“Can you cook anything else?” Strathaven drew her attention back to him.
She nodded. “My mama taught me. Being the eldest girl, I helped her in the kitchen as soon as I could peel a potato. After she passed, I took over preparing the family’s meals.”
“How old were you when she died?”
“Thirteen.” Were they having a ... normal conversation?
“That explains it.”
“Explains what?”
“Your tendency to take charge.”
Her shoulders stiffened. “I do what needs to be done, your grace. If you want to call that managing, then so be it.”
“You needn’t take that tone.” He put down his spoon, wiped his mouth with a napkin. “Tell me, Miss Kent, are you always this difficult? Or is it merely with me?”
“No one has called me difficult before you.” At least, not to her face.
“It’s me, then.” His mouth curved in the faintest of smiles. “’Tis only fair, I suppose.”
“What is fair?”
“Given that you seem to bring out the devil in me, it is only fair that I should have the same effect on you,” he said dryly.
She was about to argue that there was no devil in her—but that wasn’t true, was it? Since meeting him, she’d interfered with justice, visited a bawdy house, and engaged in a reckless embrace. She’d discovered her susceptibility to wanton impulses; her once sturdy morals lay in shambles. With a feeling of resignation, she decided not to add lying to the list.
“Fine. We bring out the worst in each other,” she muttered. “Satisfied, your grace?”
He laughed, the husky sound ruffling her senses further. “I believe that this is the first time we have agreed on anything.”
Wry humor tugged at her lips. “We agree that we disagree?”
He gave a slow nod. "To celebrate the momentous occasion—and also because it seems ludicrous not do so at this juncture—let’s skip the formalities, shall we? My name is Alaric.”
“Oh. Well, I’m Emma. As you know.” She fought to keep from blushing.
His smile faded, and his gaze grew intent. “Tell me, Emma, why are you being so nice?”
“I’m not acting any differently than usual.”
“Let me rephrase, then: why are you being nice to me?”
Right. Now that she could see that his health was improving, ’twas time to proceed with the other purpose of her visit.
Alaric was in danger, and he needed help. Ambrose was making some headway, but his interrogation of Alaric’s staff had turned up no clues. Desperately, Emma had begged her brother to let her have a go with the maids. He’d adamantly refused.
“You’ve been far too entangled with Strathaven already,” he’d said sternly. (You don’t know the half of it, she’d thought). “I won’t have you involved in this business any further, Em.”
There’d been no swaying her brother. Once he made his mind up, Ambrose was as stubborn as an ox. This left her one other option. If she could convince Alaric to let her talk to his servants, then maybe she could find a clue to the missing Lily Hutchins—and save his life.
She had to try.
“Since your life is in peril, I thought we should bury the hatchet,” she began.
“Consider it buried.”
That was easy. Too easy. His expression gave away nothing.
“You know my brother talked to your staff at the cottage—”
“And discovered nothing. As I predicted.”
“It can be difficult for women to talk to men,” she said diplomatically. “On the other hand, perhaps if I were to interview the maids—”
“Devil take it, I should have known.” He scowled at her. “You’re like a bloody dog with a bone, you know that?”
“I’m only trying to help,” she protested.
“Why?”
“What do you mean why? Someone shot at you. Your life is at risk—”
“I’m touched by your concern for my welfare. But there’s something else, another reason, isn’t there?” Beneath his piercing gaze, she found herself squirming. “Spit it out, Miss Kent, or I will drag it out of you.”
She huffed out a breath. “I do care whether you live or die—God knows why. But, yes, my plan does benefit us both. I tried to explain this to you last time, but you wouldn’t give me a chance—”
“Explain now.”
“By assisting in your case, I will prove to my brother that I am capable of doing investigative work. Joining Kent and Associates is my calling, and I’m going to fulfill it one way or another.” With a touch of defiance, she added, “What do you think?”
“You don’t want to know,” he grated out.
***
He’d known the chit had something up her sleeve.
