A Duke's Temptation

by Hunter, Jillian

  “It was my fault. I distracted you.”

  “Are you certain that I have not overexerted you?”

  “I will have a few aches in the morning.” Although she was more liable to injure him than the other way around. Samuel was too skilled at swordplay to make a clumsy move.

  “How,” she asked him, “did a man who spent years at a desk become so adept at fencing?”

  He answered with his typical modesty. “I spent years studying under a master swordsman.”

  “Angelo?”

  “No. His name is Christopher Fenton.”

  “I’ve never heard of him.”

  “I predict he will be famous one day. He is highly regarded by society gentlemen who seek his tutelage.”

  Her eyes lit up. “I think my brother might have spoken of him.”

  He propped his arm against the gallery railing, appraising her in amusement. “Has anyone ever told you that you look comely in a black silk cloak?”

  Before she could answer, she was in his arms, uncaring of their audience below, that the kisses he showered on her were more dangerous than the duel they had fought. “You,” he whispered, drawing her down the hall with one hand, the other unlacing the bows of her bodice, “are the one who will force me to my knees.”

  She felt a rush of giddiness as they reached his bedroom door. His body pushed at hers. She recognized his heat, the hard curve of his arousal. His kisses filled her with a wicked compulsion to lift her skirts and pleasure him where they stood. The impulse shocked her. His eyes met hers in ruthless anticipation.

  Infuriating. Fascinating. Epic hero or classical villain? In private, and at his best, the Duke of Gravenhurst was both.

  Chapter 32

  During the next few days, Lily decided that Samuel was a devil—one who followed his conscience, but a devil nonetheless. Demanding at times. Sacrificing at others. He was dedicated to what he believed and inclined to dismiss any opinions that countered his own. He felt deeply. He loved and worked with an inhuman intensity she struggled to understand. He had given her the marriage contract that his solicitor had drawn up in London. Lily found nothing to edit in this work.

  She learned to interrupt him at her peril. His office was like a cave of wonders, so charmingly and untidily distracting she was shocked that he could finish a sentence.

  Lyre-bound chairs occupied the four French rococopaneled recesses. Good conquered evil in ornate marble friezes and the plasterwork that surmounted bookshelves overflowing with poetry and obscure works. Lily would not have been surprised to find a secret passage to another realm in the stygian Gothic fireplace that was never lit.

  Maybe in time she would not be shocked when she knocked at his office door with his coffee, only to hear him reply, “Not right now. I’m in the middle of a murder.” Or, “If a maid were going to dismember her mistress or master, how would she go about it?”

  Questions like that became commonplace. He often drew the household into his musings about the book. Fortunately for his delicate readers, few of these gruesome reflections found their way to print. Or perhaps they did and Lily had trained herself to skip over such passages.

  Her concern for his health, however, overrode her fear of disturbing him. He ate little. He worked with the windows open to the mist, barefoot, in a thin shirt, and his hair often damp from holding his head under the pump to stimulate his thoughts. Sometimes she suspected he stayed up all night to work and that was what gave him his haunted look.

  After days of observing his habits, she realized one morning that he had fallen asleep at his desk. She put her hand on his shoulder and shook him in hesitation. “Samuel. Your Grace. Did you even go to bed?”

  He stared up at her with an indolent smile curving his mouth. “I don’t remember.”

  At least he recognized her.

  “You’ve moved all the chairs around,” she said in chagrin. “And your face is . . .” Dark angles. Masculine hollows. A vulnerability that she might walk through hell to heal. “What is it? It’s not that scene again?”

  “No. I’ve been forced to write past it. But I can sense another character in the wings.”

  “Friend or enemy?”

  “Enemy,” he said, frowning.

  “What will Wickbury do?”

  “Kill him.” He smiled. “What else?”

  Lily felt a shiver. She had to wonder why he enjoyed writing about murders and acts of revenge. She skimmed the most bloodthirsty parts of his books. Yet other readers relished them. She was beginning to see how his mind worked, and it frightened her.

