The Undercover Duke

by Michaels, Jess

  He smiled slightly, but the expression was laced with sadness. “Please don’t ask me about her,” he whispered. “Not now.”

  She shook her head slowly. “I won’t. Right now I want this…”

  She trailed off as she moved to him, cupping his cheeks as she leaned up into him and pressed her lips to his. His arms came around her, pulling her up tightly against his chest. She melted at the warmth of him drawing her closer. Drawing her in, making her safe and whole.

  He angled his head, slanting his mouth against hers, driving his tongue inside, tasting her and emptying her mind of every thought except for getting him into that bed.

  She dropped her hands to his jacket and swiftly unfastened it. When he shrugged it off, she smiled, for the expression of pain that always accompanied the action was far weaker. He was healing and that made her heart soar.

  But it was her body that took over when he slid his hands into her hair, his fingers bunching against her scalp as he threaded down the bun she had hurriedly made that morning. Hairpins scattered around their feet and she shivered at the intimate touch that was so innocent and so wicked all at once.

  “I love your hair,” he murmured, pressing his face into the locks. “I love the look and the smell, I love how it feels on my skin. Like silk.”

  She blushed and caught his hand, leading him back across the impossibly huge room toward the even more impossibly big bed on the back wall. He smiled, indulging her lead in this moment, though she saw in his eyes that he had no intention of letting her control continue.

  She looked forward to the moment when he stole it from her at last.

  As they reached the bed, he began to unbutton her gown. He did it slowly, holding her gaze as he looped each button through its hole and then gently parted the coarse fabric of her plain gown. His fingers brushed her collarbone, her chest, as he did so and she couldn’t hold back a small sigh of pleasure at the feel of skin on skin.

  It had only been one night apart, but it had felt like an eternity. And this was coming home.

  He pushed the dress from her shoulders and down her arms, then stood back and looked at her. His eyes were wide, like he’d never seen her like this before. She blushed beneath the attention, turning her face away so that he wouldn’t see how much his regard moved her. Changed her. Made her want more than would ever be possible for her in this life.

  “I am forever struck by you,” he said softly as he hooked his thumbs through the drooping fabric of her gown and pushed it away, leaving her in only her chemise. “Struck by how perfect you are in every way.”

  She shook her head. “Not perfect, I assure you.”

  “There is nothing but perfection here, Diana,” he whispered, cupping her chin and tilting her face toward his. His eyes were dark and intense, dilated with desire, but also focused in that heavy expression that he only had when he was focusing on something he wanted.

  Today it was her.

  She lifted on her tiptoes and pressed her mouth to his. Words fell away then. His slow seduction ended and the kiss deepened with a sudden urgency and intensity. Want took over, need ruled, and she shivered as he stripped away her underthings with much more quickness and purpose than he had used on her gown.

  “Get in my bed,” he ordered, suddenly the lord of the manor, suddenly the duke.

  There was no denying that order, for it was an order, not a request. She took her place on his pillows and watched through a hooded gaze as he undressed himself. It took longer than she thought he wanted it to, but he did it on his own and finally stood before her naked.

  She stared as she always did. He was a specimen, that was something no one could deny. From his broad shoulders, marred by that terrible, misshapen, raised scar that was slowly healing, to his narrow hips to his strong thighs, scarred again by the horrors he’d been through. He was as perfect as he’d claimed she was. Perfect and delectable.

  She wanted to taste him.

  He smiled as she crooked her finger and beckoned him over. He took a place beside her and she immediately rolled over to cover him. He arched a brow. “You think you can control this?” he teased.

  She reached between them and stroked his already hard cock. “I know I can.”

  He shut his eyes and arched against her as she continued to stroke him. Over and over, gentle but firm. And as she did so, she slid down his length until she could lower her mouth and take him inside.

  His eyes flew open and she met his wild gaze without hesitation as she sucked him.

  “Diana,” he gasped, his hands coming down to her. She thought he might push her away, but as she took him deeper his fingers tangled in her hair instead and he let out a low, long curse.

  She smiled against him and began to pump her mouth slowly, reveling in the hardness of his cock against her tongue. In the taste of him, the smell of him. The way his hips flexed against her, pushing himself farther into her throat. She added her hand to the torment, stroking the part of him she could not manage with her mouth as she began to establish a rhythm that would bring him to completion.

  She wanted that. To taste that moment when she stole his control and claimed him in a way that could not be changed or forgotten, even when they were no longer together. She moved toward it with an increasing drive and felt him start to tense with the movements of her hand and mouth. His legs stiffened beneath her, his feet flexing as she sped up, rolling her tongue around his girth with every downward stroke.

  He was close to release and she found herself grinding against the bed as she took him, her body set on fire by the power he was allowing her. By the feel of pleasuring him. By the taste of his body as he got closer and closer to completion.

  “Diana, I can’t…I’ll—” he stammered, his fingers moving to push her away.

  She ignored them, sucking harder and faster instead, and he let out a heavy cry before he exploded. She took every thrust, greedy in her desire for his salty-sweet taste. And only when he flopped back, his breath hard and uneven, did she allow him to pull free.

