by Lydia Dare
Contents
A Certain Wolfish Charm
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
Seven
Eight
Nine
Ten
Eleven
Twelve
Thirteen
Fourteen
Fifteen
Sixteen
Seventeen
Eighteen
Nineteen
Twenty
Twenty-One
Twenty-Two
Twenty-Three
Twenty-Four
Twenty-Five
Twenty-Six
Twenty-Seven
Twenty-Eight
Twenty-Nine
Thirty
Thirty-One
Thirty-Two
Thirty-Three
Thirty-Four
Thirty-Five
Thirty-Six
Thirty-Seven
Thirty-Eight
Thirty-Nine
Forty
Forty-One
Forty-Two
Forty-Three
Forty-Four
Forty-Five
Forty-Six
Epilogue
Tall, Dark and Wolfish
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
Seven
Eight
Nine
Ten
Eleven
Twelve
Thirteen
Fourteen
Fifteen
Sixteen
Seventeen
Eighteen
Nineteen
Twenty
Twenty-one
Twenty-two
Twenty-three
Twenty-four
Twenty-five
Twenty-six
Twenty-seven
Twenty-eight
Twenty-nine
Thirty
Thirty-one
Thirty-two
Thirty-three
Thirty-four
Thirty-five
Thirty-six
Thirty-seven
Thirty-eight
Thirty-nine
Forty
Forty-one
Forty-two
Forty-three
Forty-four
Forty-five
Forty-six
Forty-seven
Forty-eight
Forty-nine
Epilogue
The Wolf Next Door
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
Seven
Eight
Nine
Ten
Eleven
Twelve
Thirteen
Fourteen
Fifteen
Sixteen
Seventeen
Eighteen
Nineteen
Twenty
Twenty-One
Twenty-Two
Twenty-Three
Twenty-Four
Twenty-Five
Twenty-Six
Twenty-Seven
Twenty-Eight
Twenty-Nine
Thirty
Thirty-One
Thirty-Two
Thirty-Three
Thirty-Four
Thirty-Five
Thirty-Six
Thirty-Seven
Thirty-Eight
Epilogue
Preview of The Taming of the Wolf
About the Author
Copyright © 2010 by Lydia Dare
Cover and internal design © 2010 by Sourcebooks, Inc.
Cover design by April Martinez
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The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious or are used fictitiously. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.
Published by Sourcebooks Casablanca, an imprint of
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WC 10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
To Brandt—You are the love of my life. Thank you for believing in me.
To Thomas, JT, and Stephen—Don’t interrupt me when I’m ignoring you! Seriously… you are my everything.
One
Maberley Hall, Essex
August 1816
LILY RUTLEDGE HAD NEVER CONTEMPLATED MURDER before, though she was warming to the idea. The most recent column in the Mayfair Society Paper taunted her at the breakfast table. The Duke of Blackmoor seemed to have plenty of time to gamble away his funds in one hell or another, race his phaeton along the old Bath road for sport, and spend every other waking hour enjoying the entertainments of one Mrs. Teresa Hamilton or visiting fashionable bawdy houses throughout Town. Not that Lily was terribly surprised. They were the same sorts of things he’d done for years, though she hadn’t cared until now.
“Aunt Lily,” called her twelve-year-old nephew, Oliver York, the Earl of Maberley, from a few seats away. “Your face is turning purple again.”
Purple indeed. Lily sighed, looking at the boy. What was she to do with him? Especially when she couldn’t get Blackmoor to even respond to one of her letters. Of course, he sent funds every time she wrote him, though that was not what she asked for. Infuriating man! Did he even read her letters?
The Maberley estate was not terribly far from London. Visiting Oliver would only interrupt his debauched lifestyle for a day or two at the most. Was that truly too much to ask of her nephew’s guardian? After all, he hadn’t seen the boy in years.
“Finish your breakfast, Oliver,” she directed, glancing again at the maddening society rag. There must be some way to get His Grace’s attention. Perhaps if she picked up and went to London—
“I’m through,” the young earl responded. “May I be excused?”
Through? Food had been piled high in front of him just moments ago. Lily’s eyes flashed to Oliver’s plate, only to find it completely empty, as was the sideboard behind him. Not a crumb was left uneaten. Where had he gotten this appetite? It wasn’t natural. And how could he possibly have devoured all the food in the room so quickly and quietly? It was another one of the unexplained transformations she’d noticed in her nephew over the last month. “Yes, of course. You would do well to go over your Latin before Mr. Craven arrives.”
Oliver scowled as he pushed away from the table. “I’d rather not.”
He never wanted to go over his Latin, which was a problem. According to Mr. Craven, his tutor, Oliver was far behind in that particular subject. When he began his first term at Harrow in October, he’d need to do better. That was assuming Lily sent him off to school, and, at the moment, she didn’t know if she could do so. It was one of the many things she needed to discuss with that scoundrel Blackmoor.
