Bringing Down the Duke

by Evie Dunmore

  Her mind was whirling. Ramsey’s answer raised more questions than it resolved. Why had her friends gone to Montgomery of all people? And, more significantly, why had he come?

  Ramsey obviously misinterpreted her troubled silence. “It is all over now, miss,” he soothed. “The director of this . . . place . . . should be here any minute and then we can draw a line under all this unpleasantness.”

  Indeed, the prison director arrived before Montgomery returned, looking like a man who had hastily dragged his clothes back on when he had already been settled comfortably by the hearth. He was accompanied by the clerk who had made her sign the ledger, who, judging by his rain-soaked hat, had been sent out to fetch him.

  When Montgomery strode back into the office a few minutes later, his eyes were unnaturally bright, and a muscle was ticking faintly in his left cheek.

  The prison director quickly moved behind his vast desk.

  “The cells here fall short of any standards set by the Home Office,” Montgomery said without preamble. “Too filthy, too cold, and unacceptably overcrowded.”

  The director tugged at his cravat. “Regrettably, there has been a shortage of—”

  “And on what grounds was she being held?” Montgomery demanded. “Their demonstration had been granted a permit.”

  Had they?

  The prison director leafed jerkily through the ledger. “Indeed, they had a permit,” he said. “It seems the offenders, I mean, ladies, were held for obstruction and assault.” He looked up uncertainly. “Miss Archer here, ah, bloodied a police officer’s nose.”

  There was a brief, incredulous pause.

  “A misunderstanding, obviously,” Montgomery said silkily.

  The prison director nodded. “Obviously, Your Grace.”

  “Hence, her record should be expunged and the sheriff informed that her case has been dropped.”

  “Certainly, sir.”

  Sebastian motioned for Ramsey without taking his eyes off the prison director. “How much is the bail?”

  The director looked surprised; he evidently had expected the duke to simply take his prisoner and walk out again. “The bail is at fifty pounds, Your Grace.”

  Annabelle bit back a gasp. That was a staggering amount of money. She felt ill as she watched Ramsey pull a checkbook from his inner coat pocket.

  Montgomery signed the check on the director’s desk and wordlessly turned to leave.

  Ramsey offered her his arm, but her feet were rooted to the spot.

  “Miss?” Ramsey coaxed.

  Montgomery turned back, his eyes impatient. His expression turned quizzical when she walked over to him and rose to her toes to whisper into his ear. She didn’t want to be this close to him, she probably reeked of prison, but . . . “There’s another suffragist in the cell,” she said softly, “Maggie. She has no one to fetch her, and she’s terrified.”

  Montgomery pulled back and gave her a long, unreadable stare.

  Then he held a hand out to Ramsey, who promptly pulled out the checkbook again.

  It was potently silent in the office when the duke signed a second check for fifty pounds and ordered Maggie’s release come morning.

  Annabelle’s cheeks were burning up. She thought of the Cockney woman, and the impulse to help her, too, wrestled with common sense. Montgomery put an end to her quandary by firmly placing her hand on his arm and marching her from the office.

  An unmarked carriage was waiting for them at a back entrance in the pouring rain.

  Ramsey tossed the drenched driver a coin. “To Thirty-seven Belgrave Square.”

  As the carriage swayed through the night, they sat in silence. With the light and shadow of the passing streetlights playing over his face, Montgomery looked alien, like a stranger, and it made her feel lost.

  She had just cost him a hundred pounds, and she wasn’t even his mistress. He had searched the prisons of London to find her after she had told him to stay away. And he was a straightlaced man, so it must have gone against his grain to free her by throwing his weight around. Thank you seemed laughably inadequate for what he had just done.

  “Where are we going?” she finally asked.

  “Apologies,” he said, “I thought you knew. My residence in Belgravia.”

  He wasn’t looking at her. Save for searching her face for signs of mistreatment, he had not looked at her much at all tonight. The realization settled like a boulder on her chest.

