How to Tempt a Duke

by Madeline Martin

Not that his childhood had been without privilege. Charles had been brought up with nothing but the best of everything, and his father had never asked anything of him.

  Nothing until the stone. And in that one request Charles had failed.

  He rose abruptly from the desk, unable to stand the crush of his father’s success around him, the scalding reminder of how Charles was so very imperfect.

  “Thomas,” he said aloud. His valet appeared immediately. “Have my carriage readied. I’m curious to learn if I’ve been blackballed from White’s yet.”

  As it turned out Charles had not been ousted in his absence, and was, in fact, welcomed eagerly into White’s as if they’d known he was coming. No doubt Thomas’s doing.

  Upon entry he had a brandy in his hands and the hearty welcome of several members. Conversation centered on Napoleon’s impending exile and the hardheadedness of General Thouvenot, who seemed to have a dogged determination to keep the fortress of Bayonne in French control, despite Napoleon’s surrender.

  The conversation fed an inner part of Charles he’d long forgotten he needed—a chance to come to a place like White’s and let his mind relax, away from all of life’s complexities. There was no mention of Lottie and her fall from grace, nor of unmet promises to dead fathers, nor even any reminders of a woman who set his soul aflame.

  No, White’s was about men. Sports. Drink. Politics.

  “Somersville!” The Marquess of Kentworth waved him over from where he stood near the broad fireplace with the Viscount Rawley ever at his side. The volume of Kentworth’s voice indicated that the man was thoroughly in his cups.

  Charles sipped at his own ball of fire and made his way to his old university chums. They’d certainly had some fun together in their heyday, and he was more than ready to reminisce over those fond memories rather than dwell on the dismalness of his current life.

  “How are you, old chap?” Kentworth smiled at him, revealing the dimple in his right cheek which had always set the ladies aflutter.

  “Relegated to London society.” Charles lifted his glass in silent toast.

  Kentworth bellowed a laugh. “Aren’t we all?” He drank deep from his overfull glass, sloshing some over the rim.

  “Rawley.” Charles nodded at the tall, thin man, who gave the shy half smile that had followed him into adulthood.

  “Have you found all the gold in Africa yet?” Kentworth asked with a bleary grin.

  The question rankled, teasing at Charles’s already tense nerves. He hadn’t gone to seek fortune. Fortune he had in abundance, thanks to generations of cunning investments and the well-known financial accoutrement of the Somersville ancestors. But then Kentworth’s demeanor had always edged near the obnoxious when he was foxed.

  “I don’t believe gold is precisely what Somersville was seeking,” Rawley said.

  Kentworth squinted and nodded. “Of course, of course... Antiques and other things of the like—correct?”

  Charles chuckled in an attempt to be more good-natured than he felt. “Mmm...other things of the like.”

  “I bet you found yourself a good bit of sport around the world, eh?” Kentworth said with a wink.

  Before Charles could answer, or Rawley could intervene, Kentworth gulped more of his drink and put up a finger to indicate that he was prepared to speak again.

  “You recall that bit of ice we danced with at Covington’s masquerade ball?”

  That bit of ice.

  Charles clenched his jaw. “I might...” he replied slowly.

  “The one with the glittering dress and the bright red hair?” Kentworth tilted his head as if the details weren’t important. “She rather surprised us by being quite unlike the prim and prudish miss that Ledsey had led us all to believe she was. After all, the chap was once considering marrying the ewe.”

  “Lady Eleanor was quite impressive.” Rawley nodded in agreement and took a measured sip from his own glass.

  Kentworth lifted his drink in the air. Somehow it was already half drained. “If I were the marrying sort I’d make a bid for her myself. Though she won’t be long on the market.”

  “Why do you say that?” Charles’s stomach flipped. A ridiculous reaction. He should be grateful to be saved from having to work his way out of his promise.

  “Devonington is going to make an offer.” Kentworth snorted. “He may not be much of a boxer, but the old goat is full of spirit—I’ll give him that. And I can’t say she’ll be inclined to refuse, considering she’s got enough dust on her already to be lobbed on the shelf, and he’s got enough wealth to make the heavens sing on command.”

  Charles’s drink soured in his gut. Kentworth went on to prattle about some other such nonsense, but Charles had stopped listening.

  Devonington was going to ask for Eleanor to marry him.

  He was an earl with an unrivaled fortune. He had a strong name with titles that could be traced back to the Conqueror. The man was a bloated beast, and his conversation was a dead bore. But eligible ladies long on the market—ladies like Eleanor—might easily be pressed by their desperate families to accept such a proposal.

  Kentworth was right. The odds of her refusal were low indeed—especially with the Countess of Westix shouting in Eleanor’s ear.

  Of course, she might refuse—but then she might do so in order to come to Charles, for him to make good on his promise. And he could not follow through.

  Either way, he did not like the outcome.

  Charles finished off the rest of his brandy and excused himself to obtain another, eager for the slow burn and inevitable numbness of its embrace. Because apparently, no matter where he went, he was haunted by all his choices.