  Still, some aspects of his behavior she would never understand. While she had come to accept tidying around the maps, books, and artifacts that surrounded his desk, apple cores and animal discharges were another thing. She screamed hysterically the afternoon she discovered a trail of mouse droppings leading from his office to the adjoining library. She could not bring herself to scoop up the disgusting things in her hands. So, for a temporary solution, she kicked the tiny pellets against the wall.

  When she stepped back with a shudder, she trod on a small mound she had missed, and she screamed again. Everyone in the house came running—the maids, down from ladders where they’d been cleaning the windows, the footmen steadying them below.

  Samuel thundered through the melee with one of his Italian rapiers, a useless weapon against rodent leavings if Lily had ever seen one.

  “What is it?” he demanded, a wild-eyed, white-lipped warrior that brought out Lily’s deepest instincts to fling herself against his chest and beg his protection.

  He was savage, rumpled elegance, his sword at the ready to defend her. She felt like the greatest fool in creation when she finally explained why she had gone to hysterics.

  Few things terrified her.

  She forced out the words, waving her fingers to depict the revolting discovery. “The nasty pieces were all over the place, I tell you, as if the king mouse were leading a march into the library. It . . . They . . . Well, I don’t know what mice do, but it’s possible they fight at times like human beings. They appeared to have made a formation. And some horrid mound that I stepped on.”

  His upper lip lifted. “The mice did not make a formation. I did. Those were the Cavaliers rallying the Roundheads. The mound was the Royalists’ cannon-balls. You have succeeded in not only destroying both forces, but hours of hard work.”

  “You—you lined up—”

  “—apple seeds. The soldiers were apple seeds, not turds. Inspiration doesn’t allow me to run about the house looking for objects to capture inspiration. Sometimes I feel like . . . Scheherazade. I cannot afford to lose a thought.”

  Lily agreed but said nothing. Heaven forbid she should be accused of beheading a masterpiece in the making. Samuel had published successfully without her interference and he should continue to do so.

  Her own education about St. Aldwyn House had only begun. What had seemed mysterious before now made sense. Samuel took long walks alone on the moor to clear his head. She had seen him talking to the moor folk from her window.

  His donations funded the tiny parish, although he attended church only one Sunday a month. He had a private pew reserved for his personal use. Half the female worshipers spent the service stealing helpless looks at the back of his shapely head. Samuel appeared not to notice.

  One would assume, in fact, to study his dark, kneeling figure, that he was prayerfully repenting his prior weeks of sin. It wasn’t until the ride back home that Marie-Elaine revealed the truth: His Grace knelt to take notes whenever he thought of an intriguing idea. To count by the number of times he genuflected, Lily estimated a prolonged sermon might inspire another series.

  Their wedding banns would be announced in the village at the start of the month. Until that time Lily might not sit in Samuel’s church pew, although she, and no other woman, shared his secrets and his bed.

  She shared his bed that same night.

  Her most wicked dream came true.

 
; Sir Renwick Hexworthy seduced her.

  Chapter 33

  After a late supper Samuel insisted he rehearse his problematic scene from the villain’s perspective. During the church sermon, he explained to Lily, he had realized that his mistake was in trying to suppress Sir Renwick’s point of view.

  As much as he appeared to resent criticism of his work, he confessed that he listened to all suggestions and considered any reasonable opinion.

  Lily suspected he was up to no good as they climbed the staircase to her rooms. Perhaps he had already put himself in Sir Renwick’s place. Her hunch proved true. Her sitting room was empty. A peat fire burned low in her bedchamber. This would be a private performance.

  She watched, transfixed, as he picked up the rapier that lay across the couch. She realized then that he had not shaved since morning. He looked devilishly irresistible. When he spoke to her, his voice had a husky pitch that hinted of danger.

  It was a voice she recognized from the depth of her unadmitted desires.

