by Diana Quincy
The Duke Who Ravished Me is a work of fiction. Names, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
A Loveswept Ebook Original
Copyright © 2018 by Dora Mekouar
All rights reserved.
Published in the United States by Loveswept, an imprint of Random House, a division of Penguin Random House LLC, New York.
LOVESWEPT is a registered trademark and the LOVESWEPT colophon is a trademark of Penguin Random House LLC.
Ebook ISBN 9780399180088
Cover design: Carrie Divine/Seductive Designs
Cover photographs: Novelstock (man), Dm_Cherry/Shutterstock (background room), terekhov igor/Shutterstock (curtain)
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Contents
Cover
Title Page
Copyright
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Author’s Note
Dedication
By Diana Quincy
About the Author
Chapter 1
Adam Fairfax, fifth Duke of Sunderford, was sprawled shirtless on his sofa contemplating twin pairs of enchantingly plump breasts when he was very rudely interrupted by his butler.
“Yes, what is it, Dowding?” Aggravated by the intrusion, Sunny reluctantly tore his attention away from the naked opera singer straddling him, as well as from her equally unclothed friend, who’d snuggled up to his side and was employing her tongue to do delightfully wicked things to his right ear. “As you can see, I’m engaged at the moment.”
“Indeed, Your Grace.” Averting his gaze, Dowding stood at strict attention, his expression one of dignified reserve. Only the blaze of red on each drooping cheek betrayed the servant’s discomfiture. “I apologize for the interruption, but there is something of an emergency in the front parlor.”
The duke flicked one of Lenora’s pert nipples with his tongue. Delicious. The opera singer tasted like strawberries. “Is it on fire?”
“I beg your pardon, Your Grace?”
“The front parlor. Is it going up in flames?”
“Oh.” Dowding doggedly kept his focus on the red velvet curtains framing the bow window behind the sofa, rather than the illicit activities on the satin upholstered furniture. “No, Your Grace.”
Sunny sampled Lenora’s other nipple. It was just as tasty. His erection throbbed with impatience. “Has a murder been committed there?”
“No, Your Grace, nothing of that nature.”
Sabrina, Lenora’s actress friend, slid off the sofa, coming to her knees on the Axminster carpet and settling herself between Sunny’s spread thighs. Ah, yes. He was hard and ready. A little relief would be just the thing. As soon as he could rid himself of his stuffy butler. Sunny had inherited the parsimonious prig along with the dukedom. A small price to pay, all things considered. At least, he usually viewed the situation thusly. At the moment, he wasn’t so certain.
He fixed an imperious stare on the man. “I see. No fire and no murder.” The woman on her knees undid the placket of his pantaloons. “Then there is clearly no emergency at the moment that cannot wait until morning.” The duke choked out these last words as Sabrina freed his prick and stroked it with an experienced hand. “You may leave us.”
Dowding cleared his throat. “It’s just that…”
He blew out an exasperated breath. The butler’s continued presence was having a deleterious effect on the stoutness of his erection. “Oh, for God’s sake. What is so important that you’ve seen fit to intrude upon me and my guests in my playroom?”
Dowding never ventured into Sunny’s den of iniquity, a chamber full of large comfortable furniture, ideal for reclining with guests, as well as strategically placed mirrors that added an extra layer of debauchery to these sorts of entertainments. The prude usually sent in John the footman, who was much younger and, therefore, far more likely to have the appropriate appreciative envy of the activities that occurred here.
“Your wards have arrived, Your Grace.”
Sunny blinked, certain he hadn’t heard correctly. “My what?”
“Your wards.”
“I haven’t got any damned wards.” He refocused on his opera singer, cupping her bouncy breasts in his hands, reveling in their soft, cushy feel. Women truly were heaven on earth. “This is obviously someone’s idea of a joke. Send them away.”
“The governess refuses to leave without seeing you.”
“What governess?”
“The governess accompanying your wards.”
“Dammit,” he snapped. “Stop calling them that. I have no wards.”
“It’s past midnight, Your Grace. Shall I send your…erm…the children…away at this hour?”
Sunny sighed. There was nothing to be done for it. Even his withering arousal showed signs of giving up the fight. Dowding clearly had no intention of leaving until the matter had been dealt with. The duke set Lenora away from him and heaved himself to his feet, buttoning his pantaloons as he stepped around Sabrina kneeling on the floor before him. “How many of them are there?”
“Two, Your Grace. Twins, I believe.”
“Boys?” Please God let them be boys. He didn’t know the first thing about little girls.
“Girls, Your Grace.”
“Then obviously it’s a mistake.” Relief rippled through him as he reached for his shirt, which was strewn atop the billiards table. He could almost see the humor in it. “No one of sound mind would leave innocent young girls in the care of Sinful Sunny.” He didn’t care for the ridiculous moniker that some in society had attached to him, but a scandalous reputation had its uses.