Alaric fought to control his anger at being manipulated. Cooking him stew, acting so concerned, being so sweet—all of it was a ploy. She was as cunning as all the females he’d known. To think, he’d been touched that she seemed to care ...
His gut balled as he thought of Laura. How he’d fallen for her words of love. After their wedding, her adoring whispers had warped into insistent demands for his attention. No matter how much he gave, it had never been enough. She’d goaded him, tried to make him jealous, bedded one man after another. All the while, she’d blamed him.
You’re a selfish bastard. You have no heart. You don’t know how to love.
Aye, she’d been a manipulative bitch—but she hadn’t been wrong, either.
He did lack the capacity for softer feelings, and it was a bloody good thing. Because they couldn’t be used against him. Because no one, not even Emma Kent, could twist him to her will. Her stupid whims. Fury frosted his insides. A female investigator? Who ever heard of that?
She shot to her feet, glaring down at him. “You’re as bad as Ambrose. Why won’t either of you at least give my plan a chance?”
With a curse, he yanked aside the covers.
She backed away. “Have a care. Your injury—”
“Damn my injury and damn your obstinacy.” He stalked toward her, backing her into a corner. Through his teeth, he said, “Next time, don’t bother with the stew and just say what you want.”
“What does stew have to do with this?” She sounded bewildered. “And I am telling you what I want!”
“You can’t seriously think you can be an investigator,” he snapped.
“Why not?”
“We’re talking about a murder investigation. A dangerous business and one that you are entirely unsuited for.”
She dared to glower at him. “And why is that?”
“Because you’re a bloody lass—and an innocent one at that!”
She scowled. “I’m not that innocent, thanks to you.”
Of all the times to remind him of blasted Andromeda’s—he set his jaw, struggled to think through his haze of anger and arousal. Why did she always push him to edge? The idea of her hurt because of this mess set off a maddening beat in his blood. Protective instincts he’d thought long dead roared to life and angered him even more.
Why did she stir up his old, stupid dreams?
Experience had taught him that love was just a euphemism for power. In relationships, there were only two options: control or be controlled. He would never be anyone’s puppet again.
“You’re not getting involved, and that is final,” he gritted out.
“You cannot dictate what I do.” Her bosom surged.
“Can’t I? I believe I proved you wrong two nights ago in my library. Care for another demonstration?” Because he burned to give it to her.
“Stop trying to intimidate me with your … your seductive wiles!”
“So you do find me seductive.”
“I do not.”
“You can’t hide the truth from me, Emma.” In a swift motion, he caught her wrists in one hand, pinned them above her head. He leaned in, heat sizzling in the sliver of air between them. “You melt for me every time we touch.”
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“No, I don’t—”
In favor of expedience, he kissed her.
She struggled, and he gave her no quarter, holding her in place. He took her mouth, her flavor flooding his senses, his anger exploding into raw desire. Within seconds, she surrendered, yielding with a delicious sigh. Driving his tongue home, he pressed his hard, aroused body against her willing softness.
Restrained, her passion burned even more brightly. Her soft little body stretched tantalizingly against his own hard edges, and he felt like he was on a rack of pleasure as she strained against him, her eyes glazed with desire, her stiff nipples teasing his chest through layers of fabric.
His mind warned him of the dangers; the door was open, anyone could see them.
That only heated his blood more.
He tossed up her skirts with his free hand, his lungs burning as he encountered the silken softness of her thighs. He covered her mouth with his own, drinking in her gasp, shuddering as his questing fingers found her damp curls and the slick petals within.
By God, she had the softest, wettest little cunny.
When he circled her pearl, she moaned.
“Be very quiet,” he whispered. “Unless you want to get caught.”
Understanding widened her eyes. At the same time, her hips lurched helplessly against his hand. She bit down on her bottom lip as he played with her love-knot, stroking it, titillating the bold nub as he held her against the wall. Her color rose, her bosom surging, and he knew she was close to her climax. Rolling her clit with his thumb, he slid his middle finger along her plump cleft.
