The Good, the Bad, and the Duke

by Janna MacGregor

  “Don’t hide your little dove from me,” Richmond drawled, coming closer. “Not after all the nights we’ve shared together at the Reynolds.”

  “What shall we do?” Panic laced her words.

  “You could walk away, and I’ll try to engage him. Stay close by, though.” His brow creased after he said the words. “That’s a bad plan. Another man might stop you.”

  “You could kiss me.” The words just escaped, but she didn’t have time to disavow them. Quickly, she jerked at the wool hood of her cloak until her face was hidden.

  “I beg your pardon?” Paul slowly drew away, and the shock in his eyes was almost laughable if they weren’t in such dire straits. “What did you say?”

  “Kiss me,” she pleaded.

  “You want me to defile you in order to protect you from ruin?” He dipped his head slightly, then shook it. The gesture either meant he would deny her or, she hoped, he was trying to make sense of what she was asking. “That’s your plan?”

  She drew back and studied his face. His eyes were half-lidded. The lines of his mouth had softened, and his lips had parted.

  “Southart, did you hear me?” The man’s voice grew more insistent.

  For five bold heartbeats, she refused to look away from his gaze. On the sixth beat, she made the mistake of glancing at his lips once again. Full, wide, and perfectly formed, they mesmerized her, and she lost her count. Time stood suspended, refusing to move like an early morning fog holding tightly to a moor.

  Oh God, she didn’t have time for such silly musings. Without wasting another half second, she wrapped her arms around his neck and brought his lips to hers.

  Any other rational woman would have run away rather than kiss the Duke of Southart, a known libertine and a man her family hated.

  But when his mouth touched hers, she thanked the heavens.

  It was a stroke of good fortune that tonight she’d lost every common sense she’d ever possessed.

  Chapter Six

  The moment Paul’s lips brushed hers, he found himself sinking. Sinking into a chasm that he hadn’t expected. She molded her body next to his, and the effect intoxicated him. When he pulled her closer, she moaned the sweetest sigh of pleasure, then pressed her mouth against his harder, demanding more from him.

  There was no doubt he needed more from her.

  How could such a small, gentle woman be so fierce, so resolute, so tempting? In his arms, she melted and nurtured within him things that he hadn’t even understood were missing. Things like the feel of absolute rightness that this woman’s touch brought forth. Things like the yearning to be a better man.

  This wasn’t supposed to be a seductive kiss, but one designed to keep Martin Richmond from discovering Daphne’s identity.

  Like a warning shot, the thought that this was Pembrooke’s little sister cleared his senses. He was only pretending to enjoy the kiss. He was only protecting her. He needed to keep repeating that supposed truth so as not to get lost in her. His recalcitrant heart kept missing beats the more her sweet mouth pressed against his. Somehow, she reached a place deep inside his chest and squeezed until she had him worshiping her mouth like a heathen ready to convert to any religion she offered. He’d gladly become a proselyte in the house of Daphne Hallworth as long as she’d continue to kiss him.

  Through the thick layers of wool that separated them, their bodies melded together, and he could feel her feminine softness unfurl around him. He imagined her breasts pushed against his chest with her nipples hardening from the pleasure. Would the areolae around those incredible nipples match the deep pink of her cheeks, or would they be a dark crimson like her lips? His cock swelled, then twitched in eagerness for an answer.

  For holy hell’s sake, she was a well-bred lady, the sister of a highly respected marquess, and he was kissing her in the back alley of a gambling hell.

  He was insane to be thinking about her breasts.

  He was insane to be kissing her.

  Thankfully, reality was highly overrated. If this was insanity, he welcomed it.

  His tongue teased the crease of her lips and elicited another slight moan, an aphrodisiac too strong to resist. She opened for him, and he swept his tongue against hers. Mating with hers. The sweet taste of her mouth caused an aching want that grew until he couldn’t contain it. He groaned, “Moonbeam.”

