Duchess of Sin

by Laurel McKee

  “I don’t know,” she said truthfully.

  “Neither do I.” He tightened his clasp on her hand, and they continued their ascent. “But there is not a conservatory here.”

  “What is it then?”

  At the top of the stairs, he turned down a narrow corridor lined with closed doors. He opened one of them at the very end and led her out into the night. Anna found herself on a narrow walkway, high above the street. A waist-high iron fence held them back.

  “I saw this from the street, and I asked one of the footmen how to access it,” he said. “It has been a while since I attended an affair such as this, so I thought I might need an escape route.”

  “How clever of you, Your Grace,” she said. “I often feel a need to escape them myself. I wouldn’t have thought of running across the roofs.”

  She drifted over to the railing, enchanted by the unexpected vista. Dublin lay before her in the cold gray blackness of the night. The pale marble houses glowed through the mist, their windows bright amber squares. Carriages glided along the street below like toys. And the Liffey was a ribbon of the deepest blue, stars glinting on its surface.

  She tilted back her head to take in the stars overhead. The moon was a fat quarter, suspended high above her. “I can breathe here.”

  She heard a rustle of movement and felt him slide his coat over her shoulders. The fine, thin wool held the heat of his body, and his scent surrounded her. She closed her eyes, inhaling deeply.

  “I fear it is cold up here,” he said roughly. His hands lingered on her shoulders, and she leaned back against him. She hoped he would not draw away, and he didn’t. His arms came around her waist, holding her safe there above the city.

  “I don’t feel cold at all,” she said. “Thank you for bringing me here, Your Grace.”

  He laughed, and the deep, hoarse sound echoed through her body. It was as if a tie, delicate yet unbreakable, snaked out from him and around her, binding them together. “You have to stop calling me Your Grace. I’m not your usual sort of duke.”

  Indeed he was not. He wasn’t the usual sort of anything. “What should I call you then?”

  He hesitated for a moment. “My given name is Conlan.”

  “Conlan.” Anna tested it on her tongue. It felt rich and strange, a name that suited him. “It means ‘hero,’ does it not?”

  “I thought you said you did not know Gaelic.”

  “I don’t, not very much. But my sister Caroline does, and she’s taught me a bit. As much as my featherbrain can hold, anyway.”

  “It must be useful for you, this façade of not knowing much.”

  Anna reached out and grasped the cold iron railing. She had feared that he could see through her. Now it seemed he really did. “What do you mean?”

  “I mean, you are a very intelligent lady. Why else would you not want everyone to see that, unless it serves you in some way?”

  “In case you haven’t noticed, intelligence is not highly prized in females. Not in my world.”

  “Are you so concerned with impressing brainless British fops and gossiping matrons then? I don’t believe that, Anna. I don’t believe you care about impressing anyone at all.”

  She felt suddenly angry. Angry that he saw so much, more than she wanted anyone to see—even herself. It didn’t pay to look too deeply into her soul. She wasn’t sure that she would like what she saw there.

  She spun around, breaking his hold on her. She leaned back against the railing. “What do you know about it? You don’t have to live in this world. You haven’t been to a Society ball in—well, ever, as far as I know.”

  He braced his hands on the railing at either side of her. “I have too many duties on my estate to waste time waltzing in overdecorated ballrooms,” he said. His accent was strong again. “And why would I want to? It’s dull as hell.”

  “Of course it is. So why are you here now?”

  “Because it has come to my notice that sometimes a duke has other duties. Duties that might include dancing pumps and gloves.”

  “But why now?” Anna cried. He was so, so close to her, his large, hot body mere inches from hers. And she longed to arch up into him, pressing herself tight against him. “Why come to Dublin ballrooms now, when you’ve been lucky enough to avoid them so long?”

  He smiled, but there was no mirth in it. It was bitter and self-mocking. “Maybe I came to this ballroom to see you, Anna.”

  She shook her head. “No, Conlan, I don’t believe that. You have some kind of angle playing, and I want to know what it is.”

  He laughed harshly. “And why would a featherbrain even care?”