He held her gaze as he pushed inside her virginal hole.
She was hot, wet, so tight. So bloody perfect.
“God, why can’t I get enough of you?” he rasped against her ear.
Her lips parted on a soundless cry.
He barely restrained his own groan as she came, the lush flutters making his erection jerk beneath his robe, a spurt of pre-spend scorching his belly. He gritted his teeth, fighting the urge to replace his finger with his cock, to take her here and now—
“Annabel, it’s been lovely chatting.” Marianne Kent’s overly loud voice drifted through the doorway. “I think it’s time we go check on Emma and his grace.”
Panting, Emma stared at him in mute panic.
In the next instant, he shoved himself away from her. In the nick of time, he got back into bed and tossed the covers over himself. His heart hammered, his loins throbbed. Every cell of his body hummed with need.
“Emma, are you finished visiting?” Mrs. Kent entered with Annabel behind her. “I have other calls to make today.”
“Y-yes,” Emma stammered.
“We’ll take our leave then, your grace.” Mrs. Kent took her charge’s arm, turned to go.
He collected his wits. “Miss Kent?”
“Yes?” Emma faced him, her color heightening.
“I trust you will not forget our tête-à-tête today.” He gave her his most quelling, ducal stare. “There’s to be no more talk of you sleuthing about. We have an understanding, do we not?”
Annoyance flashed in her gaze. Her chin high, she said, “You have yours, and I have mine.” Even her curtsy was defiant. “Good day, your grace.”
Goddamnit. Frustration and desire roiled in him as she walked out with the other two.
Clearly, Emma meant to meddle further in his affairs. His title, his wealth and power—hell, his sexual dominance—none of it intimidated her one bit.
He wanted to bare his teeth.
He wanted to screw her senseless.
He shoved his hands through his hair. Even if he felt the tiniest tug of respect for her audacity, no way in hell was he going to let her run amok in his life. He’d have to keep her under watch. If—when—her behavior went out of bounds, he would intervene. Swiftly and decisively. He would show her once and for all who was in control.
Anticipation flared in him. The blood of his ancestors drummed in his veins.
That’s how you want to play it, lass? Then let the games begin.
Chapter Fourteen
The next day, Emma paid the hackney driver and descended onto Compton Street, a busy thoroughfare near Soho Square. Storefronts lined both sides of the street, and people and horses jostled along the cobblestone. Emma’s destination was Number Eight, a two-storey building sandwiched between a bakeshop and a pianoforte maker’s store. A small gold placard on the dark green door read simply, “Kent and Associates.”
Stepping inside, Emma paused on the threshold. The sun shone through the bow window at the front of the room, glinting off the reception desk and stairwell that led up to the partners’ new suites, which had been added in the reconstruction. A small waiting area boasted comfortable seating and newspapers to peruse. The scent of baking bread mixed with the occasional discordant chord of an instrument being tuned.
Something about the office had always reminded Emma of the cottage in Chudleigh Crest. Perhaps it was the coziness, the hodgepodge of sights, sounds, and smells, and the hum of activity. Coming here was like coming ... home.
She couldn’t give up. She had to convince her brother to give her a chance.
I am capable of being an investigator, she thought fiercely. I’ll show everyone—especially Strathaven.
For a brief instant yesterday, it’d seemed as if she and the duke had reached an armistice. She’d discovered his approachable side, a hotchpotch-eating fellow with a heart-melting smile. Then he’d attacked her for no reason, disparaged her goals ... and shown her hot, wicked pleasure, the likes of which she hadn’t known existed. Her toes curled in memory of that mind-obliterating bliss.
His carnal whisper shivered over her. God, why can’t I get enough of you?
As if he ... needed her.
The notion thrilled, confused, and dismayed her. Why did they share this intense physical attraction when they were ill-suited in every other way? Strathaven was nothing like the sort of man she would envision for herself. He wasn’t principled or kindhearted; he wasn’t a man devoted to his family. He was complicated, moody—and a duke to top it off.
