by Darcy Burke
Ryder tossed back the contents. “Doesn’t matter. I’m not interested.”
“Of course not, old boy.” Hunt took the empty glass. As he walked away, he said over his shoulder, “Do remind me about your lack of interest after you’ve killed all those sods fawning over her, would you?”
Ryder smashed his teeth together, holding in a hot-headed retort, one that would only convince his friend he was a mere two steps away from bedding the woman, and let Hunt head off. In all his years, Ryder never been one to lie to himself and now was not a good time to start. Hunt had always known a falsehood the moment it passed Ryder’s lips.
He’d only ever wanted one woman the way he now wanted Mrs. Darrell. His wife. His heart would never belong to anyone but Jane. Long ago, he’d sworn to himself that though he could give his body, he would never allow any woman to have his heart.
No matter, that Jane left him alone on this godforsaken earth. The thought instantly ripped at his gut. He turned from Mrs. Darrell. He couldn’t risk the attachment that such desire encouraged. But damnation, he wanted the woman’s sweet mouth under his, he wanted to flick his tongue over the wet folds of her hot cunny and he hungered to thrust his cock deep inside her welcoming body, but worse, he wanted to open up the secrets of her mind and perhaps even the beauty of her heart. That was exactly why he was going to stay away from the entrancing young widow.
Without another thought, and though he knew it would infuriate the countess he was leaving without a word or their typical meeting in her bedroom, Ryder grabbed a carafe of brandy and headed out to his coach.
The only thing going to get the image of that woman surrounded by a crowd of randy admirers out of his head was a dedicated night of drinking.
Chapter Six
Where the devil was Imogen?
Dawn’s yellow-grey light slipped in through the curtained windows, gently illuminating gentlemen sprawled on the floor. A few ladies draped upon the couches with their skirts rucked up slept, revealing silken stockings, uncaring in their state of inebriation.
Champagne glasses and plates of half eaten pastel colored sweets were everywhere. Kate hesitated, contemplating how she might negotiate her way through the odd mixture of flowers, cards and men strewn upon the floor. Several of the floor bound gentlemen laid face down, their cravats and coats about their bodies. Still, it was disconcerting. She didn’t want one to suddenly look as she stepped over his head. So, she tucked her skirts up and darted quickly between the prone bodies.
A few people still gambled, their cries of enthusiasm less hardy than before. Two very drunk ladies stood by the door, holding onto each other to keep upright.
“I adore you,” the lady in lavender proclaimed.
“I adore you, too!” the one in yellow gushed.
“You’re so adorable,” the one in lavender cooed, the sweeping purple flowers in her hair poking at her friends shoulder.
“No. No. My dearest, you’re adorable!” her friend replied as they embraced and started to blubber. “I don’t deserve you!”
Pleasantly tipsy, Kate merely shook her head. When she reached the far side of the room, she paused by a table laden with guttering candles. Where the deuce was Imogen? Her feet hurt, and she was ready to fall into bed. Though sadly, since the duke had departed, it would be alone.
A giggle drifted in from the hallway, and Kate tensed. No. It couldn’t be. Could it? The giggle came again, and she groaned. At the same time she had to fight back her own laugh. Nothing like this would have happened in Shropshire!
She turned and tiptoed into the dark hallway.
Squinting at the darkness, she whispered, “Imogen?”
There was no reply, only the dimness of the long, dark corridor.
In fact, it was rather quiet out in the hall. She went a little further down the dim, dawn lit passageway, weaving to the right. She stopped and clapped a hand over her mouth to stop her laugh. My, who knew walking could be so difficult?
“Imogen?” she whispered again.
A door to her right popped open, and Imogen tumbled out. She grabbed hold of Kate, the feathers and red rose in her hair dangerously tilting to the side. Even stranger, a long piece of white fabric was wrapped around her forehead, just above her eyes.
“Oh!” she gasped then hiccupped. “How fortunate you were here to catch me.” A sloppy smile brightened her face.
