I Dared the Duke

by Anna Bennett

  She should have. She most definitely should have. But she wasn’t ready for the dream to end.

  Besides, her curiosity always got the better of her. She slipped her hand inside his shirt and swept her fingers over the light sprinkling of hair covering the chiseled contours of his chest—and kissed him harder.

  He returned the favor, escalating the fever between them to an entirely different level. He plundered her mouth and pressed his hips to hers, letting her feel his arousal. With undisguised hunger, he tugged open her robe and slid his hand inside, taking the weight of her breast and teasing the nipple through the silky fabric of her night rail.

  Sweet Jesus. A delicious ache spiraled through her and settled in her core. Never before had she allowed a man to kiss her, much less tenderly caress her breast. Perhaps the witching hour was to blame for her dreamlike trance—the one that made her forget little things like rules of propriety and a lifetime of cautionary tales.

  Or perhaps the blame lay entirely with the duke and his wickedly skilled mouth.

  Grateful for the support of the door behind her, she arched her back and gave herself up to the moment—the improbable moment when this powerful, beautiful, ruthless man belonged to her.

  Reaching behind her, he cupped her bottom with one hand and lifted her against the door. He wedged a thigh between hers and rocked until she was desperate for something more.

  Lord help her, she wanted more.

  As though he’d heard her silent plea, he raised the hem of her nightgown and caressed her bare leg.

  She moaned.

  Pausing mid-kiss, the duke touched his forehead to hers. Breathing like he’d been running hard, he looked into her eyes. “Now you’ve experienced a moan of pleasure,” he said, more than a little triumphant.

  Of course this was a game to him. A challenge. Mere child’s play.

  But to her … it had been the knee-melting introduction to a whole new world.

  With an unexpected hint of vulnerability, he asked, “Did you like it?”

  She wished she had a clever response, but all she could say was the truth. “Yes.”

  “I did too.” His lopsided grin melted her last remaining bone.

  But this taste of him … it still wasn’t enough. With more daring than she’d known she possessed, she pulled the bottom of his shirt out of his trousers and slipped her hands underneath. As her palms skimmed the taut muscles of his abdomen and torso, her mouth went dry. “I want to take this off,” she said, inching his shirt hem up his chest.

  “No.” He pushed her hands away, and she gasped.

  Feeling like she’d been slapped, she wriggled out of his embrace and took two steps toward the center of the room. Hurt sliced through her. Shame too. She was a novice in these sorts of affairs, but given the circumstances, she’d thought the request reasonable.

  “Forgive me,” he said. “You did nothing wrong. It’s just that…” He muttered a curse as he rubbed the back of his neck and straightened his shirt collar.

  And then she remembered—the scars. He didn’t want her to see.

  Some of the hurt abated, but not all. After all, he’d almost certainly shed his shirt for the women he’d made love to—and yet, he wasn’t willing to reveal that much of himself to her.

  “I understand,” she said curtly. “Actually, I think you were quite right to put an end to things. I should be thanking you.”

  “Beth.” He reached for her hand. “Don’t do this.”

  She pulled away. “I’m not doing anything.” Except perhaps gathering her wits about her.

  “You’re angry. I wish you’d allow me to explain.”

  “The only person I’m angry with is myself. I should never have gotten so carried away.” Damn the witching hour. Damn her improper desires.

  “We both got carried away,” he said.

  “I don’t suppose we could forget this happened?” She was trying to imagine sitting with him and his grandmother at breakfast tomorrow morning without bursting into flames from sheer embarrassment.

  “Why would we want to forget this?” he breathed. “I don’t.”

  Her body tingled at his admission. No wonder half of London’s women would gladly trade their favorite strand of pearls for a night in his bed.

  She pulled her robe tightly around her and cinched the sash. “Given our respective roles—as duke and companion to your grandmother—I think it best for us to remain acquaintances.”

  “Acquaintances,” he repeated, with no shortage of skepticism.

  “Yes. We should remain cordial with each other. Like we were before.”