The only thing they had in common, it seemed, was stubbornness. He faced imminent peril and yet he still refused her help. How could he expect her to stand by and do nothing?
“Miss Kent, what a pleasant surprise!”
Mr. Hobson, the bespectacled clerk, came bounding down the hallway toward her with a tea tray in hand. Around her age, he had a puppyish quality owing to his downy golden-brown hair and cheerful disposition. His eagerness to please was matched only by his innate clumsiness—a fact that exasperated Ambrose and his partners to no end.
If Hobson hasn’t spilled or broken something, then the day’s not over, Mr. McLeod was wont to grumble.
What Hobson lacked in adroitness, however, he made up for in loyalty, optimism, and unquenchable enthusiasm. One couldn’t help but like him. Even if he constantly splattered ink over everything and smashed all the good tea cups.
From experience, Emma knew to keep her distance from the tray in his tenuous grasp.
“Hello, Mr. Hobson. Is my brother in?” she said.
“Indeed.” The clerk lowered his voice. “He’s with the Mr. Hilliards upstairs. They dropped by unannounced.”
“Ah,” Emma said.
The Hilliards were the father and son bankers who had provided the loan for the rebuilding of the office. Shrewd businessmen, they popped in now and again to ascertain the health of the business—and their investment.
“I was about to bring up tea. Got cakes from the bakery. Thought they might sweeten the two up a bit,” Hobson whispered.
Emma looked at the tray. Two of the cakes had fingerprints embedded on the glaze. The other two had clearly crumbled and been put back together ... oddly. They now resembled haphazard little haystacks.
“I had some trouble getting them out of the box.” Hobson’s brow pleated. “Do you think anyone will notice?”
She was saved from th
e need to reply by voices and footsteps coming down the stairs. Ambrose appeared with the Hilliards in tow.
“Emma,” he said in surprise. “I wasn’t expecting you. You remember the Hilliards?”
She curtsied politely. “Good day, sirs.”
“And to you, Miss Kent.” Mr. Hilliard Junior bent over her hand. Dressed in somber black relieved only by the white of his shirt, he reminded her a bit of a penguin. He was short and rotund, a younger replica of his father. “Father and I are most impressed with the progress that’s been made here, and Mr. Kent tells us you played a hand in things.”
“I’m always happy to assist where I can,” Emma said.
“A young lady who isn’t afraid to roll her sleeves up, eh?” Mr. Hilliard Senior winked broadly at his son. “Don’t find many of those around these days.”
His son’s ears turned red.
“I’ll see you out, sirs,” Ambrose said abruptly. “Emma, wait for me upstairs?”
As the men went outside, Emma headed up to the new floor, which was bisected by a main hallway with offices on either side. Ambrose’s suite was at the end of the corridor, a comfortable space paneled in oak. Leather seats were clustered by the stone fireplace, and a shelf of books took up one wall. The desk sat by the front window.
She went to look out the curtains and saw Ambrose talking with the Hilliards by their carriage. Idly, her gaze went to his desk ... and landed on his appointment book. Before she could question her actions, she was flipping through the pages.
Her brother had been busy in the last week, making many enquiries on Strathaven’s behalf. Leafing through, she found the record of the visit to the duke’s cottage and memorized the address in St. John’s Wood. Hearing footsteps, she quickly closed the book and dashed to the other side of the desk, plopping herself into a chair. Her pulse thudded guiltily.
“Sorry to keep you waiting, Em,” her brother said as he entered.
“Is everything alright?” she said. “With the Hilliards, I mean?”
Ambrose sat across the desk from her, his expression rueful. “As long as we make our monthly payments, they’ve no basis for complaint.”
Emma’s guilt doubled as she saw the strain on her brother’s face. He was a man who disliked debts; such a large one must sit uneasily on his broad shoulders. She felt an acute yearning for the old days, when he’d shared his burdens with her. When they’d been a team.
The Duke Who Knew Too Much Page 11