  “I don’t…”

  “Hush, Anna.” His arms slid around her, drawing her tight against him just as she had wanted. She clutched at his shoulders. “For once in your life, just hush.”

  He pulled her even closer, and his mouth came down on hers. He was not harsh, but he was insistent, his lips opening over hers, and his tongue seeking entrance. She opened for him, letting him in, meeting him eagerly.

  Oh, yes, this was what she longed for ever since that night at the Olympian Club. That sensation of every rational thought flying out of her, of falling down into pure, hot need. He tasted of wine and mint, of that dark, rich essence she remembered so well.

  His hand slid down her back as their kiss deepened, and his coat fell away from her shoulders. The cold air washed over her, but she only felt it for an instant before it was replaced with his heat. He cupped her bottom through the thin silk of her gown, caressing, massaging, until she moaned into his mouth.

  He lifted her high against his body and swung her around until she was braced against the stone wall. She wrapped her legs around his waist, tugging him into the curve of her body. She could feel his erection pressing iron-hard through his breeches, and it gave her a primal thrill. He wanted her. Not the image of her, the earl’s fine, pretty daughter, but her.

  His lips slid down her arched neck, his tongue dipping into the hollow at the base of her throat. Her pulse pounded there, frantic with need. She wanted him, too. Something deep inside of her, something night-black and primitive, called out to that darkness in him.

  He cupped her breast in his palm, stroking it through her lacy bodice. “Diolain, Anna, I need…”

  “I know,” she gasped. She threaded her fingers through his hair and tugged his mouth back to her skin, to the soft curve of her neck. She shivered as his warm breath washed over her and cried out as his hand closed over her breast.

  “I don’t want to need you,” he said fiercely.

  “I don’t want to need you, either,” she whispered. Her head fell back against the wall. She closed her eyes tightly, reveling in the glorious pleasure of his touch. “But I fear I do. Oh, curse it, Conlan, if you don’t touch me, I’ll scream.”

  He roughly tugged down her bodice and chemise, baring her breast. He rubbed the rough pad of his thumb over her nipple. It hardened under his caress, pink and erect, aching.

  “You are so beautiful,” he whispered.

  She had been told that before. But not until now, under his gaze, did she almost believe it. She watched, mesmerized, as he bent his head and took her breast into his mouth. He sucked at her hardened nipple, his tongue swirling around it until she cried out. Her legs tightened around his lean hips, and she arched against him.

  He drew her deeper into the hot wetness of his mouth, biting down lightly and soothing it with the edge of his tongue. She heard the mingling of their harsh, uneven breaths, the whine of the wind, their soft groans and incoherent words. The city far below was forgotten, the fact that she would be missed, her precarious reputation—she knew only his mouth, his hands. Him.

  His hand slid lower, over her hip, down her bent leg, until he grasped her skirt in his fist. He pulled it up, his palm tracing her ribbon garter until he touched the bare skin of her upper thigh. With her breast still in his mouth, he caressed the arch of her hip, tracing her naked, soft skin. He still wore his
gloves, and the feel of the leather made her shiver.

  Then his hand slid even lower, to her most secret, vulnerable spot. For an instant she froze, stiffened, but he pushed her thighs wider and traced his thumb along her damp opening. She forgot to be afraid, forgot objections—forgot even her own name. He dipped his touch inside her, pressing deep, and she cried out.

  His open mouth came over hers as he caught her moans. He gave her no mercy, his fingers driving into her with a hot, delicious friction.

  She reached out for him blindly. Her hand flattened against his chest, where she felt the pounding of his heart and the force of his breath. She slid her touch down, down, over his flat belly, his lean hip. At last, she covered that hardness in his breeches, and she instinctively closed her fingers over him. It pulsed under her touch, and she felt a surge of some new power inside herself.

  She pumped herself a bit against his fingers, mimicking the movement on him with her hand. Her head fell back as he groaned.

  “Ach, woman, are you trying to kill me?”

  Anna laughed. She wrapped her legs tighter around him, pulling him closer to her. “Do you not like it?”

  “I like it too well. That’s the problem.” His hand slid away from her, slowly trailing along her leg as if he couldn’t quite let her go. But he lowered her to her feet, and her hand fell away from his erection. He braced his palms to the wall on either side of her. His body was shaking, just as hers was.