  “Unless you would prefer to stay at Claridge’s,” he said when she didn’t reply.

  “The hotel?” Even she had heard of that illustrious place.

  He nodded. “You could use my rooms there. Transport to the train station could be arranged easily tomorrow.”

  He sounded so polite. Impersonally polite. It wasn’t just because Ramsey was with them. She could sense the distance between them, the weakness of their connection, as if he had neatly clipped the invisible rope that had tugged them toward each other almost from the start. He obviously still felt protective of her, but it was clear he did not want to feel that way. Well. He was only doing what she had asked him to do: staying away from her. It should have made her feel relieved. Instead, the boulder on her chest was slowly crushing her very lungs.

  “I’m perfectly fine with Belgrave Square, Your Grace.”

  * * *

  Montgomery’s white, stucco-fronted town house rose four stories high and overlooked the now-dark park across the street. Four white pillars framed the main entrance. From prison to London’s wealthiest neighborhood in the space of an hour proved a little overwhelming; Annabelle moved up the steps like an old woman on Ramsey’s arm. She vaguely registered a chandelier and a wide oak staircase while footmen took gloves and coats and hats.

  Montgomery was speaking to a female servant whose crisp dress and demeanor signaled that she was the housekeeper. Finally, he turned to Annabelle, the aloof expression on his face unchanged.

  “Millie will show you to your chamber,” he said, nodding at a young maid hovering by the housekeeper’s side. “Do not hesitate to have a bath, or to order up a tray.”

  A bath. Food. Heaven.

  She would have traded all of it gladly for an ounce of warmth in his voice.

  A hint of golden stubble glinted on his jawline. He must have risen and shaved early, and now it was approaching midnight. He’d had another long day, and it showed in the stubble, and the harshness of the lines around his beautiful mouth. At the end of the day, he was a mortal man.

  She tried to breathe through the building pressure in her chest. She had never wanted anything more than to bury her face against his shoulder, because mortal or not, he still looked as though the whole world could lean on him awhile. And he could need some tenderness in return.

  Her scrutiny did not escape his notice. A flicker sparked in the depths of his eyes, and his stoic expression cracked. For a moment, it looked as though he was going to touch her, but his right hand just clenched and unclenched by his side.

  “Good night, Miss Archer,” he said.

  * * *

  “Would you like me to draw you a bath, miss, while I prepare the room?” Millie asked.

  The room looked perfectly prepared to Annabelle. The cool elegance of ice-blue wood paneling and a high stucco ceiling was tempered by lush dark velvet drapes and the warmth of the roaring fire on the grate.

  “A bath would be lovely,” she said. Anything to wash off the degradation of Millbank.

  The bathroom was elaborate: white tiles from floor to ceiling, glinting taps, and a large, oval copper tub. Glass jars with cakes of finely milled soap and pink crystal bottles with lavender essence and rose oil lined the shelves.

  Millie turned the taps open. Steam rose as hot white jets gushed into the tub. She left when Annabelle undressed, and she bustled back into the room with an armful of crisp white towels
, a nightgown, and a white silk robe. She placed the items on a chair by the bath and disappeared in a rustle of starched skirts.

  Her entire body sighed when she sank into the hot, lavender-scented water. Her head lolled back against the rim. How lovely to feel weightless for a change. She was almost too entranced to reach for a bar of soap. The lather was silky soft and luxurious like cream. The gentle friction of the sponge over her limbs drew a prickling heat to the surface of her skin. It was the same feverish feeling that had seen her flying through Claremont at midnight, searching for Montgomery as if he were the antidote to some fatal malaise. But back then she had wanted a last kiss, a last good-bye. Now she knew what a ludicrous plan that had been. Every kiss they shared had just whetted her appetite for more of his kisses. Quite possibly, no amount of kisses, no amount of time, would ever be enough before it would feel right to say good-bye to him.