He pulled the white linen shirt over his head and tucked it into his pantaloons. “Where did you put them?” He headed for the salon door. Pan, his fluffy white terrier, who’d been lounging on the fur rug before the hearth, rose and trotted after him, yipping at his master’s heels. “We might as well put this situation to rights posthaste.”
A visibly relieved Dowding followed him. “They are in the Blue Parlor, Your Grace.”
Sunny pulled the door open.
“But what about us?” The velvety voice came from behind him.
He turned back in time to see his naked guests taking a seat on the swing he’d had attached to the ceiling, an amusing contraption that had inspired delightfully inventive sex play on more than one occasion. Lenora and Sabrina settled in side by side, swinging gently to and fro, all curves and bare skin, their smooth milky legs crossed. His cock twitched with renewed interest.
“Surely you can think of a way to entertain
yourselves until I return.” And return he would. Just as soon as he straightened out the mess in the Blue Parlor. “I shan’t be long.”
* * *
—
Sunny could barely find the Blue Parlor, which he used only for respectable gatherings such as the annual ball he hosted during the Season. The finest families attended, even the most exacting matrons; as debauched and practically beyond redemption as the Duke of Sunderford surely was, society forgave a man almost anything if he possessed an exalted title and obscene amount of money.
Sunny slowed as he reached two identical doors near the front hall, trying to remember which led to the Blue Parlor. While he deliberated, his pup ran an excited circle around him. He really couldn’t fathom where the animal got all of its energy. John the footman, at his post in the entrance hall, dashed over to open the door on the left, revealing the Blue Parlor just beyond.
Sunny strode in, his gaze skimming over clusters of blue velvet patterned chairs and sofas accentuated with bright red pillows. This was perhaps the grandest—and most cluttered—chamber in Sunderford House, with priceless masterpieces stacked one atop the other on the wallpapered walls, all the way to the ornately carved ceiling. He came to a stop in the middle and surveyed the quiet room.
He turned to Dowding, who’d followed him in. “This is the Blue Parlor, is it not?”
Dowding’s confused gaze darted around the room. “Yes, Your Grace.”
“Then where the devil are these supposed wards of mine?”
“SURPRISE!” two high-pitched voices shrieked in unison as a pair of wide-eyed little she-devils popped up from behind a high-backed stuffed chair.
Sunny’s heart jumped into his throat. “Hellfire and damnation!” he gasped. “What the devil is that?”
Only Pan seemed to think it was all great fun. The furry little creature yelped and bounced excitedly around the girls, while Sunny stared at the two little monsters and waited for his pounding heart to resume its normal rhythm.
Dowding straightened, recovering from the unexpected fright. “These are your wards, Your Grace.”
The little brats wore matching attire, white lace dresses with blue satin bows tied high around the waists. Their honey-blond curls reached their shoulders, and they regarded him expectantly with wide silver eyes set against delicate features and little bowed mouths. Their exterior was angelic enough, but Sunny felt certain fate had sent him two little demons. He stared some more, realizing he had no idea what to say to these two strange little girls.
“I’m a very good tumbler,” one of them piped up. “Do you want to see?”
“Perhaps later.” Or never. Preferably never. He blinked, finally finding his tongue. “What are your names?”
“I’m Patience,” said the tumbler.
“And I’m Prudence,” squeaked her identical match.
“Patience and Prudence.” Now he was certain the heavens were enjoying themselves at his expense. “Good lord. And I suppose your mother’s name is Chastity.”
“Actually it was Charity.”
He turned toward the polished feminine voice. He could barely make out the slight figure standing in the far shadows of the room. “And who might you be?”
She stepped forward, the light falling over unremarkable features, a proud nose, and lusterless wheat-colored hair pulled back in a bun so tight, her entire face seemed constrained by it. She was as plain as a shrub and had swamped what appeared to be a trim figure in an ill-fitting, shapeless dark gown that practically guaranteed its wearer would fade into the background.
“Isabel Finch, Your Grace.” She curtseyed low, but he noticed she did not dip herself as deeply as females of a certain status normally did when they came into his presence. He was a duke after all. Only the royals were of higher rank. “The children’s governess.”
“I see.” What a contrast this thin-lipped spinster was to the lush feminine creatures awaiting him above stairs. It was past time to put an end to this farce. “And what is the meaning of your interrupting my evening?” He used his most imperious ducal tone with her, the one he employed whenever he wanted to intimidate unwanted visitors.
One of her sparse brows quirked up. She did not seem impressed. “Lord Abel sent us.”