  She leaned her forehead against his chest and dragged in a shuddering breath. From somewhere in the distance, she heard the chime of church bells.

  “I—should go back,” she whispered. “My mother will be looking for me.”

  He nodded. “I’ll see you to the ballroom.”

  “No, I think it’s best if I go alone. You should—compose yourself.” She nudged her hip against the bulge in his breeches.

  He laughed hoarsely. “That might take a while. You cast a powerful spell, cailleach.”

  Anna was quite sure she wasn’t the one with the dark magic. She gently kissed his cheek, inhaling deeply of his scent as she reached up to smooth his hair. How gorgeous he was, her Hades, her Celtic warrior. How tempting.

  “Anna, I’m sorry…” he began.

  “No,” she said. “You’re not. Neither am I. We both knew this would happen again—and again.”

  “I should stay away from you then.”

  She traced her hands lightly over his shoulders. The thin linen of his shirt was damp over his taut muscles. Oh, how she wanted to stay here all night and learn more about him!

  “Just try to stay away from me, Conlan,” she whispered against his ear. She slid his coat off her shoulders and gave it back to him. “I’ll find you. I’m a witch, remember?”

  He stepped back from her, and she slipped away from him. Her legs were shaking, but she managed to stumble out of their rooftop walkway into the dark corridor. There she smoothed her hair and her gown, tugging her bodice carefully over her still-aching breasts.

  She felt strangely buoyant as she made her way back to the ballroom. The light and noise she hated so much earlier now seemed exhilarating. She wanted to laugh, to skip and dance, but she made herself walk sedately as she searched for her mother. She just prayed Katherine hadn’t been looking for her for long.

  But it seemed her mother wasn’t searching for her at all. Katherine stood near the orchestra’s dais, talking with a man in a dandyish pale blue silk coat. His back was to Anna. Her mother’s lips were pressed tightly together, and her unhappy expression darkened some of Anna’s golden mood.

  She glanced back over her shoulder and wondered if it was too late to slip away, to run back up those stairs to the enchanted walkway high above the city. But Katherine had glimpsed her standing there and waved her forward.

  Anna pasted on a smile and made her way through the crowd to her mother’s side. As she came closer, she saw who Katherine spoke to and that urge to bolt grew.

  It was George Hayes, her mother’s distant cousin, and by far the most annoying member of the whole extended family. Anna remembered all too well the last time they saw him. It was in the early days of the Uprising, when she, Katherine, and Caroline huddled at Killinan Castle waiting for news—or an attack. His regiment had come into the county to root out rebels, and George took a detour to Killinan to scare her mother and bully her into giving up any tenants who might have joined with the United Irishmen.

  Anna was sure that he also hoped to catch out her sister Eliza, an ardent United Irish supporter. A catch like the Countess of Mount Clare, as Eliza was then, would have put quite the gloss on his career. But he underestimated Katherine.

  They learned later that he helped to brutally clear out a village thought to harbor rebels, burning houses and terrorizing old men and pregnant girls. A village that lay on Adair land. Many of the cruel soldiers later met bad ends, but not George. They heard he was reassigned to a northern regiment, thanks to his unfortunate wife’s wealthy family, and they luckily did not see him again.

  Until tonight. What was he doing in Dublin? Nothing good, Anna was sure of that.

  As Anna came nearer to the little group, she saw that George stood next to his mousy little wife, the sad northern heiress Ellen, and with Grant Dunmore. George seemed to be doing all the talking.

  A footman passed by with a tray of champagne glasses, and Anna snatched one up and drained it quickly before she reached her mother’s side.

  “Anna, there you are,” Katherine said. “I was looking for you.”

  “I’m sorry, Mama. I found some friends I had to speak to, and I quite lost track of time,” Anna answered.

  “I am sure a young woman as lovely as Lady Anna has no shortage of friends clamoring for her attention,” George said heartily. His face was quite red; apparently he had been indulging in the excellent wine, too.

  Anna barely managed to hold on to her smile.

  “You remember my cousin, Captain Hayes, don’t you, dear?” Katherine said.

