Deceiving The Duke (Scandals and Spies Book 2)

by Dobbs, Leighann

  A quick search of the shelves and the desk provided no insight on the leverage Lady Whitewood was using to manipulate Jared. Did she have a secret drawer? Phil dropped down to her hands and knees to inspect the underside of the desk.

  A man cleared his throat.

  Phil bit her tongue as she stifled a yelp. She jerked upright, banging her head on the desk. Wincing, she rubbed her scalp and tried to ignore the sting in her mouth. When she emerged from beneath the desk, she found herself face to face with the last person she wanted to see.

  “Morgan.” His name escaped her lips without permission.

  He was in a state of half-dress, which included a great deal more clothes than when they’d met in the past. Even so, his lack of a cravat and jacket made him all but irresistible. His shirt cuffs were rolled up to his elbow, displaying brawny forearms dusted with dark hair. His shirt was open at the throat. Although his hair was styled neatly, his jaw sported the dark shadow of stubble. He looked dangerous and unrefined.

  His gray eyes pierced her. “What are you doing here?”

  Did he mean under the desk or in the house? Phil scrambled to her feet, her hackles raised. She crossed the distance to him and jabbed him in the chest. She had to resist the urge to smooth the sting by running her palm over his rough linen waistcoat.

  “I am here because it pleases me. What are you doing here?”

  She had to crane her neck back to meet his gaze, but it was worth it to see the arousal flash through his eyes before he hid it behind a mask of hostility.

  If they had been in the house under other circumstances, what might their meeting at such a risqué soiree mean for the evening ahead? But you aren’t. Phil was here to clear her brother of wrongdoing and Morgan had likely followed Phil, hoping to catch her in the act of treason.

  So keep his attention. The longer he kept his eye on Phil, the more time her brother would have to meet with Lady Whitewood unnoticed. Phil, after all, wasn’t committing treason—Jared was, however unwillingly.

  “I am here because I was invited.” His voice was as cold as stone.

  Phil laughed. “So was I.” In an indirect way. Her brother had received the invitation, she’d simply joined him.

  The rattle of a body colliding with a wall made them both jump. A woman moaned. When Morgan glanced to his right, the color left his cheeks. It returned in abundance. He stepped hastily into the study and shut the door behind him, leaving them very much alone.

  Even the door didn’t quite muffle the amorous activities going on down the hall. Morgan crowded her away from the door. He trapped her against the desk with one hand on either side of her body. Did he have an amorous bent in mind?

  Given the steely look in his eye, he didn’t. A pity.

  His cheeks a pale shade of cherry, he muttered, “This isn’t the sort of soiree that well-mannered young women attend.”

  Phil grinned. She leaned her hands behind her on the cool desk to bear her weight, only to brush his bare fingers. The contact scorched her. She didn’t pull away.

  “When did I ever give you the impression that I was a well-mannered woman?”

  A spark flared in his eye. He pressed his lips together as he pulled away. His hand brushed against hers, a slow slide of skin. He took a healthy step back. Cooler air flooded her front, raising gooseflesh on her arms.

  “If someone sees you here…”

  “I will deal with the outcome, not you.” She straightened to her full height. At first, his embarrassment had amused her, but now he treaded too close to telling her what she could and couldn’t do.

  No one told Philomena St. Gobain what not to do—not unless they planned to see her do it in the next five minutes.

  “Thank you for your concern, but I can take care of myself.” She turned her face away from his, toward the door. “Now, I’ll thank you to leave.” She still wanted to check for more secret doors or compartments along the desk or bookshelves.

  “No.”

  Her gaze flew back to his. His pale eyes seethed with challenge.

  She glared at him. “I beg your pardon?”

  He shrugged. “You heard me. I won’t leave. Now how will you ‘look after yourself?’”

  Phil cocked an eyebrow. “I know you wouldn’t harm me.”

  He took a step closer. Not as close as he had been, but enough that she had only to reach out in order to touch him. She fisted her hands by her sides.