  She didn’t let him think or react but continued her relentless response. She encouraged him to take more. He obliged as only a scoundrel would. His tongue danced with hers in an endless waltz. He explored every secret space and learned what she liked. She wasn’t tentative, but the responsive tangles of her tongue indicated she’d been kissed before—probably by some officious stumbling gentleman or a bumptious peer who lacked the finesse to make her desire spiral. He gentled his mouth and drew out this brief glimpse of heaven until he had naught to do but surrender to the teasing passion that swirled around them like an electrical storm. Her slight moan seduced him, and he wanted to hear it over and over. If the world collapsed around them, he dared think he’d not notice.

  “Southart, let her come up for air,” a voice clamored beside them.

  Richmond’s deep tenor brought Paul out of his frenzy, and he reluctantly pulled away. When he took one look at her innocence and the muddled desire on her face, he was useless to care who called his name. Her swollen lips made every decadent desire within him explode like Friday fireworks over Vauxhall. Forced to catch his breath, Paul rested his forehead against hers.

  “Southart, you knave.”

  Paul turned partway to address the interloper and shoo him away, then remembered it was Martin Richmond, the publisher of The Midnight Cryer. With a single swipe of his quill, he could ruin Daphne. Paul didn’t give a fig about himself. He was crawling out of the gutter on his own. Any hit he’d take wouldn’t cost him much … but Daphne was as pure as the December snow flirting with the cold London night.

  He smiled in a half grin that he only hoped wasn’t too much of a sneer and nodded at Richmond before turning his attention back to Daphne. He brought his lips to her ear. “Moonbeam, I’ll do my best to convince him to leave. Perhaps it’d be best if you stay quiet?” he whispered, then nibbled the tender skin of her earlobe. Without a second thought, he stole another kiss from the bounty of her beautiful lips.

  She tilted her head slightly and nodded. She seemed to shudder against him, and he tightened his arms around her. A primeval urge rose within him to protect her with everything he possessed. The flush of her cheeks and the sway of her body meant he needed to get both of them out of there, and quickly. Much more of their incendiary passion and they’d both burn to the ground.

  “Richmond, can’t you see that I’m busy?” Paul turned his head and found the man no more than two feet behind him. Paul held Daphne close.

  She dropped her hands from his shoulders, then pulled the hood of her cloak around her head, ensuring her face was covered. Then she burrowed close as if seeking sanctuary in his arms. Paul’s anger rose that she felt fear over Richmond’s presence.

  “Oh, you’ve found a lusty beauty this evening, Your Grace,” drawled Richmond. “Perhaps you might introduce me to your ladybird?”

  Richmond tried to peek, but Daphne scooted in the opposite direction. Paul’s arms tightened his hold of her, and he bent slightly over her lithe body. No matter what happened, Daphne would remain his secret.

  “You know me better than that. I don’t share. She’s my special luck charm this evening.” The blood in Paul’s veins pounded. He wouldn’t credit Richmond’s presence for such a strong physical reaction. It had to be the remnants of his passion still flaming.

  “I didn’t realize that you were back to gambling at the Reynolds, Your Grace.” Richmond enunciated the words with a hint of scorn. “That’s news I’m certain The Midnight Cryer’s readers would take quite an interest in.”

  Daphne stiffened in his arms at the mention of Richmond’s paper, the biggest gossip rag in all of London. With
his gloved hand, Paul tucked her head against him closer. Her breathing had calmed, but she stood stock-still like a rabbit desperate not to become the fox’s prey.

  “Then you sorely must be lacking any real news.” Paul glanced back at Richmond. “Publish what you want. Now if you’ll excuse us, the lady and I are late for our next appointment.”

  “Pardon my interruption. If you change your mind and want to share, or if your Moon-glow tires of you, send her my way.” Richmond laughed, but the sound held scant humor. After a long pause, he executed a quick turn and entered the Reynolds.

