Tempted by His Touch: A Limited Edition Boxed Set of Dukes, Rogues, & Alpha Heroes Historical Romance Novels

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Tempted by His Touch: A Limited Edition Boxed Set of Dukes, Rogues, & Alpha Heroes Historical Romance Novels Page 225

by Darcy Burke


  ***

  Tristan brought her hand up to his lips, his eyes remaining fixed on her face. She looked frightened, but as his kiss touched her skin, he saw her blush. He pulled her up from the settee.

  “Are you ready?”

  She nodded.

  “Wonderful. It is a beautiful day, and to have you with me for a ride will make me very happy.” He hoped that sounded sincere. She was beautiful, and he did like the idea of having her with him. Now to convince her of the same.

  He escorted her out to his carriage. The shiny black-lacquered vehicle was one of his finest. For their first outing, he’d had the glass windowpanes removed, for the spring day was too fine to keep out. His team of four from his stables were matching greys and impressive. Tristan knew it because of all the offers to buy them from him. He’d considered selling them to pay for his passage back East, but the guilt his father made him feel, family honor and all that, prevented him from doing so. A wife. He needed a wife and an heir.

  He had had that before. If only English law would have concurred, he’d not have to follow this course of action. If only…

  With considerable effort, he pushed the thoughts aside. He was here, now, in London. With his proper English betrothed. God, how he hated England…

  “They’re beautiful,” Evelyn said, admiration in her tone as she pulled her hand from his and walked to his team.

  His mind returned to her. “Yes, they are.” he took her arm. “But they’re not used to strangers stroking them.”

  Her gaze widened in surprise. “Will they spook?”

  Quickly he eyed his coachman. The man’s hands held the ribbons but not tightly. A true professional, he kept his head straight, eyes on his team, waiting.

  “No, no, they won’t,” Tristan concluded. “But we should leave.” He directed her to the carriage door.

  A footman held the door open. She gathered her skirts and stepped up into the coach. Tristan followed and sat, tapping the roof to signal their readiness to leave.

  The ride to Hyde Park was short, but it seemed like an eternity to Tristan. He watched her sitting across from him, her face turned toward the windows. A twitch in her jaw told him just how nervous she was being in an open carriage with him. Even with her maid as chaperone on the seat outside the back window, where the woman could easily hear them or reach through the glass-less portal to touch her mistress.

  Evelyn’s tension seemed to grow with every rotation of the wheels. Why? What had he said or done to frighten her so? He had a reputation of being a rake, he assumed, knowing his string of mistresses since his return wasn’t a secret. Heaven knows, those women hadn’t been quiet about it. He was a catch, but he wasn’t the average lord. He rarely gave his courtesans any attention–in any sense of the word. Gifts and the title of his mistress had had to be enough. Still, that shouldn’t cause her alarm.

  The story Harry mentioned crept into his mind. Had she been involved in that virgins’ club? If so, that’d explain her skittish behavior.

  “Are you well, darling?” The question was ridiculous but a means to learn why she behaved so.

  Her eyes narrowed. “Of course, I am fine. It’s that this is so quick. I’ve been out of London for a season or two, and wasn’t expecting…” she paused. If he were a gambler, he’d bet she was surprised anyone wanted her. But she was so beautiful, and he’d witnessed her fortitude at the dance and her scathing remarks to him.

  No, the only conclusion he could surmise was his lovely lady had been brutally attacked by those noble ruffians. He’d need to investigate that further, but he already knew the outcome. He’d have to kill them.

  ***

  Evelyn bit her bottom lip, her gaze fixated on the passing buildings as they rode to the park. The heat from his eyes burned her skin. Like he was peeling away her clothes, even her skin, trying to see what lay beneath. Or he wanted something. She shivered. The intensity made her feel trapped, despite the breeze coming through the open windows. Her kid-leather-gloved hands still felt the burn from his touch as he escorted her out to the carriage and helped her board. A strong surge of panic whisked through her, but she forced herself to remain calm. She was reassured remembering Missy sat just on the other side of the carriage wall.

  “Ma’am, despite my rather forward moves, compromising you in a sense, I will abstain from getting a special license, unless you’d prefer for us to hurry to the altar and all of that.”