  The rapier tip caught the ribbons at her left shoulder and crossed to the right without nicking her skin. The threads of her gown, shift, and corset yielded to this attack. “That,” she whispered, lifting a hand in protest, “was not a subtle act.”

  “Sir Renwick isn’t a subtle man,” he said without a trace of apology. “And even if he were, it’s too late to request his courtesy. A bargain has been made.”

  “What bargain?” she demanded, her fingers catching the fabric that dropped to her hips. His gaze followed the movement. “I thought we had already reached an agreement.”

  “Samuel and Lily did.” He wrapped his arm around her waist, molding her to his hard frame. “We are different characters now. And I am not easy to please.”

  She trembled, entranced, pretending to draw away. He reacted, his grasp tightening until her body felt magnetized to his. The blade of his rapier rested in his hand. She could feel the cold steel through her skirts.

  “Why should I please you?” she whispered.

  He laughed. His hand traced down her nape to her bare back. She gasped at the sensation. He kissed her then, his mouth hard, his voice mocking as she laid her hands on his shoulders.

  “That’s better. You’re defenseless, aren’t you?”

  She swallowed a moan. “Not quite.”

  He brought his other hand between them. His fingers stroked her naked breasts. “You don’t want me to stop.”

  “What a wicked man you are at heart.”

  “You have no idea.” He paused as if aware of the unspeakable urges assailing her. “But you will.”

  His teeth nibbled at her bottom lip. She lost her breath. She arched, offering herself, shame dissolving. He overcame her too easily.

  “I’m going to put the rapier down,” he whispered against her mouth. “I don’t need it for what I’ll do to you next.” He smiled. “I have a wand for that.”

  She sank. He caught her before she went to her knees. Even then he kept weakening her with his kisses. He carried her to the bed. It was entirely dark in the room. He pulled off the rest of her clothes, then his. She reached for him. She ached inside. Her body knew only that he could ease her craving.

  “I’ll tie your hands to the bedposts,” he said hoarsely. “For authenticity’s sake, you understand.”

  She felt a tug of temptation. “It sounds more like artistic license to me. And if I am bound, I can’t touch you,” she whispered.

  She trailed her hand down his spine, the gesture explicit. His erection thickened against her fingertips. He allowed her to stroke him for only a few moments. Then, breathing unevenly, he captured both her hands at the wrists and locked them above her head.

  “If you break our pact, I shall punish you all night with pleasure.”

  She released her breath. “I have no choice, it seems.”

  “Not until I’m satisfied that you have given up your hero.”

  Lily looked into his eyes. “Take your satisfaction.”

  He bent his head, lowering himself between her thighs. His shaft branded the skin of her belly. She raised one knee, the invitation flagrant.

  “Not yet.” He smiled, lifting himself to taunt her, to make her beg.

  She shook, her hands straining against his unbreakable hold, until, without warning, he let her go. Even then she remained captive. His hands slid under her hips. He flicked a glance at her face. Her mind darkened as he began to suckle her breasts. His tongue abraded the tender peaks until, when his mouth wandered lower, she subsided against his hands in expectation.

  “You . . . I cannot breathe when you . . . How can you breathe in that position?”

  Laughter vibrated in his voice. “Perhaps because I am breathing the sweetest perfume earth has ever known.”

  “Lord Wickbury will intervene.” Her teeth caught her bottom lip. “He always does.”

  He glanced up to give her a dark smile. “Not tonight. We have to suffer a little suspense. The reader needs a reason to hate me.”

  “Villain,” she moaned.

  “ ‘Embrace the night,’ ” he said with a deep laugh.

  The familiar rituals of writing consumed him.

  The pressure to send off the book took precedence over all else. His brain seethed like a cauldron. Cream rose to the surface. Unfortunately so did scum. He needed a sieve to cull it out. For three days straight he barely spoke a civil word. He walked the moor at night while the house slept.