Kate peered into the doorway and sucked in a quick breath. There was a man. . . in the closet. A very attractive man. She blinked, trying for a better view in the unlit little square room. The fellow lounged back against the wall. His livery shirt was open as far as it might go, covering a chest that would cause any sculptor to swoon. A tightly curled white wig and a gold embroidered coat winked up from the floor, and of all things, he was missing a shoe.
Still, he managed to be positively delicious as he stared out with shockingly green eyes.
“Who’s that?” Kate asked, her voice deep with a touch of admiration at Imogen’s audacity.
Imogen righted herself and weaved a little to the left. She patted her hair and pulled at the white fabric—which under closer consideration appeared to be the fellow’s cravat—until it slipped free. She looked back at the man and shook her head at him. “Naughty.”
Weaving towards Kate, Imogen confessed, “He wanted me blindfolded!”
Kate opened her mouth then closed it, having no idea what one should say in response to a cravat being tied about her cousin’s eyes. With a footman. In the closet.
And him missing vital items of clothing.
The fellow in the closet righted his breeches and tucked his shirt back into the dark green livery. He gave his white wig a glance but then ignored it, leaving his blond hair wild, doubtlessly from Imogen’s hands. Strolling out of the little space and into the hall, he raked a hot gaze up and down Kate then yanked Imogen to his side, rubbing his lips gently against her neck. “Who is your friend then, love?”
Imogen’s eyes widened, and she giggled again. “Terribly rude. . .” she tugged at her skirts, “of me.” Frowning she glanced over her shoulder and tugged at her skirts again. “Dratted chemise.” She batted her eyes up at her Lothario. “Be a dear?”
The servant swatted her bottom as best he could through the layers of fabric then pulled her skirts back down over her chemise. “Hate to cover all that glory.”
Imogen shook her head, her curls bouncing. “Silly man.”
Kate cleared her throat. “Imogen? Who is that?”
“Hmm? Oh yes.” Imogen stroked his hard chest. “This is dear, dear--” she bit her lower lip then glanced up at the ceiling as if the answer might be written upon it.
“Reginald,” the man supplied.
Imogen beamed, and her gaze snapped back to Kate. “Yes. Dear, dear Reginald. Our lovely duke’s footman.”
Darkwell’s footman? Well, that was certainly juicy news. What was he still doing here? Locked in the closet was he? Kate took a step closer, as if somehow she might absorb information about her duke just by standing next to his servant.
Reginald adjusted the front placate of his breeches, a bulge growing ever more pronounced, and gave Kate a wink. “I hear you’ve a fancy for the duke, madam.”
Kate straightened at the man’s impertinence. How in the devil did he know? Did everyone know or had Imogen simply been unable to resist sharing a bit of gossip. And was he really that big beneath his breeches? It was really quite distracting. “I beg your pardon?”
“Now don’t get in a twist, Kate. Reginald is our dear, dear. . .“ Imogen swayed and Reginald cradled her about the waist a little more firmly, “friend. Moment I found he worked for the duke, I said to myself. . . . I said, Imogen, you must, must be nice to this man so he will help dear, dear Kate. . . and!” She tugged a bit of parchment from between her breasts. “He’s given us a list.”
A thrill of anticipation ran through her. “What sort of list?”
“Oh, when the duke rides! Who he rides. . . I mean wh
at he rides,” she whispered. “What operas he prefers, when he shows his lovely face at his club.” Imogen took a step forward, her face radiant as if she’d just dedicated herself to some truly noble cause. “We shall hunt him like a fox! And you shall triumph.”
Imogen’s enthusiasm was certainly catching, and if she really had this kind of information the duke was in for a deal of trouble. Kate arched a brow. “When do we start?”
Imogen clapped her hands. “Immediately. But now, we should sleep. Don’t you think, Reginald?”
Reginald just smiled down at her and shook his head. “Not yet, my pet.”
The footman stretched forward with one brawny arm and wrapped his strong hand about Kate’s waist and pulled her near. “Now, my lovely ladies, let’s have a chat.”
“Here now!” Kate exclaimed, but at the same time she couldn’t help but be amazed at the hardness of the fellow’s body.
“Just a bit of gossip, madam,” the footman said, his voice husky against her ear. The faint scent of brandy surrounded him.