  She smiled at him, spent with pleasure. Her own body still hummed with throbbing, wet desire, but seeing him brought to his knees was oh-so very worth it.

  She moved to lie beside him and his eyes came open. “Oh, you think you’re finished, do you?” he asked, his tone utterly wicked.

  She cocked her head. “I think I finished you, Your Grace.”

  “Not by half,” he said, and caught her arms. He drew her up as he inched down until he lay flat on the bed. She expected him to pull her to a kiss, but he didn’t. He moved her farther up his body, until she straddled his chest.

  “What would I…” she whispered, understanding at last. “Won’t I crush you?”

  “Oh, what a way to go,” he drawled, and tugged her farther until she was positioned over his waiting mouth. She gripped his headboard with both hands and gasped as he parted her folds and licked her gently. Then not so gently.

  She ground down, riding his tongue, finding pleasure with every taste, every stroke, every moment that proved he knew her body and what it wanted and needed. The fact that he did made it easier for her to let go. To let him, and when she did, the pleasure that had begun to build the moment he pressed his tongue to her exploded and she convulsed over him, jerking as she clung to the headboard and moaned his name over and over.

  Finally she collapsed to the side, rolling into him, feeling his arms come around her as she continued to feel the ripples of sensation fading through her entire body.

  He said nothing, at least at first. Instead he just combed his fingers through her hair, a gentle, rhythmic motion that helped her slowly come down from those heights of release he inspired every time he touched her.

  She had no idea how much time had passed when she propped herself up on her elbow and looked into his handsome face. “You’re doing so much better, Lucas.”

  A shadow of a smile crossed his face. “Judging my performance, and with such…ent
husiasm,” he teased. “Makes me think I have to prove myself to you again.”

  She laughed and swatted his chest lightly. “It was not a judgment of your performance,” she said. “I meant that I can see how much more easily you are moving, how much less pain reflects on your face with some actions you take.”

  He shrugged his good shoulder. “I know you’re right. I cannot say that I am not still frustrated by what I cannot do. I do see that there is more and more that I can. But it is hard not to…not to be the man I once was. Not to know if I ever could be again.”

  She nodded and reached out to trace his jawline with her fingertip. “I can only imagine how difficult that is.”

  “But my recovery is due entirely to you,” he said.

  Heat flooded her cheeks and she turned her face. “I don’t think entirely.”

  “Well, I take full responsibility for your recovery,” he said.

  She glanced back at him. “My recovery? What are you talking about?”

  “You burned yourself almost two weeks ago, and look.” He caught her hand and lifted it up, showing that the little burn was long gone. “It is all thanks to me and my magnificent doctoring skills.”

  She couldn’t help but laugh, though the fact that he had brought up the topic made her mind turn to that day in her kitchen and how he’d mixed the poultice she had required, then wrapped her sore hand. “I have actually thought of that day often,” she said. “But not because of your superior skills.”

  “You wound me, madam,” he said. “I hoped I had a future and you have dashed my hopes.”

  She shook her head. “You tease, but I’m certain if you applied yourself to study that you could become a good physician. A surgeon’s duty is all about detail and you pay attention to those in spades. Which leads me to a question.”

  He nodded, and the teasing was gone from his demeanor. “Of course. What can I answer for you?”

  “That day you tied the wrap on my hand in a very special way.”

  He nodded. “Yes. It was special.”

  “How did you learn that technique?” she asked.

  A shadow crossed over his expression, and he leaned back on the pillows and stared at the ceiling for a moment, like he was gathering his thoughts. Like this answer was more complicated than she’d thought it would be.

  “When I woke from my injuries, it was almost twenty-four hours after the attack,” he explained slowly. “I wanted to get up and get to work, but when I tried I was crippled with pain and unable to bear even a little weight to stand.”

  She bent her head. “Of course you would try, despite nearly being killed.”

  “We are who we are, yes,” he said with a wry smile. “The surgeon insisted that I could not rise, and for a month I didn’t.”

  “It must have been so frustrating for you,” she said softly. This man, this vibrant, exasperating, active man would not have handled being confined to a bed. She could only picture how terribly he must have behaved.

  “I thought I might run mad,” he admitted. “They kept trying to give me things to entertain me, but I was half wild with laudanum and God knows what else. And all I could think about was that day. Your father. The sound of shots cutting through the air.”

  He stopped, and she reached out to cover his hand with hers. “And the knot?” she encouraged, steering him back on course with as much gentleness as she could muster.

  He shook his head. “Of course, I’m sorry. That first day, when they changed my bloody bandage, they left it there next to my bed. All I could do was stare at that knot. It was…intricate. So I began to practice tying it, over and over. Until I could master it.”

  She pressed her lips together and tried not to let her thoughts run away from her. It was almost impossible when this information led to more questions than answers.

  “Your surgeon, was he trained by my father?” she asked.

  Lucas sat up slightly. The lazy sensuality that had flowed through them before was now gone. He was focused again, looking at her with sharp, hawkish interest.