  With a frown, she tugged her lower lip in between her teeth. No special license? After the scene he’d caused? “I don’t understand, my lord.”

  “Tristan,” he prodded.

  She ignored him, waiting for his explanation.

  Sighing, he looked out the window and then back to her. “Frankly, I’d like a chance to know you better, what you like and dislike and so forth, before exchanging vows of matrimony. For example, I think as an engaged couple, you calling me ‘my lord’ sounds awkward. I believe using our Christian names would be better.”

  She couldn’t understand. Yesterday, he breached every protocol to claim her publicly, then spoke to her father to get his consent, only to prolong the engagement? It made no sense. She breathed deeply and shut her eyes. He was still staring at her when she opened them.

  “So, my lord, do you regret asking for my hand?”

  A look of surprise flashed across his face but disappeared and he smiled. A slow, seductive curl of his lips. “Why ever would you ask me that?”

  Her lips twitched as she fought her own grin. Glancing down at her hands, she withdrew her laced handkerchief from where it was tucked up her sleeve and twisted it between her fingers. “Perhaps because of that look you keep giving me.”

  He chuckled. It was a warm and inviting sound.

  “I enjoy looking at you, my dear. You are very beautiful.”

  A shiver washed over her. It frightened her, yet a strand of excitement raced through her. Emotions wrapped in a fiery ball flowed inside, distracting her. The linen square in her grasp twisted and tightened as she wrung her hands. A sharp pain from a fingernail into her palm jolted up her arm, bringing her back to the present. She clamped her mouth shut and looked up through the fringe of her eyelashes and saw him still watching her, his head angled, a question in his eyes.

  Evelyn licked her lips, her mouth dry. He was handsome, debonair and out of her league. Skin bronzed by the sun, he wore the color better than most Englishmen did their natural white. His dark brown hair, almost black, cropped short, the pomade sleeking it backward. Clean shaven, he had the face of a god—a Roman nose, angular cheeks, sharp jawline. The only flaw was the hint of a jagged scar on his jawline. And his eyes were dark brown, warm in the sunlight but a hint of how cold and hard he could be showed in them.

  But, her beautiful? She’d regarded herself as pretty on a good day but knew deep inside, her beauty had been robbed, taken by force. The monsters lashed at her thoughts…Lightheaded, the blood drained from her face. She swayed.

  “Evelyn, Evelyn…”

  She heard him banging at the ceiling in the carriage–barely audible above the roar in her ears.

  The carriage came to a stop. Tristan reached for her as the darkness beckoned her to close her eyes. He carried her out of the coach. The fresh air enveloped her. The chirping of birds, the clip-clop of other horses and the sound of wheels filled her ears. The air was scented with the smell of green grass, wild flowers and horse manure.

  “Evie!” Tristan called loudly.

  On the verge of telling him to leave her be, Evelyn sensed a bottle shoved under her nose and the noxious fumes invading her nostrils. Smelling salts. The strong, pungent fragrance, accompanied by the sound of her maid’s voice, brought her screeching back to the here and now, the monsters scurrying away.

  She gagged. “Take that away.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  Evelyn blinked. They stood on the side of the path in Hyde Park. Heat flooded her face when she saw other vehicles, crowded with other members of
the ton, circling the park in that age-old ritual of showing off oneself and who one was with, as well as gabbing later on about who was there and with whom. She and Tristan would be on the tongue of every gossip tomorrow with this blatant display–all because of a past she couldn’t escape.

  Oh, why would he want her?

  At the moment, though, he stood at her side, his hand holding hers. “Are you all right?”

  Embarrassed, she nodded. “I’m sorry to be of such inconvenience.”

  “No, please, you are not. Are you all right?”

  No, she thought, she never would be. But faced with the concerned look on his face, she couldn’t say it. She forced a laughed. “We are making quite the scene here,” she whispered.

  He glanced up right when two carriages slowed and another stopped altogether. “Yes, I suppose you are right. Here, take my arm. You are my betrothed, Evelyn. It is beautiful out, the weather superb, so I’d like to take a walk with you. Let everyone see me with you and ogle with envy.”