  “And how do you know that?”

  “You’re too honorable,” she accused.

  “Perhaps that’s a façade I put on to hide my black heart. Perhaps I leave a trail of wounded women in my wake all across London.”

  She snorted. “Please. If any woman had been wounded by you, it’s because she nurtured hopes that you did nothing to bolster. You forget, you’ve proposed to me once already.”

  He gritted his teeth. “I won’t make that mistake again, I assure you.”

  Wouldn’t he? He made it sound as though he contemplated kissing her again. A tingle spread over her skin, radiating from her mouth. If he wasn’t going to try to tie her to him…

  She sidled closer. Her breasts brushed his waistcoat. “Good.” Her voice was low and husky. “My body is my own to share with whomever I wish, whether or not he is my husband.”

  Morgan stilled. If he breathed, it was too shallowly for her to notice. His expression was unreadable. “Aren’t you concerned that your husband will expect…certain things?”

  The implication that she was held to a tighter standard because of her gender chased away her arousal, replacing it with outrage. “Are you concerned that your wife will expect those same things? Did you save your virginity for her?”

  A muscle ticked in his jaw. “No,” he admitted, his voice soft. “I did not. Truthfully, I didn’t even think of it when I…”

  She raised her chin, smug. “Exactly.”

  “I was scarcely sixteen. I wasn’t mature enough to think of anything. If I was given the choice now, perhaps I would choose to.”

  She raised her eyebrows. “The implication being that because I’m a bit long in the tooth, I ought to confine myself to the shelf forever?”

  “What?” He rubbed at the streak in his hair. “No. Of course not.”

  He looked irresistible when he was frazzled. “I only meant that I—”

  “Want to kiss me.”

  His gaze dropped to her lips. His tongue darted out to caress his lower lip. He didn’t even seem to realize that he was doing it.

  “That wasn’t what I intended to say at all.” His voice was deeper than a moment ago, more intimate.

  “Do it,” she told him. “Kiss me.”

  “I shouldn’t.”

  Not ‘I can’t’ or even ‘I don’t want to’. Which meant that he did want to kiss her. Perhaps even as much as she did him at that moment.

  She stood on her tiptoes and cupped his cheeks with her hands. His stubble scraped against her palm. She loved the rough sensation.

  “Should is overrated.”

  She tugged his head down and melded her mouth to his.

  14

  Phil’s touch burned Morgan. Her hands on his cheeks, her lush curves pressed against him, her lips against his. In an instant, he’d walked from a maddening conversation into the re-enactment of an erotic dream. She felt incredible. He raised his hand to cup her hip, holding her closer.

  No. She was a French spy. The enemy.

  Heaven help him, but she didn’t feel like his enemy. She felt like coming home after a long and arduous journey.

  Why would she be in Lady Whitewood’s study if she wasn’t meeting with the French spy? He’d interrupted her, and now she was trying to distract him.

  It was working. She tasted divine. He ached to press her closer.

  She lightened her kiss, then pulled back entirely. No. Every muscle in his body tensed. He encircled her with his arms, keeping her pressed against him as long as possible.

  Her breath teased his lips. “S
top thinking. Enjoy the moment.”

  A weak smile pulled at the corners of his mouth. “I don’t know if I can.” Something inside him closed off, afraid she would use the admission as leverage. It was just the way he was. He thought everything through.

  Even when you kissed her in the alley?

  No. That had been instinct, pure and simple, born of the elation of catching her and of the win in Parliament earlier that day.

  She brushed her lips against his, a tease that heightened the ache in his loins to a throb. “Try.”

  When she kissed him again, her mouth moved over his slowly. Her tongue explored the part of his lips. He sank into the kiss, unable to resist. He couldn’t get enough. Their kiss turned wild. Her hands slid into his hair. He pressed her even closer, molding her to his body and lifting her until he supported most of her weight. How could this be wrong? She felt so good.

  No. She felt better than good. She felt right.

