said no.” His temper rising to meet hers.

  “You mean to force me into this?” Her glare burned him.

  “First, I am going to take you home, put out your fire the best way I know, and then we are going to talk this through rationally.”

  The flush on her face resembled entirely like arousal. “This machination is not rational at all.”

  Who could disagree?

  The carriage stanched. Arms crossed, she planted her feet firmly on the wooden floor of it. “I am heading to my home.”

  When she looked at him, he saw her eyes dilated and she breathed in short puffs. One fact she had no way of denying, their out-of-control desire.

  “Yes, you are. But not now.” He climbed down and extended his hand to her. “With your feet or with mine?” Would she walk or would he carry her?

  Infuriated, she charred him with her stare. “Go to the devil!” She diverted her gaze from him, seemingly dismissive.

  “Mine, then.”

  Carefully taking her, he threw her over his shoulder and walked to the door steps. The carriage entered the side of the house, where it found an appropriate drive. No one would see them.

  “Put me down, you uncivilized wretch!” She hissed.

  In his chambers, he granted her wish. Both breathed raggedly and they ate each other with their stares.

  “You want to leave?” He jerked his square jaw to the door. “Leave.” He said, giving her a choice.

  One second. Two seconds. Three seconds. She grabbed him like a vice and brought his mouth down on hers and they were kissing each other savagely.

  His arm locked around her waist and plastered her to the wall, while the other bunched her skirts. On cue, her legs came around his hips.

  Jagged breaths, they continued ravening their mouths. Tugging her bodice and uncovering her breast, he palmed it.

  She must break the kiss in need of air, her head falling back with a sound that sent him to the blazes of hell. He took the opportunity to savour that mound fully.

  “Annabel,” He rumbled. “I cannot hold it any longer.” He returned to teasing her breast. She was the only one who drove him to extremes of maddened desire in a matter of milliseconds.

  “What are you waiting for?” She moaned, fingers entangled in his hair.

  His stare on her, he undid his breeches in rushed movements. And dived in her through the slit in her drawers, taking both to a delirium of want, pleasure and starvation.

  He was past any clear thought. His world consisted of this woman and what she did to him, seeping under his skin, deranging his soul, transforming him in an unrecognisable mess. He did not care. She was his. Only his. And he…he could be no one else’s. Not since she crashed into his life, past and present.

  Pounding hard and fast, he extracted desperate sounds from both of them. His finger found her engorged button under her skirts, his mouth her neck, but he got lost. Lost in a blur of blinding scald, as he sought the ultimate heaven.

  Not going to make it, the notion sprouted in the middle of his haze. He laboured through, nevertheless, only to hear her scream unconstrained, as her body clasped him mercilessly. And then he had no chance. He exploded with a wild grunt, as he moved so deep he did not know where any of them began or ended.

  He carried her to his bed, they fell in a tangle of limbs, clothes half undone and repletion.

  Shameless broad daylight seeped through the drapes on their semi clothed bodies.

  They clung to each other as their breaths became minimally normalised. Her hair in complete disarray, she lay on her back while he lay on his side by her, grazing the rim of her ear distractedly. Replenished and lax, she revelled in his tenderness.

  How on earth he inflamed her with such meteoric speed she would not find out. One moment, they were in a heated discussion, on the other they tangled like they would never let go.

  “You do not like Castle Blackthorne.” One of his arms over his head, he toyed with her midnight ringlets.

  Her head flew to him, his greener gaze funnelled on her. She did not believe she had ever given him this impression. “Where did you hear such a nonsense?” Caresses on his hand at her waist, she did not avoid the truth. “I fear I like it overly much. Especially the library.”

  Something unfurled in him, because his breath came easier and his expression became less brooding. “Good, because we are travelling there tomorrow.”

  A swift mov
ement to sit up, his arm on her waist prevented her and he moved one leg in between hers to pin her there.

  The despot!

  “Shh.” He said, his mouth on the side of hers. “You are under my command now.” His shaved face grazed hers, his hand stroking her neck.

  It weakened her, making her lay back. “As if there was anyone above your outrageous commands!” She said, insouciant.

  Between nibbles on her ear, he chuckled, the sound vibrating insidiously in her ear, transforming her in a pliable pudding. “You, the insubordinate hellion.”

  The bemusement he would say this even in jest lasted almost nothing, as he started distracting her to a point where thoughts had no place.

  * * *

  Two days later, they sat in their inn’s rooms having breakfast before starting the last leg of the journey. She had a hard time organising her trip and closing her house, since she did not know when she would come back.

  A tea cup in her hand, she tried with strain not to stare at Romulus across from her, with a paper. The memory of this trip branded in her head with conversations during the day and extreme passion in the night. They talked about their childhood, their friends, family, routines, points of view on just about any subject. Everything under the sun though the weather continued fresh.

  As she disclosed him, she did not have the luxury of escaping the crag-like feelings that rooted in her. Too profound to fathom. Too complex to name. Too compelling to resist.

  Without even noticing her head went up to find him staring. Lightning coursed through her body and heart. This man had to be the most dangerous for her.

  Dressed in dark breeches, shirt, neckcloth and coat, he was the most magnificent man in humanity.

  His expression dead serious. Not that he smiled much, but when he did, she melted on the spot. “I put up the bans.”

  Vexation, eagerness and a feeling too kin to enthusiasm funnelled in her. “First, you have not asked me to marry you.” She put her cup down with a crack.

  “Before I left London.” He continued as if she had not spoken.

  “Second, I am a widow.” She went on as if he had not spoken.