  She smiled and took his arm. The strength of his arm, the warmth of his body, the allure of him made her feel safe. Perhaps he could protect her. But what about Richard? What about her wedding night? Would he reject her when he learned of Mary? Found that Evelyn was no longer pure? The questions twisted her gut, but she pushed them aside. Now they were in a public park, with lots of people. Even demons couldn’t play here and survive. But maybe she could…

  Chapter Eight

  Afghanistan, 1868

  Tristan took the small porcelain cup from the woman before him and couldn’t resist a nod of gratitude. The black coffee, stronger and richer than any served in England, was his addiction in a land of few riches. It burned going down his throat and he welcomed it. This country was too much dust and grit for his taste. He wore a layer of it on his skin as well as up his nostrils, in his ears and eyes and down his throat.

  He stared at the woman who sat across from him, holding her own cup. Inside the tent, she removed her veil and headpiece. He bit back a grin. She shouldn’t expose herself that much to him, but Aatifa wasn’t good about always following the rules women in this land adhered to. Well, not around him, and for that, he was grateful. She was too beautiful to hide behind scarves and veils. Olive skin, dark brown almond-shaped eyes fringed with long black lashes, she was exotic. And when she smiled, he was lost, wanting her so badly…

  Like many of the agents stationed in this Godforsaken land, he found a female companion. Her name rolled off his tongue with ease. Aatifa. The English, as well as their counterparts, the Russians, formed attachments to the Afghan ladies, originally as a way to get into their society and sneak around, but many got closer. He wasn’t any different. It ate at him sometimes but then, on afternoons like this, alone with her, the rules changed in his favor.

  “You have that look again,” she murmured. “We have some time alone and your mind strays…”

  He set his cup down and reached for her hand. “My apologies. Please, I am where I want to be.” He gave her a seductive smile, the type he knew would make her giggle and blush. She was so beautiful. He didn’t deserve her. He arrived last year, starving, lost and in dire straits. His assignment to map the area inconclusive thanks to a raiding party, no doubt fueled by the czar’s men, though he couldn’t prove it. Only by his own ingenuity was he able to limp away, to collapse outside Aatifa’s village.

  She had nursed him back to life. Her father took him in as a son. Made him a son by giving him Aatifa.

  And he used them all to get the information needed for his king in this great game of empires.

  He betrayed her. But still he couldn’t stay away. She glanced at him, her love reflected in her brown eyes. As she moved to his side, her hands rubbing the knots in his shoulders loose, he moaned. God, how he loved her touch. She seemed to know just what muscle ached.

  The throbbing member below also begged to bury deep in her. And the more she massaged his bicep, the deeper the longing became. As much as he knew he should quell that desire, his need for her won, and he pulled her into his arms, his mouth taking hers, ravishing her lips. When her mouth opened and she pressed against him, he knew her need met his on every level.

  Kissing her, his desire for her made what was left of his rational thinking return to the same question–what would he do if faced with having to desert her? He had too many men counting on him. Three officers reported to him. One in a neighboring village. Two with him here. As his mind played the ugly scenario in his head of three British soldiers under cover, spying for him, responsible to him, his good coffee turned rancid in his belly, and he heard hooves pounding just outside. The horse clattered to a complete and sudden stop, sounding loud on the hard-packed dirt.

  Grifton. Shit.

  Aatifa chortled softly against his stilled mouth. “Your brother is a little wild.”

  Tristan snorted. “Wild isn’t the word I would use, but, yes, that explains him well.” With a disgusted sigh, he disengaged himself from her arms and stood. He needed a word with the lieutenant and he needed it now.

  But by the time he swung the door open, the man was gone. Tristan shook his head and walked to the open eating area at the end of the street.

  The place was a shack in many respects. Only two and a half walls built around a large cooking fire pit. Two long tables sat on either side of the pit, piled high with food scraps, part of some skinned animal already cut to pieces, along with vegetables and fruit. A long counter separated the cooking area from a couple of small square tables and stools. At one of those tables sat the British agent Tristan had met not so long ago in Fitzwaters’ tent.

