Sinful in Scarlet: The Brothers Duke: Book One

by Felicia Greene

  ‘Or I could drop my inkwell on her from a great height and hope it hits its mark.’

  ‘Thomas!’

  ‘What? She left you in danger. She deserves a little danger of her own.’ He turned to her again. ‘And… and I’m Thomas, now?’

  ‘Forgive me. Mr. Duke.’

  ‘No.’ Thomas shook his head. ‘Thomas.’

  Suddenly everything was sparkling again, just as it had been that morning. Dorothea blinked, trying to find a reason to look away from Thomas’s steady gaze that didn’t look like pure rudeness. This room was too small and full of light to be in the least bit flattering to her appearance–there was nothing to blend into, to hide behind.

  She hadn’t considered her appearance for years, apart from that brief, glorious moment in the mirror when she was wearing the scarlet gown. Gentlemen hadn’t looked at her ever since her fall in station. Having a man look at her–having Thomas Duke look at her–in daylight, in her worn gown, was deeply shameful.

  Not only shameful. A tiny, invincible part of her enjoyed the feeling of his eyes on her. Dorothea closed her eyes, trying to stamp that ridiculous part of her out.

  ‘You’re shrinking.’

  ‘Pardon?’

  ‘Away from–away from me.’ Thomas turned to face her fully. Dorothea moved away from him before she could consider what she was doing. ‘Would you like me to call a maid?’

  ‘I–no. No, of course not.’

  ‘You just…’ His voice trailed away, a note of regret in it that Dorothea couldn’t help but cling to. ‘You seem afraid of me.’

  Afraid of him? Of all the things she was in this world, afraid of Thomas Duke wasn’t one of them. Afraid of herself, yes, afraid of the situation, certainly–but really, the only fear she truly had was too shameful to say. ‘I’m not afraid of you.’

  ‘I think you are.’ Thomas sighed. ‘How could you not be?’

  ‘I’m not. You’re not listening to me.’

  ‘Because the way you’re looking at me and moving around me speaks far louder than any words you say.’

  ‘Then stop looking at me.’

  ‘You wish me to–’

  ‘Just listen, and do as I say.’ She was going to have to tell him, but she couldn’t possibly do so with his eyes on hers. His soft, lingering gaze. ‘Please.’

  ‘You’re asking me to face the wall.’

  ‘Yes. For a moment, while I speak.’

  She expected Thomas to sigh, or roll his eyes. Instead, with a slow nod, he turned.

  Dorothea studied the back of him. The wild tufts of dark hair that seemed to grow out of order however rigid the rest of the man became. His broad shoulders, his calves, his feet… his hands.

  A slight tremor ran through Thomas’s fingers. He was as awkward as she was. Dorothea took courage from the small, uncontrollable gesture, swallowing before she spoke.

  ‘It’s a very silly thing. A stupid thing, if I am to truly upbraid myself and not mince words. I suppose I don’t have to mince words around you–we certainly spoke like urchins to one another as children.’ She smiled as a faint memory resurfaced: Thomas as a lanky youth, insulting a boy who had hurt a feral cat. ‘And it’s much better if you don’t look at me as I say it, because I certainly couldn’t look in my own face in the mirror as I say it.’

  ‘I must point out that you haven’t said anything yet.’

  ‘And I’ll arrive at it. Stop being impatient.’ Dorothea couldn’t see Thomas’s face, but she knew he was smiling at her stridency.

  ‘I can’t stop being impatient. You’ve made me face a wall like a child, for goodness’ sake.’

  ‘Because I’m too ugly to look at.’

  There was a moment of complete stillness. Dorothea watched Thomas’s hands clench into tight fists, followed by a slight bowing of his head.

  He was waiting for her. He was listening. How long had it been since she had been listened to?

  ‘Please don’t tell me that it’s foolish. One learns to be reasonable about one’s appearance over time–rational. Especially ladies like myself, who have no wealth to recommend them and no outstanding genius in a particular subject. Women who look like me are perfect for quiet husbands who never wish to take their wives out of doors, but–but demand for those gentlemen always exceeds supply.’ She paused, taking a steadying breath. ‘Which is a rather long-winded way of saying that in terms of this morning–in terms of meeting you again–I’m most aware that I’m no longer dressed in an inordinately expensive gown designed to frame and flatter what few charms I possess. In fact, I resemble a tired, half-plucked chicken. And–and I don’t want you to look at me when I look like this.’