“Uncle Abel?” His late father’s youngest brother was one of the few relatives he could actually abide, but he had not laid eyes on the man in several years. Not since Abel had taken up residence in the godforsaken rugged wilds of Cornwall. The old man might as well have moved to India as far as Sunny was concerned, so rarely did the duke venture far from the comforts and carnal conveniences of London.
“Lord Abel was the girls’ guardian.”
“Was?” Foreboding settled over him like the morning chill.
“Your uncle is ill. He wants the girls settled in a new home before he passes.”
Alarm filtered through him. “What ails him?”
“The doctor says it’s his heart.”
An unexpected surge of emotion constricted Sunny’s throat. Abel was the last of his father’s brothers. His own father, the late duke, was dead, and the second son, a man he’d never met, had perished some years ago in the West Indies. A fever had taken Uncle William, the third son, when Sunny was a boy. That left Abel, the youngest and the only one of his father’s brothers to whom Sunny had any attachment, as his sole surviving paternal uncle.
“There’s obviously been some mistake.” He fisted his hands on his hips. “I am not the sort of man anyone would entrust the care of young innocent girls to.”
She pursed her lips. “So I have heard.” She had a schoolmarm’s small sharp mouth, and her features seemed frozen in a perpetual frown.
His brows shot up. She was impudent, this governess, despite her straightlaced appearance. Few people dared speak their mind to him, and certainly not the servants. True, a governess was above the servant class, but only just.
“However,” she continued, “Lord Abel is convinced this is the best home for the children.”
He resisted the urge to guffaw. “Are you certain it is my uncle’s heart that is deteriorating and not his mind?”
“Quite certain.”
“What is your pup’s name?” Patience—or Prudence, he couldn’t tell them apart—asked from the floor, where both girls played with the animal on the rug before the enormous hearth.
“Pan,” he answered, struck by how out of place the wholesome tableau of the two little girls in their white frocks petting his hound looked in his home.
“Pan?” one of the nuisances chirped. “What a silly name for a dog!” She shared a look with her sister before both brats dissolved into amused giggles.
The scene couldn’t be more out of place in this den of iniquity. What in Hades was Uncle Abel thinking? Then it occurred to him. Abel had been away from Town for many years. He’d likely heard nothing of “Sinful Sunny” and the delicious debauchery that took place at Sunderford House on an almost nightly basis.
Sunny thought of the opera singer and her friend awaiting his pleasure not far from where the little annoyances were seated. The ducal mansion was no place for children. And Sinful Sunny had no intention of curbing his sexual habits to make it so.
He came to a decision. “We will see to your comfort this evening. However, in the morning, I shall escort you all back to Cornwall.” He did not fancy making the long, uncomfortable journey to the stark southwestern coast, but neither did he relish the prospect of being saddled with these two whelps and their drab nursemaid for even a day.
“Your Grace.” He wouldn’t have thought it possible, but the governess’s lips thinned even more than before. “If I might have a word with you in private.” It was more of a demand than a question.
His mind wandered back to Sabrina and Lenora. How were they entertaining themselves in his absence? His imagination conjured up
a number of intriguing possibilities. He was anxious to join them and discover the reality for himself.
“Your Grace?”
The governess’s strident tones cut into his erotic imaginings. “Yes?”
“A word, if you please.”
It didn’t please him. He had a private party to return to. “I am fatigued. You may have an audience in the morning, before we depart.” In two separate coaches. The urchins and their humorless nursemaid in one and he, in peaceful solitude, in the other. “Dowding, see that accommodations are made for the girls and Miss…erm…” Damnation. He’d forgotten her name.
“Miss Finch.” She crossed her arms over a narrow chest. She didn’t appear to have much in the way of curves beneath the plain dark school nun’s frock she wore. And she was long in the tooth, most likely in her late twenties. Not that he would have considered screwing her even if she were a beauty. He never cavorted with servants. “I’m afraid I must insist we speak now, this evening.”
Sunny cocked his head, stunned by her presumptuousness. Someone had clearly neglected to teach the woman a governess’s proper place. Even the normally inexpressive Dowding exhaled a shocked breath at the wench’s impertinence.
“Now see here, Miss Finch,” the butler admonished. “His Grace has clearly stated he wishes to retire for the evening.”
Sunny raised a staying hand. “It’s all right, Dowding.” Yes, the governess had spoken out of turn, but the unconventional part of him was impressed by her audaciousness. God help him, but he liked cheeky wenches. “I’ll grant Finch a few minutes. In the meantime, why don’t you see about settling the children?”
“Very well, Your Grace.” The butler turned to the children. “Come along.”
The little she-devils made no move to obey. They just stared at the butler until the governess glided forward and knelt before them. “My darlings, go now with Mr. Dowding.” She took one into each arm and pressed a kiss on each child’s upturned cheek. “I’m sure His Grace has the warmest, most comfortable beds.”