  “I see.” Like a hunter tracking a deer, he took a step toward her. “So, I should politely inquire about your family and make insipid conversation about the weather? I should pretend that I never pressed my lips to yours or held your—”

  “No.” There was no point in allowing their relationship to become more personal. Nothing lasting or genuine could come from it. And it was cruel of him to make her believe otherwise. If she hadn’t almost literally landed in his lap tonight, he never would have … that is, she never would have … Blast.

  “It’s late,” she said, glancing at the clock on the mantel. The duchess was an early riser, and dawn was only three hours away. “I must go.”

  “I won’t stop you,” he said. “But I hope that once you’ve had a chance to sleep, we can revisit the issue.”

  Oh no, there would be no revisiting of anything. But she did not reply as he escorted her to the door, opened it a crack, and checked the hallway. Frowning, he swung the door open wide, stooped, and picked up the lantern and book she’d dropped.

  “I believe these are yours,” he said in a tone so perfectly cordial that it almost broke her heart. As he handed both items to her, his gaze flicked to the cover of the book. “Mythological Creatures,” he mused. “Of all the books in my library, you chose one depicting a nine-headed serpent and a one-eyed giant.”

  She tucked the book under her arm, and, feeling the need to defend her choice of reading material, said, “I have always felt a bit sympathetic toward the beasts. I’m sure they didn’t choose to be trapped in a labyrinth or to turn people to stone. And yet, every mortal and demigod made it their aim to slay the poor creatures.”

  The duke leaned against the doorframe and looked at her with an odd combination of respect and amusement. “Well, siren, if you can show compassion for the Minotaur, I have to believe there’s hope for me.”

  “Good night, your grace,” she said briskly, fleeing the study like a sacrificial maiden desperate to escape her fate.

  His deep, warm chuckle chased her down the corridor. “Good night, Beth. Sleep well.”

  Chapter THIRTEEN

  “Are you certain you want to fight Newton?” Darby asked, incredulous. “It doesn’t seem the wisest choice since we’ve already established that he might be trying to kill you. You could spar with me instead.”

  Using his teeth, Alex tightened the strips of cloth wound around his hands. “I need a worthy opponent.”

  Darby shoved him in the chest. “You’re a bastard—do you know that?”

  “Yes, you’re fond of reminding me.”

  Across the sweltering room at Jackson’s Saloon, Newton tilted his head from side to side and jabbed at the air like he couldn’t wait to take his swings at Alex.

  “It will serve you right if you lose a couple of teeth.” Darby propped his hands on his hips. “Newton has a wicked upper cut, so protect that ugly face of yours.”

  “Will do.” Alex shook out his arms and stepped onto the floor. Newton did the same, and they circled around, each taking the other’s measure. A few years older than Alex, the marquess prided himself on his boxing ability and trained three times a week. Barrel chested but lean, he had at least two inches on Alex.

  But if Newton had one real advantage in the fight, it was pure anger. His wife had spread the rumor that she’d had a torrid affair with Alex, and the whole ton accepted it as tr
uth. Even if he denied it, no one would believe him. The gossip was too titillating to be dismissed as a lie.

  Today’s fight was Newton’s shot to save face. If he could break Alex’s nose or crack a few ribs, his manhood would be restored, and, in the blind eyes of society’s elite, justice would be served.

  Alex rolled his shoulders backward and smacked his fists together. He had his own reasons for fighting. First, the image of Roscoe’s hand on Beth’s arm last night was etched into his memory, and throwing the cretin to the ground hadn’t been nearly as satisfying as punching his smug little face would have been. If Alex couldn’t punch Roscoe, he might as well punch someone.

  Second, he was angry with himself—for letting his bloody pride spoil his passionate encounter with Beth. But even now, in a room full of shirtless men, he refused to remove his. He didn’t mind the scars half as much as what they stood for—the loss of his parents, his home, and his childhood. Exposing the discolored, puckered flesh was like exposing everything he’d lost. And he certainly didn’t need anyone’s pity.