  She had never expressed such a sentiment to another living soul. She had spent so long making herself invisible,unremarkable in every conceivable way, that to actually express an opinion concerning her physical self–negative or positive–felt wrong.

  ‘I’ve finished.’ She looked down. ‘You can turn around now.’

  She waited for ridicule. Or worse–agreement. Instead, in a sudden, dizzying rush, she was pulled into Thomas’s arms and held. Held so tightly that all other possibilities vanished.

  She hadn’t been embraced properly in months, if their moment in the curtains was discounted. Perhaps even a year. How had she managed to survive and be cheerful without being touched? It seemed impossible now, wrapped tightly in someone’s arms. Never being touched had sparked a hunger in her, a deep need for contact that she had been deliberately ignoring for far too long.

  Such hunger wasn’t meant to be satisfied in the embrace of a man–especially a man she didn’t know. But then, she did know Thomas Duke. She had known him for years.

  She had missed the part when he had become a man. That was the troubling part. He had burst into her life again in the close confines of the Pembroke curtains, and was now comforting her in his light-filled office as if he had never left her side. And rather than doubt it, study it or refuse it, all Dorothea wanted to do was rest her head against his shoulder and weep.

  No. She wouldn’t weep. She would breathe in the warm, dizzying scent of him, just as she had the previous night, and forget that what they were doing was impossible.

  ‘Forgive me.’ His voice was muffled against her hair; Dorothea closed her eyes as awareness tingled through her scalp. ‘You–you looked as if you needed to be held.’

  ‘I did.’

  ‘I can stop if you like.’

  ‘Don’t.’

  ‘Good.’ His arms tightened around her. ‘I don’t want to.’

  Several moments passed in silence. All Dorothea heard was the sound of her breath mingled with that of Thomas. Pressed against his chest, very faintly, she could hear the rapid beating of his heart.

  Eventually he spoke again. ‘You have to know it’s idiocy.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘What you said. It’s ridiculous.’

  ‘Very easy for a gentleman who looks like you to say.’ The sentence left Dorothea’s lips before she had a chance to restrain herself. Oh, well–in for a penny, in for a pound. ‘You’ve never had to consider exactly why someone is looking at you.’

  Thomas didn’t respond. Dorothea felt a small shiver run through his body as he moved to hold her a little tighter. ‘And you?’

  ‘The reasons why gentlemen look at ladies are much more varied than the reasons why ladies look at gentlemen.’

  ‘I have to disagree with that assessment.’

  ‘And we shall have to agree to disagree. A stare of disgust is as potent as a stare of admiration.’ Dorothea paused. ‘Or a stare of surprise at a lady one used to know, wearing a scarlet gown.’

  She paused as Thomas pulled away. Looking at her, his stare as equal parts marvelling and confused as it had been when he had first seen her on the doorstep of his office, he gently tucked an errant strand of Dorothea’s hair behind her ear.

  ‘You honestly believe it was the dress and nothing else.’ He ran a questioning finger along
her cheekbone; Dorothea sighed as sparks ran through her nerves. ‘You’re convinced of this.’

  ‘I’m a reasonable person.’

  ‘I wouldn’t normally argue. But it’s nonsense.’ Thomas cupped her face, his gaze so intense that it bordered on uncomfortable. As if he were frustrated with her, or himself. ‘Complete nonsense.’

  ‘I don’t see any reasonable explanation for–for what happened.’

  ‘It may not be reasonable, but it was natural.’ Thomas paused. ‘Entirely natural.’

  Lord, it was difficult to speak when he looked at her like this. ‘I can’t even see the naturalness in it.’

  ‘Well… think of it like this, if you want to.’ Thomas spoke slowly, as if he were thinking through the idea himself. ‘Do you remember the cloth animal you carried around all the time as a child?’

  ‘Goodness. Ducky.’ Dorothea smiled at the sudden wash of recollection. ‘I can’t believe you remember him. I hardly ever think of him now.’