  He leaned her back against the desk, needing to get closer. He skimmed his hands up the sides of her waist, stopping when his thumbs brushed the undersides of her breasts. Her muslin dress felt as fine as air, and just as easily shredded. How far was she prepared to go?

  She arched into his hands, encouraging him to cup her breasts as she broke the kiss. Her cat-in-the-cream smile curled his toes.

  “That feels better, doesn’t it?”

  He made a wordless noise of assent. She had no idea how close he was to throwing propriety out the window. She melded her mouth to his once more in a quick, fiery kiss that left him wanting. Then she wiggled out of his hold and stepped away.

  “Let’s join the soiree. I think I hear music.”

  He stared at her. “I beg your pardon?”

  Her hair had started to fall free of its pins, the erratic strands caressing her neck. Her neckline—modest, considering the gathering—conformed to the pronounced rise and fall of her chest. Her nipples peaked beneath the fabric. She wasn’t as unaffected as she pretended.

  Her stormy eyes darkened with desire. “We can’t very well make love here, so we might as well enjoy the night.”

  He glanced at the desk. No, he supposed, they couldn’t make love in Lady Whitewood’s study. But in his bed…

  No. He had more sense than that. As much as he would like to indulge the passion she raised in him, she was a spy…a debutante of good standing…hell, she was fantastic. For a moment, his passion-fevered brain imagined waking up next to her—for life. Perhaps dancing would be the safer option.

  She slid her palm into his, tugging him toward the closed door. “Come, it will be fun.”

  “Dancing.” It sounded far more civilized than the scene likely occurring in the salon below.

  “Yes. Everyone loves to dance. We’ll have a grand time.”

  The heat of her palm was like a brand. He pulled free. “I need a minute.” He dropped his gaze to the fall of his breeches, where his erection strained against the cloth.

  Her gaze meandered to the same spot. It didn’t help. “Oh. Of course.” Her tongue teased her upper lip. Color stained her cheeks, but her eyes didn’t show mortification. Blast, was she curious? He put the desk between them.

  “Maybe you should go down to the salon ahead of me. I’ll be there in a moment.”

  “Oh.” She tore her gaze away. She sounded disappointed. “Are you sure?” She reached for the door.

  If she was a French spy and she left, she might meet with her contact before he rejoined her. “No. Wait. Stay with me.”

  “If you insist.” She dropped her hand.

  The silence lengthened between them, growing heavy and awkward. Her gaze took a circuit of the room before she landed on him once more.

  “So, how long has it been since you…” Her gaze dropped to his fall once more.

  Mortification scalded his cheeks. “Phil!”

  Her eyes widened with feigned innocent. The candlelight emphasized the blue in her gaze. “What? Is that not appropriate study room conversation?”

  “It is not.” As you well know.

  “The door is shut,” she pointed out. “We’re in private. It certainly doesn’t sound like the sort of conversation one would have in public.”

  “It’s the sort of conversation a man would have only with his wife,” Morgan bit out. Hopefully that would squash that particular topic of conversation.

  Her eyes took on a wicked glint. “Ah. This again. Is this the part where you propose to me?”

  Even if he reached his one hundredth birthday, he doubted he would outlive that particular blunder. He gritted his teeth. “It’s been too long for comfort. Are you satisfied?”

  She canted her head to the side as she thought. “Is that why you have such a vigorous response to me?”

  “Yes.” There. That should see the end of the topic.

  “Oh.” She looked disappointed. “I see.”

  Morgan raised his face to the ceiling as he prayed for patience. He sighed. “It isn’t the only reason,” he mumbled. If it had been, he would have been scandalizing Society every time he walked into a ballroom.

  When he lowered his gaze, she beamed. She took a small step forward, closing the distance between them again. Oh, no. He couldn’t have that. He shifted to keep the desk between them before his response to her nearness heightened again.

  She perched on the edge of the desk. Leaning one hand on the wood, she leaned forward. The candlelight created an enticing shadow in the valley between her breasts.

  “Oh? What are the other reasons?”