Lovely, the man was foxed. Then again, she’d take whatever information she could get about Darkwell.
“Just a bit of advice to help you on your quest.” He cuddled her and Imogen closer to his chest. “Now, my ladies, have you not considered his black attire?”
Kate hesitated. In fact, she had wondered at that.
Reginald dipped his head and nuzzled his nose against her hair. “He’s still in mourning.”
“In mourning.” Kate blinked. “For who?”
“His wife, of course.”
She leaned further into him, if that were possible. Perhaps, somewhere at some time she had read that the duke had been married, but she didn’t recall it. “How long ago did she die?”
Imogen pushed at Reginald and stumbled forward. She thrust her chin into the air and gave the footman a haughty look. “This is a very dark conversation for our merry mood.”
“Imogen,” Kate protested. She bloody well wanted to know what Reginald knew.
“No. I’m tired. I wish to return home.” Imogen squared her shoulders and started down the hallway. Crookedly.
“Wait,” Kate hissed. What had soured her mood? “Blast.” Giving Reginald a quick smile, she started off after her friend.
“Good luck, madam,” Reginald called softly. “He could use a bit of happiness.”
Kate barely heard him as she hurried after Imogen and grabbed her friend about the waist. They staggered down the steps and out to their carriage. Imogen stumbled in.
Giving one glance at the house where she’d made her debut into the underbelly of London society, Kate wondered just what she’d gotten involved in. At any rate, she had a list. And the Duke of Darkwell had no idea he was about to become the most chased man in London.
***
Ryder guzzled down the last of his ale and held up the empty tankard.
“Do I look like a barmaid?”
Squinting he glanced up at Hunt. The world was fuzzy but not so fuzzy he couldn’t make out the duke’s imperious figure. “Tip a pyke.”
Hunt smiled merrily. “No, thank you.”
Ryder shrugged. “Have some ale then.”
“Felt in the mood for a bit of rough?” Hunt slung off his cloak and sat beside him on the splintery wooden bench at The Maiden’s Legs Tavern.
Ryder sure as hell hadn’t felt like immersing himself amongst the blue-blooded halls of his club. A man took his life in his hands coming down to the East India Docks at this hour, but, hell what was life worth anyway? “Come,” he drawled. “This is paradise.”
The din of the gin sots had deafened him to the screech of the fiddler in the corner. Damnation, he couldn’t even smell the faint odor of sweat, piss, and dog any longer, he’d been here so long.
Hunt snorted. “Paradise, my arse.”
A girl with reddish-blonde hair sauntered up to them, balancing a tray laden with tankards. A smile parted her plump rouged lips exposing slightly yellow teeth. Her faded gown clung to her lush frame, and her shift barely covered her nipples.
She leaned over and gave Hunt a smile. “Your friend’s in a bit of a mood. I hope you’re jollier.”
He leaned back, resting an elbow against the rough table. “I am charm itself, love. Especially to a girl with your attributes.”
She looked a bit confused, her brows drawing together. “Attribu--whots?”
He eyed her pillowy breasts. “It’s the greatest of compliments, I assure you.”
“I thought as much,” she lilted. Preening, she took Hunt’s hand, then placed it about her waist. Without waiting for an invitation, and with tremendous skill, she sat in his lap and plunked down the ales upon the wood table. “Now, you’ve lovely manners.” She eyed Ryder. “Though he’s a handsome bugger too.”
“Just a pretty face,” Hunt assured as he took her chin and turned her face back toward himself.
Giggling, her hand wandered over Hunt’s chest then traveled to his breeches. “I’ve always fancied me a pair of lords.”
Ryder grabbed his mug and took a long gulp. He couldn’t help but feel a bit of admiration for the greedy barmaid. After all, he’d been part of the more is never enough club himself for quite some time. However, fending off lusty wenches was not his idea of a good night. At least, not this eve. But now that Hunt was here—wherever the man went, women soon followed.
Hunt gave her a wolfish grin. “Some other time, love. My friend and I have serious drinking to do.”
She sighed, standing. “Do let me know if you tire of his company.”
Hunt patted her bum then slipped a shilling between her voluptuous breasts. “Keep the spirits coming, my sweet.”