  He wrote in frantic bursts.

  Always at the edge of his mind, he was aware of her. He knew when she would look into the room, presumably to check whether he was still alive. She made no remarks about the clutter that encrypted him. But he could feel her cringing and shaking her head as she slipped away. Sometimes the thought of her broke his concentration and he wanted to chain himself to his desk.

  Pleasure would wait. Once his other obligations were met, he would marry Lily. Perhaps they would travel, but even that he could not promise. He would likely commit himself to Philbert again and the whole horrendous process of writing would repeat.

  But Lily would suffer through with him.

  She was safe here.

  And he—

  Hellfire and damnation.

  He pulled off his glasses and stared in vexation at the window, open to a stimulating breeze.

  Hoofbeats churned the gravel drive. It had to be an uninvited visitor. The peddlers who came across the moor once a month did not use the formal entrance. He doubted that his sister, Alice, had taken to riding on a horse. He swore roundly and waited for Bickerstaff to intervene. Except that Samuel had chased everyone out of the house, including his butler, after breakfast, and sent them to the village on various errands for the day.

  He pushed back his chair, ignoring a sudden pain at his temples, and waited for the guest to go away. But the hammering at the door continued until, in disbelief, he heard heavy footsteps in the hall.

  He grabbed the wand and sword that sat against his chair. He would at least scare the daylights out of the intruder. He rose from the desk, strode to the door, and announced, “I am going to kill you, whoever you are, unless you have a damned good reason for this invasion.”

  “I believe I do,” Captain Jonathan Grace said as Samuel intercepted him in the hall.

  Chapter 34

  Samuel stared at him with undisguised contempt. “Of all the people I intend to kill before I die, you surely top the list. You dare to come to this house?”

  “For Lily’s sake, yes.”

  Samuel walked the heavier man to the bottom of the stairs. “Which weapon do you prefer?”

  “I didn’t come here to fight.” He gripped his riding gloves uneasily in his fist. Samuel did not let the nervous movement shift his attention. Rapier and sword remained steady in his hold.

  Not only had the miserable coward shot a man in front of Lily and denied the act, but he had also invaded Samuel’s personal life. Blood would be spilled over this.

  He prodded
Grace through the hall, sword in one hand, rapier in the other. The insect deserved to be pinned to the wall hangings. “What do you want?”

  Grace swallowed, but refused to lower his gaze. “I need to speak with—”

  “No.”

  “Whether she is your mistress or not, her life is in jeopardy, Your Grace.”

  “Not as much as yours.”

  “Listen to me. I traveled this far not only to confess but to warn Lily. It is true that she saw a man shot the night we left the party. I should never have taken her in the first place. It was Kirkham who insisted that we go.”

  “Weak of character,” Samuel mused in a merciless tone. “Who would have guessed it? Did you not have the spine to refuse?”

  “I owed him a debt.”

  “Was it so great that you would dishonor the woman you were supposed to protect?”

  “I was in literal debt, too,” Grace said, his pale eyes studying Samuel closely. “Both Kirkham and I were. The man who approached us demanded the repayment we had promised. Kirkham pulled out his pistol before I realized what he meant to do.” He shook his head. “I tried to stop him, but he has a violent temper, and it was too late.”

  Samuel had told enough tales in his day to realize how one person could deceive another. “Finish,” he said.

  “He shot him and I helped him hide the body in the bed of a passing cart. Later that night he paid his servants to take care of the rest. I lied to everyone, including Lily.”

  “Damn you,” Samuel said softly. “You’re all cock and no stones.”

  “I was frightened for my future.”

  “You poor thing,” Samuel said. “Let us find a bucket in which to collect our tears.”

  “He saved my life once.”

  “Then you should have learned the value of sacrifice. Lily needed your protection. Give me your guns.”

  Captain Grace paled and reached inside his waistband. “You do not understand. Kirkham has escaped to Calais. I mean to hunt him down.”