  But the third—and perhaps, most important—reason he was sparring with Newton was to figure out if he was the person who wanted him dead. Alex didn’t expect the marquess to confess to poisoning him or to tampering with his coach, but in the heat of battle, raw emotion could make a man reveal more than he intended. Alex was counting on a brutal fight, the bloodier the better.

  As the referee reviewed the rules—thirty seconds between rounds, no hitting below the belt—Alex looked into Newton’s eyes and saw hate simmering there. In spite of the suffocating heat, a chill made the hairs on the back of Alex’s neck stand on end.

  The moment the referee gave the signal, fists started flying. Alex’s right hand connected with Newton’s cheek just as Newton slammed his knuckles into Alex’s abdomen, knocking the breath out of him.

  Alex doubled over and backed away, gasping. Damn it. If he wanted to keep his head attached to his body, he had to focus.

  He dodged the next two blows and landed a punch to Newton’s chin. Blood trickled out of the side of his mouth, and he spat on the floor. “You crossed a line, Blackshire,” he said, breathing heavy. “I intend to make you pay.”

  “I have no idea what line you’re talking about,” Alex countered.

  “Like hell, you don’t.” Newton’s left hook glanced off Alex’s ear and left it ringing. Shit.

  Shaking his head to clear it, Alex feinted right and ducked, feeling the breeze from Newton’s powerful hook.

  Alex straightened and launched a fist directly at Newton’s jaw, sending him sprawling onto the floor and sliding a couple of feet.

  “That’s the end of the round,” the referee called. Newton’s friend dragged him back to a corner of the room and poured water over his head. He looked dazed, but his face was still contorted with rage.

  On his side of the room, Alex gulped water from a ladle and mopped his brow with the towel that Darby tossed him.

  “He’s out for blood now,” Alex’s friend warned him. “Avoid his punches for as long as possible, tire him out. If one of his swings connects with your face, it’s lights out for you.”

  “Not if it’s lights out for him first.” But Darby was right. Alex had to pace himself and wait for the right moment.

  “Round two!” the referee shouted, and both fighters approached the center of the room, wary. Newton’s chin was already starting to swell. Alex’s ear felt like it was on fire, but the pain only helped sharpen his focus.

  “In the future,” Newton said, “keep your hands off of what’s not yours.”

  Alex shifted his weight quickly from foot to foot, ready to dodge whatever blows Newton launched at him. “Is this about me borrowing your newspaper at the club?”

  Cursing, his opponent swung for Alex’s head—and missed by a hair. Literally.

  “Aren’t you the jester?” The cut on Newton’s chin oozed blood. “You think you can bed whomever you want,” he gasped. “Without recrimination.”

  “Not true.” Alex raised his gloves to deflect the punch that was surely coming. “I would never bed a woman … unless she wanted me to.”

  “You … bloody … bastard!” Newton didn’t swing at Alex’s head, like he’d expected. Instead, Newton raised the heel of his boot and kicked Alex squarely in the kneecap.

  Holy hell. He hit the ground. Pain exploded in his knee and radiated up and down his leg. Darby charged at Newton, cursing him for hitting below the belt. Newton’s cronies crowded around him and pushed back. Above the din, the referee shouted for everyone to clear the floor.

  Alex’s vision grew fuzzy at the edges as he writhed on the ground, clutching his godforsaken knee. Then Newton leaned forward, his disfigured face looming above Alex’s head.

  “There’s more where that came from, Blackshire,” he spat. “You’re lucky you’re not already dead.”

  Alex groaned. He had no doubt that Newton wanted him dead.

  But he still didn’t know if the marquess was the one who’d been trying to kill him.

  Alex couldn’t unravel it while his knee throbbed. All he wanted at the moment was his bed—and a strong drink.

  * * *

  Beth spent the first half of the day thanking her lucky stars that she didn’t encounter the duke. After only three hours of sleep, her nerves were frayed and her emotions were raw. If she’d seen him in the morning—so soon after their romantic tryst—she would have blushed to the roots of her hair, and the duchess would have surely known that something improper had transpired.