  The sponge brushed against her knuckles, still pink and sore from punching a man. She winced. She had come close, so close to losing her future today. Then Montgomery had walked in and freed her as easily as one would open the cage door for a captive bird. And just as any rational man would after setting a wild creature free, he would leave the creature to its own devices.

  It hurt.

  Whichever route they took, it would end in hurt.

  As it was, the thought of never feeling his soft mouth against her own hurt the most.

  She carefully set down the sponge on the rim of the bath.

  He had given her back her tomorrow.

  She could give them tonight.

  Steam swirled off her body when she rose from the tub, and she swayed, feeling light-headed. She toweled herself off and massaged some of the rose oil into her still-damp skin; she unpinned her hair and combed her fingers through the wavy strands until they gleamed. She slipped into the white silk robe.

  Back in her room, she gave the bell pull a tug.

  Her heart was beating a hard, slow rhythm by the time Millie appeared on the doorstep.

  “Take me to His Grace, please.”

  The maid’s eyes swept furtively over her flimsy attire. “His Grace will be in his private chambers at this time, miss.”

  The servants would talk. It mattered not.

  She moved toward the door on bare feet. “I know.”

  Chapter 24

  Sebastian was sprawled in his armchair, his hair still curling from his bath, and he was increasingly keen on the idea to go to his club for a round of midnight fencing. The bath had not worked. The book in his hand did not work. Angry, unspent desire was still pulsing through his veins, an aggression without a target. Oh, but he had a target all right. One glance at her, bedraggled and dirty as she was, and he wanted her. Wanted to protect, possess, to be with her. And short of bullying her into it, he could do exactly nothing.

  The logs in the fire popped so softly, so domestically, it stoked his resentment.

  To think this would become one of his greatest challenges yet: to do nothing.

  There was little joy in honor tonight.

  A light knock on the door jolted him from his brooding. No one came to his chambers at this time of the night. He made to rise to investigate when the doorknob turned.

  Somehow, he knew it would be her. He was still unprepared when she appeared.

  For a beat, his mind was a blank.

  Her hair was down, gleaming, glorious hair, streaming to her waist in mahogany rivers. And she was as good as naked.

  Heat swept over him from head to toe.

  A filmy white robe clung to her curves as she drifted toward him. Bare feet slipped from beneath the hem, achingly vulnerable pale feet . . .

  He felt himself swell and stiffen with arousal. With some difficulty, he dragged his gaze back up to her face.

  “Annabelle.” His voice emerged roughly. “Is something the matter?”

  She stepped between his knees and her scent curled around him.

  He actually felt weak, smelling her again.

  “I’m afraid so,” she said.

  Every muscle in his body locked when she gently took the book from his hand and lowered herself onto his thigh.

  “What is it?” he asked thickly. The soft, feminine weight in his lap had him almost painfully hard.

  “I missed you,” she murmured.

  Her eyes were on his throat, his shoulders, his chest, taking a primal inventory, and her fingertips began skating over the V of bare skin exposed by his loosely fastened robe.

  His hands circled her upper arms in an unconsciously rough grip, crushing warm silk between his fingers. “If you are here out of gratitude—”

  Her eyes widened. “No,” she said, “no.”

  Her gaze slid down his torso to the bulge at the front of his robe, and he bit back a groan. She may as well have placed her hand on him.

  She glanced up, a pink flush tingeing her cheekbones. “I want you, Montgomery.”

  I want you, Montgomery.

  His grip on her relented, and she twisted closer and kissed him on the mouth.

  “How I missed you,” she whispered against his lips.

  She slipped from his lap to kneel between his thighs. His breathing turned shallow when her slender fingers began working on the knot of his belt. He clasped her chin and made her look him in the eye. “I cannot offer you any more than I have.”

  Her gaze narrowed slightly. “I know.”

  She spread his robe open.

  For a long moment, there was only the sound of ragged breathing and crackling fire.

  When she looked back at him, her eyes glittered with emotion.