The bar maid gave him a wink and wandered off.
Turning back to Ryder, Hunt grasped his tankard. “What the devil is wrong with you?”
“Nothing.”
Eyeing the thick black ale floating in his tankard, Hunt grimaced. “And what the devil are we drinking?”
Ryder threw him a slurred grin. “Tastes like a chamber pot, but it’s effective in eliminating even the most insistent of thoughts.”
Hunt tossed back half the pint then shuddered. “Tastes like Thames water. Or worse.”
“And how would you know—“
Hunt arched a brow. “Recall last February?”
Ryder started to protest, but recalled a little over a year ago, he and Hunt had gotten foxed at this very tavern. They’d brawled with a group of sailors and all ended up in the river. He was lucky he hadn’t gone toes up from the filth.
Hunt pulled at his queue, quickly brushing his hair back and sweeping it away from his face. “We’re prevaricating.”
Damn. Ryder stared at the bottom of his nearly empty tankard. Where was the barmaid when he actually needed her? The last thing he wanted to see was the thing empty. “Prevaricating what?”
“Your problem, my friend.”
“I don’t have a problem.” Ryder frowned at the sludge at lining the tin mug. Perhaps he should switch to gin. At least then, his innards might still be intact come the dawn.
“You force me to guess at your difficulties,” Hunt warned, waving for the barmaid.
As if she knew exactly what he was thinking, she brought a tray with four small wooden cups of gin. She eyed Ryder and darted off.
Reaching for the gin cup, he waved it at Hunt. “Like I said, my life’s as right as. . .” he swallowed a big breath then tossed the gin back. “Rain.”
“Hmm.” Hunt rested his arm on the table and drummed his fingers on the peeling surface. “Perhaps you’ve taken vows of chastity?”
Ryder’s head started to pound. The bastard really was going to interrogate him. Why couldn’t he be like everyone else and be content to leave him be?
Hunt tilted his head. “Are you heading off to a monastery?”
“No.”
“Contemplating a life of prayer?”
“No.”
Hunt fingered his chin for a moment a
s if in deep thought then slammed his hand on the table. “Then what the hell is stopping you?”
The glasses jumped and rattled, and Ryder snapped towards Hunt. “From what?”
“From showing Mrs. Darrell a very good time.”
“She’s too innocent for me,” Ryder confessed. She needed a man who could give her his heart. His heart still belonged very much to one woman. He couldn’t risk giving it to another.
Sighing, Ryder took another drink of ale from a tankard that had miraculously appeared at his elbow. He fought back a grimace at the taste after the gin. But in a few seconds he wouldn’t be able to taste anything. If he was lucky in about an hour, he wouldn’t feel anything either. “You’ve seen her. Doesn’t belong. Deserves more, too.”
He daren’t even mention Jane. He’d given up voicing his pain over her loss. Hunt would simply repeat the obvious. Let go. Well, Ryder couldn’t let go. He didn’t want to.
Hunt leaned back and remained silent, his blue eyes penetrating.
Ryder eyed him. “It won’t work.”
“What won’t?” Hunt inquired, his eyes widening with mock innocence.
Ryder shook his glass at him and scowled. “Whatever argument you’re composing.”
“Argue? Me? Never.”
“Good.” Ryder nodded, glad Hunt was finally seeing reason. “Don’t mention her name again.” He’d come here to forget about her, not rabbit on till dawn.
“I suppose you’ve considered what will happen if you don’t do the honors with the dear lady?”
Ryder narrowed his eyes. Hunt was on dangerous ground, and he was in no humor to be discussing her. Especially linked with other men. “What?” he challenged.
Hunt lifted his wooden cup, pausing, and let the moment draw out before he drawled, “Some green idiot will get a hold of her, stick his cock in her with no ado and he’ll crow at his conquest. She’ll be no better off than when she came to London and she’ll be just as ruined. Only with you, you’d actually have paid attention to what she desired.”
The image of some fop rutting over Mrs. Darrell churned the gin around his stomach at an alarming rate. “Say that again, and I will shove your nose into your damned brain.”