  “You’re a very beautiful woman, Phil.”

  She glowed at the praise. “And?”

  “And…passionate.” What did she want him to say?

  “And?”

  “Stubborn.”

  The corners of her mouth twitched, but she didn’t drop the subject. “And?”

  Was he going to have to name every damn adjective in the English language? “Beguiling, maddening, and too clever by half. Shall we dance?”

  She hopped off the edge of the desk. “I thought you’d never ask.”

  Cheeky. He should have added cheeky.

  He checked the corridor before they emerged. Whoever had paused there during their midnight tryst had long since moved above stairs. The second floor was deserted. He offered Phil his arm. “Are you certain you wouldn’t like to go down before me? Your reputation…”

  “Is in question just from my attendance at this soiree, remember?”

  True. But he didn’t want to be trapped into marriage with her because of an ill-timed rumor.

  Did he?

  He shook his head. Clearly, he’d left his sanity at home tonight.

  When they descended to the first floor, he expected to cause a stir. The Duke of Tenwick always did upon walking into a room. Instead, he found the guests too wrapped up in each other to care a whit for who else was in attendance. He straightened his shoulders. This anonymity was kind of…nice. He scanned the interior of the room for Gideon, picking him out easily from the other guests. His brother, the tallest man in attendance, danced with a widow almost twice his age. If it could, indeed, be called dancing. To Morgan, it looked more like turning in time to music. As Gideon completed a revolution, the widow pressed indecently against him, Morgan caught his expression. His brother looked harried. Morgan bit back a laugh.

  Phil turned her face up to his. “What’s so funny?”

  “Gideon’s here. It’s nothing.”

  “Is he?” Phil glanced over her shoulder, but Morgan wasn’t in the mood to speak about his brother. He swept Phil into his arms, making like the other dancers.

  He savored the excuse to hold her close. Unlike the polite dances, there was no space between them, no tantalizing touches of the hand or coy looks. Instead, he pressed Phil flush against him. He willed his body not to react to the tease of hers. The fact that they were in public helped.

  Even if the lighting here was lacking. The room was dim, the couples crowding into the shadows
left by strategically placed lights. The quartet played a soft, elegant beat that allowed for a slow dance that even the most inept man could perform admirably.

  Phil pressed her cheek to his chest as she looked around the room. She didn’t protest their closeness. In fact, she capitalized on it by swaying her hips in time with his.

  He glanced again around the room to remind himself that they were very much in public. Anyone would see his reaction. That knowledge helped to temper his ardor somewhat.

  “This doesn’t seem like the sort of evening Gideon would enjoy.”

  Morgan laughed. His brother now signaled him with frantic jerks of his head, begging to be interrupted. Morgan shook his head. “He asked to join me.”

  Somehow, he sensed that Gideon wouldn’t be making that mistake twice.

  “Perhaps he’s getting more adventurous,” Phil said. She settled against him, no longer trying to peer at the other guests, seeming content to stay in the circle of his arms and spin with him.

  Most women would be scandalized. They would act brazen or modest. Phil did neither. She accepted their closeness and acted just as she normally did, teasing him with conversation as they danced. Her self-assurance was refreshing. He found himself looking forward to spending the rest of the night with her.

  And he did, save for two short stints. Once when Gideon snagged her for a dance in order to lose the persistent widow trying to entice him into bed. The second time when Phil escaped into the ladies’ withdrawing room. Was she meeting with the French spy? Morgan stared after her. He couldn’t follow her there.

  Giddy sidled up to him. “Do we have to stay here much longer?”

  Morgan smirked. “Is it not everything that you imagined?”

  “Very funny. I keep getting pinched in uncomfortable places.”

  Morgan lost the battle of composure. He bent double, clapping his hand over his mouth to stifle his laughter. His brother, surly, shoved at his shoulder, toppling Morgan into the wall. He leaned against it as he caught his breath.

  “It isn’t funny.”

  “It is.” Morgan wiped at his eyes.

  Gideon glared. “No one is bothering you.”