  She leaned in and touched her lips to his chest, drawing a guttural sound from his throat, and she dragged her open mouth down, down, down the tight planes of his stomach . . . His right hand curved around the back of her head of its own volition.

  She hovered, her warm breath rushing softly over his aching cock.

  “Annabelle—”

  She closed her mouth over him.

  His body bowed up as pleasure hit him like a whip. “God.”

  Wet, soft heat and tenderness. Bliss. He groaned, his fingers flexing in her hair. He would have never asked this of her, but God knew he had imagined it. The dark fantasies paled against the sensations that engulfed him now, streaking like fire through his veins at every touch of her tongue.

  She began sliding her mouth up and down his length, and sweat broke over his skin; he could already feel the pressure building at the base of his spine. With herculean effort, he pulled back and came to his feet and scooped her up into his arms.

  * * *

  Montgomery’s gaze was fixed on the large bed that dominated the room, and she clung to him, discomfited and thrilled at being carried off like the prize of a conquest. He set her down onto the edge of the mattress with greatest care, but his eyes burned with the scorching blue hue of the center of a flame.

  She shivered. So that was what it was like to have all his intensity focused on her. Time and conscious thought went up in sparks, leaving only now, him, her, and the need to be close.

  He cupped her face in both hands, his thumbs stroking at the corners of her mouth.

  “How I want you,” he said, and leaned down and kissed her.

  He took it deep on the first stroke, his lips demanding, guiding, giving. He kissed like a man who knew he would not have to stop. He wouldn’t have to stop. A vision of his strong body covering hers pulsed through her in a lazy, molten wave, leaving her boneless and breathless.

  When he broke the kiss, she was panting and on her back, her legs still lolling over the side of the bed. Her robe had been undone and spread open. Montgomery was looming over her, his eyes savoring and lingering on all the delicate places that most intrigued a man.

  She should have clamored to cover her modesty. Alas, ther
e was so little moral fiber in her, hopeless, and so she tipped up her chin and showed him her throat.

  The smile vanished from Montgomery’s face. He stepped back and his robe slid to the floor with a soft swish.

  She swallowed. He could have seduced her with his body alone, all vital confidence and well-honed muscular grace. His skin was fair, the light mat of hair on his chest a sandy color, like the trail running down his flat abdomen to the most male part of him. He was beautiful there, too, heavily erect and straining with want . . .

  He inhaled sharply, and her attention snapped to his face. He was homing in on her knees, his eyes narrowed to slits.

  “Oh,” she said, “it’s nothing.”

  His hands were already on her, gently angling her leg so he could examine the plum-sized bruises on her skin.

  “Who did this to you?”

  “No one . . . I fell when they took me,” she added when he looked up and she met his feral expression.

  She shuddered, strangely more aroused than before.

  She extended a hand toward him. “Please,” she whispered, “come to me.”

  His gaze traveled over her bare body, sprawled on the bed, and as she had hoped, it distracted him enough for the bloodlust in his eyes to fade.

  He sank to his knees. When he brushed a kiss onto her shin right below the bruise, it felt different. His kisses had been charged with desire, the need to possess. This was soft as the touch of a feather. Revering. As if she were precious and made of glass. Another kiss on her thigh, and his fingers stroked the sensitive skin at the back of her knees. The sensation flowed over her warm and sweet like syrup. A flash of tongue on the inside of her thigh, gentle sucks, a light nip of teeth, and she shifted restlessly on the sheets. A warm hand palmed up her other leg, to the junction of her thighs, and there his fingers splayed and anchored her . . . until his thumb moved over her. She jerked. He did it again, a knowing flick, and her lips parted on a silent moan. Heat welled everywhere he touched with his clever fingers, his silky mouth. He kissed her between her legs, his tongue on her warm and fluid, and she was lost, lost to him. He licked and caressed her deeper into oblivion until her hands clenched in the bedsheets and she arched against him with a cry.