  ‘Exactly. You don’t think of him, but–but he’s still a part of you. A part of who you are, and how you came to be. But you grow, and you don’t think you need him anymore. You don’t think you need anything that gives you comfort or safety, because you’re older now and think you know everything.’ Thomas leaned closer. ‘And then you walk through the door of your house one day, and that toy is sitting on the table wearing a bright red ribbon.’

  Dorothea couldn’t speak. All she could do was wait, listening.

  ‘And yes–the red ribbon catches your eye. It’s the reason you see it so quickly. But it’s not the reason to go to it and pick it up. That small touch of red is—is simply enough for you to remember everything. How happy you were together–how fascinated and thrilled and content you were with what you had forgotten.’ Thomas’s dark eyes held her fixed. ‘It’s a signal to a part of yourself that you thought was dead.’

  As metaphors went, Dorothea had heard more elegant ones. But the thrill that ran through her at the sound of such sincere, considered words, the way they touched upon convictions that she hadn’t dared to acknowledge flourishing in her own breast… that was more than spectacular.

  ‘Well?’ Thomas paused. ‘Have I explained it?’

  ‘You explained things very well. By—by comparing me to a childhood toy.’

  ‘No! No. Yes, but–no.’ Thomas shook his head, a flash of irritation sparking and dying in his eyes. ‘I’m an idiot.’

  ‘No, you’re not!’

  ‘But I am. Can I try expressing things in an idiotic but slightly clearer way?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Give me your hand.’

  Dorothea gave it. She bit back a gasp as Thomas placed her hand to his chest. ‘Do you feel my heartbeat?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Do you see how rapidly it’s beating?’

  ‘Y-yes.’

  ‘And you’re not wearing a scarlet gown now. You, and you alone, are causing this.’

  ‘It’s difficult for me to believe.’ Dorothea paused, her heart beating as rapidly as his. ‘I’m sorry. I–’

  ‘You apologise for everything in the world. For things that don’t require an apology.’

  ‘I know. I’m sorry.’ Dorothea gasped, biting her lip with a soft shake of her head. ‘Oh, goodness.’

  Thomas’s gentle gaze calmed her. ‘Would you like to know another way to tell?’

  ‘Yes. Absolutely.’

  ‘It’s more sure than a beating heart.’

  ‘I don’t know what can be clearer than a beating heart.’

  ‘If you want me to stop, tell me to stop and I will. Understood?’

  ‘Yes.’ Dorothea nodded. Of all the things she was frightened of, telling Thomas Duke to stop wasn’t one of them. She trusted him implicitly, just as she did Charlotte. ‘Of course.’

  She waited as Thomas softly closed his fingers over her wrist. As he began to guide her hand down his body, lingering on the base of his stomach, Dorothea struggled to control the sudden heat quickening her breath.

  This was impossible. Unthinkable. Or perhaps, more accurately, unthinkable with anyone else but Thomas. Yes, they hadn’t spoken to one another for a long while, but—but those moments they had shared in their youth, all the more sacred for the joy they carried, still lived within her as strongly as the present moment did. The feel of his body under her palm as he moved her hand further downward was, however illogically, a continuation of everything that had happened long before as well as that brief, searing moment behind the curtains.

  Her hand rested against his stiff member. Dorothea bit her lip, holding back a gasp. She had learned the mechanics of this phenomenon from Charlotte, giggling in disbelief at the sheer improbability of it—but this, this was different. Sacred.

  ‘This is… all of this is you. Remembering you. Seeing you now. Imagining–imagining what could be.’ Thomas’s voice shook. ‘Do you understand?’

  ‘Yes.’ She never wanted to remove her hand. There was a deep, forbidden fascination to holding him like this, to feeling him under her fingers, rigid, potent. Dorothea took the risk of gently squeezing, taking Thomas’s soft gasp as evidence that such touches were pleasant. ‘I do.’

  ‘And you–’

  ‘Yes. I–I like it.’

  ‘You know what I’m going to say before I say it.’

  ‘I know.’ Dorothea took the risk of looking in his eyes as she squeezed again, more firmly this time. How thrilling it was, to have the seat of his power in her palm. ‘I always have.’

  She always had. The memories of how they had been with one another long ago were coming back, making her more sure-footed in what she wanted to do now. What she craved more than anything in the world.