Lily shook her head. “Mr. Craven says you need to practice, Oliver. Please do so.”
The young earl stomped from the room in a manner she was getting unfortunately accustomed
to. Just a month ago, Oliver had had the sweetest disposition. Now she barely recognized him. His shoulders were suddenly broad enough to fill a doorway, and he almost had to duck to cross the threshold as he left the breakfast room. Gone was the little boy in short pants. The young earl’s valet had replaced Oliver’s clothing twice in as many months and had sent more than one pair of trousers to the seamstress to have the seams reinforced.
To make it even worse, Oliver had developed a terrible temper, with the smallest annoyances setting him off. He seemed to rumble more than talk, his singsong voice replaced by a gravely growl. Entry into adulthood was hard, but Lily had never expected it to come on so suddenly and with such force.
Perhaps things would be different if Oliver’s parents were still alive. Perhaps things would be different if Blackmoor showed even the slightest interest in the lad. Perhaps if she’d ever raised an adolescent boy before, she’d know if Oliver’s changes were normal—though she couldn’t imagine they were. Lily knew in her heart that something was drastically wrong with her nephew, and she was at a complete loss for what to do.
Blast Blackmoor for ignoring her letters!
An idea occurred to her. If he couldn’t be troubled to visit Oliver, she’d simply have to pay him a visit instead. His Grace would have an impossible time ignoring her in person. She was hard to miss.
Lily picked up the society rag, rereading it. Everything was there. Everything she needed to know. Where he spent his time and with whom. The Duke of Blackmoor would regret shirking his duties, if making him do so was the last thing she ever did.
The only thing Simon Westfield, the Duke of Blackmoor, regretted was purchasing the services of one whore instead of two. Two would have been a great deal more fun and would have helped ease some of the restlessness that seemed to be his constant companion of late. He could count on the disquiet seeping into the dark recesses of his mind the same way he’d learned to expect the fullness of the moon with each lunar cycle. It just happened. It wasn’t something he thought about. He simply began to feel an anxious flutter, a want.
To ease the discomfort and restlessness, the duke began his infamous prowl. He’d spent so much time and money perfecting his routine that he’d even been written about in the society pages. He supposed he should feel some shame at being reviewed so harshly. One paper even said that he’d lost more than he had to spend, but that was rubbish. He had a lot more to lose. A lot more to enjoy. He usually won at the gaming tables, even when he had a wench settled upon his knee waiting for him, like now.
He reached around the plump brunette, seated solidly on his groin, to tap the table, asking for another card. The doxy squirmed in his lap, giggling as he lifted her bottom to put more of her weight on his thigh. “Sit still,” he mumbled at her. She squirmed again, becoming more impatient. He sighed and laid his cards on the table, as he lost the hand. “You don’t listen very well, do you?” he drawled slowly.
“I follow directions very well, Your Grace,” she snickered as she boldly whispered a suggestion in his ear. He dipped his head and kissed the swell of her bosom. She arched toward his mouth, reflexively. If he remembered correctly, this particular woman could arch various parts of her body, because he’d enjoyed her flexibility in the past.
With his cards on the table, he was able to put his hands on her hips and turn her toward him. Her breasts pushed at the top of her bodice, so much skin displayed that she threatened to topple out at any minute.
It wasn’t enough. He was past the point where he could take solace in the body of a willing woman. Sadly, the thought of holding those fleshy orbs didn’t titillate him. She wasn’t going to ease any of the restlessness in him. He knew it. He knew that nothing would satisfy him at this point, nothing that wouldn’t scare the wench off. They even scared him, the things he wanted to do when he got to this point.
He forced the beast within him to subside. Reaching into his jacket, he withdrew a guinea and tucked it between her breasts. The tiny jostle caused the creamy flesh to tremble, and the edge of a dark areola peeked over the top of her bodice. The beast reared its ugly head.
What he felt wasn’t an attractive desire. It was an overwhelming need to copulate. To force submission. To cover a body with his and own it. It was more than he could control. He stood up and placed her solidly on her feet. She put her hands on her hips and stomped a slippered foot.
He laughed and flicked her nose gently with the tip of his finger. “Don’t pout, love. I’ll be back in a week.” It would take a week before he would feel safe enough to be in polite company. Or impolite company, as the case may be.
Simon strolled out of the hell and walked toward the street where his ducal coach waited. His crest, a lone wolf—gold emblazoned against blue—mocked him. He ignored it. His coachman opened the carriage door, and Simon slipped inside, the springs groaning under his weight. He sank heavily into the seat and reached up to loosen his cravat. He hadn’t been careful enough. He’d almost gone too far and taken that wench above stairs, even though he knew how close he was to losing control. That could have been disastrous.