  “No,” he said slowly. “Not that first one. He was your father’s contemporary, but not his student. Yates, I think his name was.”

  Diana made a face, for she knew the man. “You are lucky he didn’t kill you. My father thought very little of him. But how would he know?”

  “Know what?” He leaned in. “What has brought this interrogation on?”

  “The knot,” she explained. “It’s likely nothing, but I’ve only ever seen my father tie it. It was a bit of a…signature for him, if that makes sense. Even I had a hard time learning it, for it is, as you say, intricate. But you tied it with ease. I just wondered how you came to know it. Still, I suppose Yates might have picked up the practice from my father.”

  Lucas continued to stare at her. His eyes were a little wide, his jaw set. There was the spy again. Her lover was gone.

  “Yates didn’t tie the knot I learned from,” he said softly. “The injury to my leg, it was deep.”

  “Yes,” she said with a shiver. “It’s evident from the scarring and your remaining limp. It healed beautifully, though, unlike the shoulder that the doctors could not leave alone.”

  He nodded. “That’s because when they found me, my leg had already been bandaged. It’s been a bone of contention on how that happened. Perhaps the first men to arrive did the bandaging, perhaps it was someone else. But the knot I learned from was on my leg before a surgeon ever examined my injuries, Diana.”

  Her lips parted and she drew back. “But if that’s true…”

  “Then whoever did it knew the special and advanced techniques used by your father to treat the injured.” He climbed out of the bed and paced across the room before he turned back and speared her with a stare. “Whoever did it once trained under him.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  The color had gone out of Diana’s cheeks as she stared at him from his bed. The hand that held a sheet over her body shook as she processed what Lucas had just told her.

  In truth, he was having trouble processing it, himself. The bandaged leg had been an unanswered question from that day, of course. But it had been chalked up to something that had happened in the chaos of that horrible afternoon. Something a kind servant might have done, or a fellow spy when they came upon him after the guard had been called in.

  Now, though, this new information slid into the puzzle of his mind and fit in to a blank space. Only it created more questions than answers.

  Answers Diana had begun to provide in unexpected moments.

  “How or why would someone know my father’s methods?” she pressed. Her voice was shaking.

  “A very good question,” Lucas said. “He did have acolytes. Trainees. But if one of them was there, then it would mean…”

  Her lips parted. “That they were the traitor?” she burst out.

  He shrugged. “It’s a possibility. One I hadn’t considered. Only, if they were the one who attacked your father and me, why would that person then bandage my leg? It saved my life, I’ve been told that multiple times in the past six months. Why would the man who attacked me want to save me?”

  He asked the question and the moment he did, an answer came to mind. A terrible, horrible answer that he’d never even considered until that moment.

  An answer that had nothing to do with anyone else in the world but Diana’s father. Only he couldn’t believe that George Oakford would be involved in the attacks on the War Department.

  Not Lucas’s friend. Not Diana’s father.

  “What is it?” she whispered, her bright green gaze snagging his. “Please tell me why your expression is like that.”

  He stared at her. She had already gone through so much. Lost so much. He couldn’t tell her about this niggling feeling that now took root in his chest. He refused to do that to her.

  Not until he knew for sure that he was right.

  “I’ve shut you out,” he said softly. �
�I know that hurt you.”

  She folded her arms now and he saw a lonely flash of anger across her lovely features. “I do understand it on some level, even if I hate it,” she said.

  “What if I didn’t shut you out?” he asked just as softly. “What if I…what if I needed your help? Would you be willing to provide it?”

  She opened her mouth, and he saw the emphatic yes in her eyes even before she spoke. Still, he raised a hand to hold off her answer. “Before you reply, you must know that you’ll get details, Diana. Information that may greatly pain you.”

  She lifted her chin, and that core of iron that ran through her had never been so obvious. “I have felt pain greater than you can imagine,” she whispered. “I can face it again, especially if it means finding the truth and bringing whoever did this to you, did this to my father, to justice. If you think I can help, then let me.”

  He nodded slowly. “Let’s get dressed then. The full case notes are in my study. We’ll go over them together.”

  Darkness had begun to flood into Lucas’s study, and Diana looked up to find him lighting lanterns and stirring the fire to make her reading easier. In his chamber back in her cottage, she hadn’t gotten to read quite so much of his materials. Now she’d read them all and her chest hurt as she shoved the papers aside and drew a ragged breath.

  “I’m sorry,” Lucas said as he sat in a chair beside hers. He was studying her face closely. “Is it too much?”

  “No,” she said, though in her heart she didn’t completely feel that it was true. “Yes, it’s hard to read these things. To picture my father lying dead, cut down by an assassin’s bullet, likely fired by a friend to you both. But it isn’t only that. It’s the high emotion of the past few days. It’s the time of year…”

  Lucas tilted his head. “The time of year?”

  She pushed to her feet and paced away. She had not meant to say that out loud. Something in him brought it out in her, though. Something that told her to whisper her darkest and most painful secrets.