  Tristan grimaced. The lad–lad? Who was he fooling? The young lieutenant was perhaps five years younger than Tristan, but a couple of years here had made Tristan feel ancient. No, the young man was a fast learner, fluent in the local dialect now as he had been back at headquarters. But his arrogant British sense of superiority still needed squelching–it was an obvious sign of his origins. And here, in this hostile territory, land that neither the British nor the Russians could subdue, it was dangerous, especially if one tried to play the part of a native, to blend in to learn what the enemy was doing.

  As he walked closer, his anger flared. The kid, Grifton Reynard, was writing on a scrap of vellum. The man didn’t even see him coming, but Grifton did acknowledge the Afghani girl who came and nuzzled him. Not a wise thing, Tristan thought. For all he knew, the kid was writing down British troop locations, and she was paid by the Russians to snoop. Damn!

  “What the hell do you think you are doing?” he snarled, reaching for the scribbling.

  “Hey!” Grifton snapped, grabbing for his letter. “I’m writing my lady, if you must know.”

  Tristan’s temper threatened to explode. The man spoke that in English. For the love of all that was holy, had he lost his mind? With a quick flip of his wrist, he motioned for the girl to leave them.

  “Grif, what the hell,” his voice dropped to barely above a whisper. “You know writing and speaking in English is banned here. That girl might be sent by the enemy.”

  Grifton laughed. “You know she isn’t. As to the other, I haven’t sent a word in almost a year, ever since I got stuck in this hellhole…” His glare at Tristan diminished. “Not saying I don’t want to be here, sir…”

  “No, of course not.” Tristan’s lips twitched. This was a lonely, somewhat unrewarding task but required by the Empire’s elite. God, what a joke that was, Tristan thought. For those killed in action, the inquiries demanded by military law remained buried in a stack of papers, never to surface, for doing so placed all the others in danger.

  With a deep sigh, he slumped onto the stool next to the soldier. “You know you shouldn’t write to anyone at home while here. And not speak in English at all,” he added, wincing at himself for doing so in this conversation.

  “Yes,” Grifton said and he bent closer. “But George saw the Russian troops, just over the rise, three miles or so. He’s plan
ning on reporting to you before he heads back to Khandel to report. I just thought if I could get a short note to my dear Ev…” He shut his mouth as Tristan began to shake his head. He dropped his head.

  Tristan looked at his soldier and friend. Despite all his attempts not to, his prediction to himself back at Fitzwaters came true. They’d become close friends. Not unusual given the circumstances, but he knew it was a deadly connection. The man looked devastated.

  “How did you get assigned to this work? It’s not the sort of destination for titled lords.” Tristan eyed him carefully. The young viscount’s title showed up on papers that came across his desk not long after he reported for duty. It was a subject Tristan avoided. He couldn’t place him, but the man’s abilities more than justified him being part of the mission.

  “Colonel Lord Dunsford, sir.”

  Tristan snorted. Dunsford had done a pretty good job of finding recruits, but while Grif was proficient at the language, why send a child to a man’s game like this? “Did you mention a desire to be here?”

  “I was unaware of this brigade. I’m just a good shot.” He glanced up at Tristan, a cocky smile on his face. “A damn good shot.”

  A sharpshooter with an ability to pick up foreign dialects. It made Tristan curious, but he’d have to find answers from above. He still had a problem before him—a lovesick fool could get them all killed.

  “Is this chit your intended?”

  Good thing they were friends, Tristan mused. They were both of noble families, Grifton a viscount, far above Tristan since he’d gained the title. The man should have pummeled him for calling a lady a chit, but such was love and war.

  It also made Tristan revisit his own claim on Aatifa. He should have refused her father the gift of his daughter in marriage….should have, but the advantage was too good, to be that in with the local Khan. Yes, to accept the offer put him in a prime position to be inside, get others in with him and get the needed information. What a loathsome creature he was, to take her. His insides turned nauseous at the beast he’d become. She hadn’t rejected him, though her people would never go against the will of the patriarchal Khan, and he knew she wanted him. What an ass he was! Despite it all, he cared for her and couldn’t leave. Besides, she seemed to keep his growing nightmares back. Too much destruction, too many killed, some by his own hand, enemies to the crown and all that. Made him ill. He swallowed and returned to his friend.

 

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