  Happiness. Happiness here and now, in the arms of Thomas Duke, whatever that entailed.

  It feels as if we never stopped speaking to one another. As if we’ve been together every day and night, in soul if not in body.

  Thomas tried to push the compelling phrase out of his mind. No words to Dorothea seemed adequate. He always sounded foolish, or as if he had taken leave of his senses. But really–could any of this be described as reasonable? Thomas didn’t care, and was fairly sure he never would.

  If it was madness, then let him be mad. Gloriously, unforgivably mad, mad beyond hope of redemption. Mad enough to take the risk of showing Dorothea how hard he was for her, how much the sheer sight of her made him want things he would be too embarrassed to name.

  He wouldn’t need to name them, now. He would show her. Show her as soon as he had recovered from the divine feel of her hand on his cock, stroking him through his breeches as if she were born to it. But Dorothea leaned up before he had expected it, pressing her lips to his with sweet, feverish longing, and Thomas found himself drawn into her passion with a thrill of pure delight.

  Each kiss was an invitation to more kisses. She shivered in his arms as he drew her closer, her palm tight on his cock as he took possession of her mouth, deep, uncompromising. He had been so hard that night in the curtains–Lord, had that only been last night? It felt like years ago, decades, with nothing to do in the meantime but search for her.

  He bit back a growl of pure, sensual satisfaction as he moved to her neck, kissing down to the elegant, rounded curve of her shoulder as she trembled in his arms. Yes, she needed kissing here–kissing everywhere. Dorothea shifted against him, her fingers travelling from the base to the head of his cock with agonising slowness, and Thomas gritted his teeth as the hard points of her nipples grazed his chest.

  She wanted him, just as he wanted her. The lingering pleasure evident in her sigh, the delicious response of her body–God, it was all he could do not to pull her to the floor and lose himself completely. Or bend her over his desk, pushing all those damned papers out of the way as he sank himself inside her. There weren’t enough hours in the day to take her all the ways he wanted to take her. Not with all the things he wanted to do–the ways he wanted her to feel.

  D
orothea’s soft, delighted cry as he kissed her neck broke through his reverie. She moved her hand to the top of his breeches, clumsily attempting to slide her palm beneath the fabric, and Thomas felt a jolt of lust that threatened to overwhelm him completely.

  Enough standing. He couldn’t stand and give her the pleasure she deserved at the same time. Sinking to his knees, ignoring Dorothea’s surprised gasp as he pulled her down with him, Thomas moved to rest against the sturdy side of his mahogany desk.

  With a grunt of lust, he pulled her atop him. Yes, this was better–Christ, the way she looked placed like this was glorious. He could take in every one of her abundant curves and kiss her, hold her, whisper endearments… or thrust his hips upward like this, yes, and feel the heat of her centre now that her skirts were out of the way. He busied himself with the bodice of her gown, pulling at the ribbons with frantic, impatient hands as Dorothea’s moan hummed through her kiss.

  Yes. The full weight of her breasts in his hands, the flimsiest of linen shifts warm against his palms. A shift that could be easily tugged away. When he finally stroked his fingers over her hard, berry-dark nipples, Dorothea’s broken cry of pleasure echoed through his office.

  ‘I’m sorry.’ She murmured breathlessly in his ear. ‘I just–oh, Lord.’

  ‘Oh Lord, good?’

  ‘Yes. Very good.’

  ‘Then be as loud as you like. Louder, even.’

  ‘But if I’m too loud, someone could hear me and interrupt us.’

  ‘And as soon as they saw you, they’d understand that I needed to disrobe you no matter what the location.’ Thomas smiled, a warm glow filling him as a flush appeared at the base of Dorothea’s neck. ‘Especially after they see the way you blush.’

  ‘I hate the way I blush.’

  ‘I don’t. Quite the opposite.’ Thomas gently pinched Dorothea’s nipples, revelling in the way she quivered. ‘In fact, I’m going to try and make you blush harder.’

  There were so many things he wanted to do with her, do to her, but making her blush would be a damned good start. There were so many things they couldn’t do as well–things that would damage her reputation beyond compare. But everything up to that crucial, final point… oh, it all lay before them.