This time, he couldn’t go to his townhouse. It was time to head for Westfield Hall in Hampshire. He needed a secluded area where he could relax and calm himself. He needed to be locked up for a sennight. But no one was able to do that for him, for his brothers would be suffering the same curse. He would take himself out of harm’s way, as he normally did. Of course, the prison was one of his choosing and lacked the cells of Newgate, which is where he would most assuredly be sent should anyone discover his terrible secret. The isolation of the quiet countryside was what he sought. He would go where he could walk the hills at night under the full moon, safe from the intrusion of others. And they would be safe from him.
He slept a fitful sleep the remaining hours of the night, the rocking of the coach his only comfort. He tried to straighten his clothes as he stepped from the coach onto his own cobblestone path, but he knew he still looked disheveled. It was a completely unrespectable way for a duke to present himself to his household. Thank heaven he wasn’t a stuffy old member of the peerage. And his staff didn’t expect him to be. Of course, they’d also seen him in worse shape.
Not even bothering to tie his cravat or fasten the top buttons of his shirt, he turned toward the front door and drew in a deep breath. It felt good to be home. He was safe again, until nightfall. Thankfully, the desire had dissipated with the darkness. If only the darkness of his soul could be lifted as easily as the sun in the sky.
Simon passed through the doorway with a nod to his butler.
“Welcome home, Your Grace.”
Simon immediately knew something was wrong when he saw the normally unshakeable man wipe his sweaty brow. “Is something amiss, Billings?” he asked.
“You have a visitor.” The butler gestured toward the closest sitting room.
From his spot in the corridor, Simon had a clear view of the room. The last person he’d ever expected to see here was Lily Rutledge. But there she was, sitting on his settee as though she belonged. With the moonful quickly approaching, that wasn’t in her best interest. Simon glared at his butler. Had the man lost his mind? Miss Rutledge could be injured in his presence. “What is she doing here?”
Billings shrugged. “The London staff told her you were here.”
Damn! Fight or retreat? He sighed.
Retreat. He couldn’t see her. There was no telling what the beast would do.
“Ready the coach to take Miss Rutledge home, Billings.” He turned and hastened toward his study.
Simon leaned heavily against the door once he was safely ensconced inside and turned the key. He took deep breaths to try to calm his racing heartbeat. She shouldn’t have come. Not when he wasn’t fully in control. He couldn’t hide from the fullness of the moon. It would take him whether he wanted it or not. Sure, she was reasonably safe during the day, but when the sun sank behind the horizon, the danger would become more and more real.
He
knew Lily Rutledge was a strong woman. She was nearly as tall as the average man, standing well above most females. But he wasn’t an average man. She only reached his shoulder. He bet that he could tuck her under his chin and still have room to look down at her. He imagined himself doing just that, having her close enough to feel her body against his. He groaned and shifted his trousers.
No matter how strong she was, Simon would still hurt her. He slumped down in the seat behind his desk. As long as Lily remained safely on the other side, all was well.
But then he heard her voice.
“I know he’s here, Billings,” he heard her cry from the hallway. Simon flinched when her fist hit the door.
“You will see me, Your Grace,” she called.
What other woman, he wondered, could make “Your Grace” sound so much like an insult?
Two
LILY COULDN’T REMEMBER EVER BEING SO ENRAGED. How dare the blackguard refuse to see her? How dare he hide out in his study? She pounded louder on the door. “I am not leaving until you see me.”
Nothing.
Not a sound came from within. He was in there, wasn’t he? She knew he was. She’d seen him vanish into the room with her very own eyes. Unless he’d climbed out a window, he could hear every word. Despite last month’s mention in the society papers, where he was touted for slipping out Lady T.’s window while the butler helped the inebriated Lord T. to bed, she simply couldn’t imagine him folding his big body in two and going out the window just to get away from her.
Lily crossed her arms over her chest. Really, who could imagine the powerful Duke of Blackmoor would be afraid to see her?
Over the years, ignoring her had apparently been easy for him, but that was when she was in Essex. Out of sight and all that. It took real effort to ignore her when she was pounding on his door. “I am a most stubborn woman,” she warned him. “I’ll wait right here as long as it takes, Your Grace.”
Still nothing.
Lily jiggled the handle. Locked.
She heaved a sigh and leaned her head against the large oak door. She knew he could hear her, and she was at a loss. Perhaps talking to him would be easier without his penetrating grey eyes focused on her. What did she have to lose?
“I’m worried,” she said softly. “Something is not right with Oliver and… Well, I know you don’t care for the boy, but his father made you his guardian. So that means I’m stuck with you.”
The door was suddenly yanked open, and Lily stumbled forward, right into the muscled arms of the Duke of Blackmoor. She sucked in a surprised breath. Men never held her in their arms. Yet his closed around her as he steadied her. She couldn’t really call it holding her, since she’d fallen into him like a great oak tree whose roots had suddenly given way.