  “Do you think he recognized me?” Daphne whispered. The quiver in her voice was unmistakable.

  “No.” Grudgingly, he released her from his arms. “But we should leave quickly. He may come sniffing here again. This is one of his favorite places to get stories.”

  He looked down and straightened her hood. The slight adjustment only revealed her swollen red lips. The thought pleased him that only he knew the real reason for their delectable color. “Come. Let me take you home.”

  She stood frozen like a captured ice princess staring at him. As if awakening and breaking out of her cage, she shook her head. “No, I must return to the kitchen.”

  “Not tonight, sweetheart.” He fought the urge to kiss her again. “It’s too dangerous with Richmond prowling the establishment. I’ll come tomorrow and look for your reticule.”

  Reluctantly, she nodded. “Let’s go.”

  * * *

  No matter what the cost, she’d find her little thief. Even if she had to loiter all day in a hired carriage outside the gambling establishment, she’d wait until he arrived, then grab him before he could enter the Reynolds. The idea that the majordomo actually had threatened to throw her out was inconceivable. She only wanted to stop in the kitchen to see if he was there. Even though she didn’t discover the little boy’s full name, she knew they called him Garland. With such a name, he should be easy to find. She released the breath she’d been holding. She prayed Garland still had her journal. If he’d been there tonight, she could have put this nightmare behind her.

  Truthfully, that was the only thing she’d change about the evening.

  Daphne kept her head down to block the wind. She’d just shared the kiss of her dreams with Paul. No matter what happened in the days to come, she’d tuck this evening in a special place of her heart and never share it with anyone. His lips fit perfect against hers, and when he deepened their kiss she could imagine taking him to bed.

  If she had her journal, she’d record every moment and every sensation she’d experienced. Their passion was more powerful than she could ever have contemplated. Their kisses could change the earth’s orbit.

  Oh God, what was she thinking? This was the Duke of Southart. Such kisses were probably a daily, if not hourly, occurrence for him.

  She sighed and pushed such thoughts aside. She had to concentrate on her journal. With Southart by her side, she walked around the building to his waiting carriage. All she wanted to do was find a large fire and cuddle with four blankets. There was little else she could do except return to the Reynolds the next day and find Garland or at least the cook he favored.

  Could the night become any more fraught with unwelcome interruptions or the risk of discovery? Daphne bit her lip and winced. Her lips were tender, and if she didn’t take heed they’d likely be chapped and cracked by the morrow. She twisted her cloak in one hand, desperate for warmth. Her gloves offered little comfort. She could hardly move her poor fingers, frozen harder than the Thames at a frost fair.

  They rounded the corner, and the wind assaulted her with such a force that it stole her breath and pushed against her so hard, she had to stop. Paul gently grasped her arm in support. It was as if the wind were conspiring to keep her by the duke’s side.

  One of Paul’s liveried footmen appeared from nowhere, the perfect cue for Daphne to take her leave. “I—I wish you a Happy Christmas, Your Grace.”

  “You’re mistaken if you think I’m leaving you to your own devices. Why don’t you have your man take your carriage home. I’ll escort you personally to your brother.”

  When he leaned close, the intense blaze in his blue eyes captivated her. Too entranced by his nearness, she fought for the perfect words to dissuade him from his mission. She increased the distance between them. Finally, the fog lifted from her mind. “There’s no need. I’ll hire a hackney.”

  Paul’s eyes widened. “A hackney? Ladies do not hire hackneys. Besides, who knows if you’ll be able to find one? I’ll take you home.”

  She nodded once. There was little else she could do. She had no money.

  Paul’s gaze locked on hers. “What are you about, Moonbeam?”

  She swallowed and prayed her courage hadn’t deserted her. The mercurial beast. “With the weather, it seemed unfair to have one of our carriages prepared for the short excursion.”

  His stare could have melted the snow from Mount Kilimanjaro. She didn’t say another word. Slowly, a smile that would have charmed a snake out of the Garden of Eden creased his lips and made his eyes blaze in brilliance. “Shall we, Moonbeam?”