  And oh, had it been improper. Beth absently pressed a fingertip to her lips, still swollen from the duke’s kisses. She must have been mad to allow them—and even madder to kiss him back. When she considered that she was only the latest in a long line of women who’d fallen prey to his charms, she wanted to kick herself. It didn’t matter that, by all accounts, his conquests were happy to count themselves among his lovers. Because Beth was not like those women.

  Or was she? She’d thought herself stronger. Smarter. More principled. Perhaps, when it came down to it, though, she was as weak as any. She’d certainly melted in his arms.

  Which may have explained why she spent the second half of her day wondering where on earth the duke could be and whether he was trying to avoid her. She’d looked for his charming grin around every corner and waited for his broad shoulders to fill the doorway of the drawing room, where she and the dowager now sat.

  The duchess, still basking in the glow of her adventurous trip to Vauxhall, sipped her afternoon tea as light rain pattered against the tall paned windows. The weather, combined with the warm tea and cinnamon scones in her belly, made Beth long for a nap, but the dowager was full of vim and vigor. “I would like to do something special for Alexander,” she said excitedly. “Something to repay him for doting on an old woman like me.”

  “He seems happy to indulge you when he can,” Beth said. Of course, she was forcing him to spoil his grandmother, but she didn’t need to know that. It would only break her heart.

  “I have an idea,” the duchess whispered—even though they were the only two people in the room. “Would you like to hear it?”

  “Of course.” Beth was betting the duchess wanted to order his favorite dessert. Or embroider him a handkerchief.

  She adjusted her spectacles and leaned forward. “I thought I would redecorate his study. Wouldn’t that be grand?”

  Beth blinked. “He certainly wouldn’t expect a gesture like that.” And she couldn’t imagine he’d be pleased at the prospect.

  “Alexander spends so much time working in there, and it hasn’t been updated for generations. He deserves elegant furnishings and fresh décor.”

  Oh dear. The duke was rather territorial about his study, and Beth was fairly certain that even if he did wish to update it, his tastes would be vastly different from his grandmother’s. “It’s a lovely idea, but I’m not certain—”

  “You really must observe the shabbiness of th
e room yourself in order to understand my desire to spruce it up.” The duchess set her teacup on the tray and stood. “Follow me, Elizabeth.”

  Beth didn’t think it prudent to mention that she’d seen the duke’s study before. Multiple times. In fairness, however, the dim light during last night’s encounter had made it rather difficult to assess the quality of the furnishings. Besides, she’d been a little distracted.

  The duchess marched down the corridor like she was on a mission for the king. When she reached the study, she didn’t hesitate to enter the duke’s realm but, rather, pushed open the door and walked to the middle of the worn Aubusson carpet. Sweeping her gaze around the room, she clucked her tongue.

  Beth followed, valiantly trying to shake the memory of the kiss against the door. And hoping that her cheeks didn’t look as red as they felt. She endeavored to look at the room with an objective eye. It may have had a lived-in appearance, but she suspected that was the way the duke preferred it. “I don’t think it’s so terrible,” she ventured.

  The duchess pressed a hand to her chest, aghast. “The desk has water stains. The leather on the chairs is faded and cracked. The wallpaper hasn’t been in fashion since the reign of William III. It’s a disgrace.”

  “What’s a disgrace?” The duke’s booming voice echoed through the room.

  Blast. Beth took a deep breath, hoping to regain her composure before facing him.

  “Alexander!” the duchess cried. “What’s happened to you? You look like you’ve returned from the battlefield!”

  Her heart pounding, Beth spun around to find the duke with his arm slung over Lord Darberville’s shoulders. The side of his face was scratched, and he favored his left leg, which was missing its boot. She had to resist the urge to run to him and inspect his injuries up close.

  “Good afternoon, grandmother, Miss Lacey.” He inclined his head politely. “Would someone mind telling me why everyone has gathered in my study? It seems to be a pattern.” He shot Beth a smug look, which she ignored.

  “Do not think to avoid my question,” the duchess said, raising her nose in the air. “I demand an explanation.”