  “Indeed I do. Such a surprise to see you here tonight, George,” said Anna. “You’re very far from Belfast.”

  “And thank God for that. The farther from that northern hellhole the better. No culture at all,” George said, signaling to a footman for more wine. “Dublin is the place to be these days. Right in the thick of things. This is where the action is—and the prettiest ladies.”

  Ellen, a native of Belfast, looked steadily at her hem. Despite her stylishly elaborate gown of gold-spangled tulle and silk, she looked wan and tired.

  “You look lovely this evening, Mrs. Hayes,” Anna said to her, feeling a twinge of pity. It must be terrible being married to George. “I hope you are enjoying your time in Dublin?”

  “Oh, yes, I…” Ellen began.

  “The city is wasted on her,” George interrupted. “She just sits at home all day, won’t go to shops or parties to mingle with the wives of important people. No spirit at all. Unlike you, eh, Lady Anna?” His red-rimmed gaze slid down Anna’s body, making her feel rather cold and clammy all over. It was amazing how none of the things she did on the walkway with Adair made her feel dirty, but one look from George, and she felt filthy. “Isn’t that right, Sir Grant? I’m sure you agree with me about the fiery spirit of these young Dublin ladies.”

  Grant gave him a cold look. “Lady Anna is everything a lady should be, I am sure, as is Mrs. Hayes. I’m very glad to see you have recovered from the—incident, Lady Anna.”

  “Thank you, Sir Grant,” Anna said. She gave him a grateful smile and stepped closer to his side, away from George. “I am very well. And thank you for returning Psyche home.”

  “I only wish I could have done more to help,” he said. “There are so many undesirable elements in town lately. One can’t be too careful.”

  “No, indeed,” Anna said. She thought of Adair’s mouth on hers, his hand on her bare breast. If that was an undesirable element, then she wanted more of it!

  “Your mother tells me you canno
t dance this evening,” said Grant. “But perhaps you would care to play a hand of whist with me in the card room?”

  She certainly would. Anything to get away from George’s avid stare and his wife’s obvious misery. But she hated to leave her mother alone with them. She glanced at Katherine uncertainly.

  “Go on, my dear,” Katherine said. “Just don’t lose too much. I see Lady Connemara over there, and I must speak with her.”

  “Of course,” Anna said. “Mrs. Hayes, even if you don’t care to go out often, I hope you will take tea with us one day soon at Henrietta Street.”

  “Thank you, Lady Anna,” Ellen whispered. “I would like that.”

  Anna took Grant’s arm and turned with him toward the card room—only to be brought up short by Adair’s smoldering stare.

  He stood near a bank of roses, away from the dancers and the gaiety of the party. Against the white flowers, his black hair and clothes were even darker. The god of the Underworld, of doom, at the foolish mortals’ ball. He watched her and Grant with such intensity she was surprised that she didn’t burst into flames. His stare was angry and—and possessive.

  Grant’s arm tensed under her hand. “I see Adair is here,” he muttered.

  “Is he?” Anna said. Her throat was tight, her breath trapped in her lungs. She managed to tear her eyes from Adair, but she could still feel him watching her. Her skin burned with the force of it. When Adair looked at her as if he, too, remembered every moment of their kisses…

  It gave her a thrill, like a bolt of sizzling lightning. A terrible, naughty thrill. She feared she was not the proper lady her mother was. But then, she had known that for a long time. Adair just seemed to bring it out of her even stronger.

  “I did not notice,” she said.

  “He seems to have noticed you,” said Grant. “Come, let us go into the card room.”

  “Of course.” She let him lead her through the crowd, trying to ignore the knowing smiles as they passed by. But before they could reach the door, she heard a sudden crash and a woman’s scream—not usually sounds to be found in an elegant ballroom.

  Anna whirled around, her heart pounding in a sudden burst of fear. The crowd closed in behind her, everyone clamoring for a better view of the commotion, but she caught a glimpse through a small gap. Adair had George by the throat, holding him to the wall beside an overturned urn of roses. Lady Fitzwalter, aghast at the crude display in the midst of her fine ball, was the screamer, while George’s wife hovered nearby.