  “Quit calling me that silly nickname.”

  He laughed, and the sound rumbled deep within his chest. Like a welcome ray of sunshine, the sound warmed her insides and reminded her of the cavalier boy from long ago. Such a simpler time, one she remembered fondly.

  Without another word, Paul escorted her across the street to his waiting carriage. The attending footman opened the door, and Paul took her hand to lend assistance. Once she settled into the forward-facing seat, he followed and closed the door.

  Her heart pounded at the idea Paul could soon discover her true circumstances of being alone, without any family. What she needed was a diversion. She pulled aside the silk curtain covering the window. “I think this is highly improper for me to be alone with you without a chaperone—”

  “Improper? For you or for me?” The humor in his voice apparent. “You just kissed me senseless out in the cold and you’re worried about a chaperone?”

  She curled back into the luxurious velvet cushion.

  “Let me answer for you. I find you inside a gaming hell, arguing with the establishment’s majordomo, and honing your acting skills by impersonating a serving wench. I think it’s safe to say that neither of us is really worried about a proper escort.”

  His deep baritone battered her resolve to fight him. She turned slightly and snuck another glance out the carriage window.

  He followed the direction of her gaze. “There’s no escaping me, Moonbeam.”

  “Why do you insist on calling me that?” She really didn’t give a whit for the ridiculous moniker, but it served the purpose of steering their conversation to another topic. Besides, her actions were her own, and she didn’t have to answer to anyone—even Paul.

  The carriage gently lurched into movement, and the silence weighed heavy like a thick wool blanket between them. Instead of a peaceful quiet, the air crackled with tension. Like a specter created out of her own doubts and fears, Paul emerged from the darkness of the other side of the carriage and edged closer to her. With his long legs framing hers, she felt surrounded.

  “Daphne?” The deep vibration of his words reminded her of a lion’s gravelly purr. “I’ve always been game for intrigue. You’ve roused my interest. What were you doing in the Reynolds besides looking for your reticule? You can tell me.”

  She’d heard one of the great beast’s rumbles once when Alex took her to a visiting circus. The adult lion had stared at her, and his dark eyes had glittered with a savage need to devour her, much like the man across the seat glaring at her.

  She straightened in her seat and vowed not to turn into a simpering idiot in front of him. Nor would she turn away. “It’s none of your concern.”

  “I think you made mention that it was none of my concern inside the Reynolds. But that’s no fun. I’ll tell you a secret.” As he took off his evening gloves, he allowed
his gaze to sweep from the top of her head to her toes. “I called you Moonbeam for two purposes. First, the word popped into my mind when I heard your conversation with the majordomo. Second, the lights in the Reynolds cast a blue-black glow to your hair, highlighting the silver-gray of your eyes. Simply put, you reminded me of a moonbeam.”

  Coming from another man, she might have believed it a compliment, a lovely one at that. But such words oozed from him. He was a consummate flirt and a practiced trifler with woman.

  For a fleeting moment, she allowed herself the luxury of imagining he meant what he said. Such a thought helped chase the chill that encased her in its cold claws, but her fingers were still frozen like icicles. She clasped her hands and brought them to her mouth so she could blow warm air over them.

  “Where are your gloves?” he asked.

  “In my lap.” She held them up as proof. “They offer little warmth. I normally wear a muff.”

  He reached over and clasped her hands between his. Gently, he rubbed back and forth. The warmth and strength in his large hands and long fingers started to break apart the stinging pain in her fingers.

  “Where is your muff?” The lion’s purr had returned.

  “I lost it.”

  One eyebrow shot up in disbelief.

  “In the park close to home,” she vaguely offered.

  The carriage slowed to a stop in front of her brother’s home, saving her from offering more details. The merry glow from the chandelier reflected off the windows above the entry door. It gave the appearance of an occupied household busy with holiday celebrations.