  * * *

  Eleanor was near bursting with excitement. She practically ripped off her cloak, mask and wig the moment she passed the threshold of Lottie’s town house in Bloomsbury Square. She’d been forced to hold her news until now, as the prior evening her mother had insisted she attend Lady Bunton’s soiree, which had been a wretched bore.

  Certainly not as exciting as the night at Vauxhall. Not the time she’d spent with the Earl of Devonington, but the quiet moments stolen in the dark with Charles. Her face went hot at the memory, and she tried to still her pulse-pounding eagerness at the prospect of seeing him again.

  Lottie’s butler showed her inside and she all but ran into the drawing room where she had spent so many evenings. It was at that moment, when she was anticipating sharing her news with Lottie and Charles, that she realized that for the first time in her life she had friends. True friends whom she trusted.

  “I have the most thrilling news to share!”

  The words exploded from her before Charles could straighten from his welcoming bow. She clutched the bag of journals to her chest in her excitement.

  He stiffened and rose slowly, his jaw locked in a tight grimace. Lottie cast him an odd glance and gave her a confused look.

  Goodness, but Charles did look as though he’d put a vinaigrette under his nose. His lips were drawn together and the skin around his eyes was tight.

  Perhaps he feared she might mention to Lottie their exchange at Vauxhall. But surely he would know she would keep such things to herself.

  “I have the answer,” Eleanor said breathlessly.

  “Do you?” he asked, in a voice that could only be described as dispassionate. Holding much of the same cold detachment she had once been rumored to possess.

  Now she understood how unwelcoming that demeanor could be, and why she’d had seven unsuccessful Seasons.

  “Yes.” She spoke more softly now. “The information we need is only in one journal.”

  Charles frowned at her from across the room. “What are you referring to?”

  Lottie looked between Charles and Eleanor, frowning.

  “The journals.” Eleanor held up the bag. She’d procured the rema
ining five from her father’s study, but knew there to be more at their castle in Scotland.

  In truth, Charles had been correct—the contents in the journal were not for a lady’s eyes. Amid lengthy stories of cracking ancient walls and dusty artifacts were lurid tales of what native women around the world offered by way of pleasure and sex.

  One tale had gone into such detail on debauchery she had spent the better part of an evening woolgathering and wondering if such things could even be physically possible. So much so, she’d missed most of the Earl of Devonington’s conversation about his new hunting dog while at the soiree.

  Not that she’d minded terribly. At least not until she’d gone to bed that evening and the story in the journal had replayed itself in her imagination, and curiosity had caused a warm and hungry hum between her thighs...

  The pinched expression on Charles’s face relaxed. “The journals. Yes.”

  It was not only his face which relaxed, but the tension hanging thick between them.

  Eleanor went on. “There was a final entry in a hand I did not recognize as your father’s or mine. It alluded to another journal—one written only by this author—detailing his research on the whereabouts of the gem in light of growing unrest among them all.”

  “Yes, my father indicated there being only one we’d need the key for.” Charles strode toward her. “Did you bring all the journals with you?”

  “I did.” Eleanor held out the black bag she’d brought with her. “Well, with the exception of the journals in Scotland, at our castle there.”

  Lottie peered at the journals, the twist of her lips indicative of her fading excitement. “While these are incredibly interesting...” She widened her eyes and looked askance with the exaggeration of a person intentionally lying. “I’ll leave you to look them over. But this is the last lesson I give you permission to miss.”

  She wagged a finger in chastisement at Eleanor, but the threat behind her words were offset by the kindness of her sapphire-blue eyes.

  Eleanor nodded obligingly and Lottie excused herself from the room rather than stay and be subjected to something she considered hopelessly dull.

  Eleanor dug out the book she’d referenced, and flipped to the last page, where the author had written about the stone.

  The door closed behind Lottie, and Charles came nearer. The heady spice of his scent teased at Eleanor and swept her into a stream of memories. His hands on her, his mouth on her, the tug of her evening gown, the touch roaming over her body and coming to rest on her breasts... How she’d fantasized about what she’d read of in the journal transpiring between her and Charles, imagining it in every lurid, sweaty detail until she was dizzy.

  She tapped the choppy handwriting with her fingertip, already having taken it upon herself to remove her gloves this time. She was nearly breathless with the hope that Charles would touch her again, kiss her again. “At least now we have the handwriting with which to identify the pages that will be needed to be compared against the key.”

  “Brilliant.” He regarded her with a curious expression. “Is there any other news you intended to share?”

  “Did you expect some?”

  “Of course not.” He chuckled.

  The shift in his mood was notably odd.

  “I’m assuming you’ve already sought out this man’s handwriting throughout the other journals?”

  He had known she would be thorough. The thought pleased her immensely. “I have,” she confirmed. “There are several examples we can review with the key.”

  Silence blossomed between them, ripe with sizzling memories and wanting.

  “I must thank you for coming to my aid in the crowd at Vauxhall.”

  Eleanor tried to push aside what had happened after his assistance, so she could fully focus on speaking. Only such memories were not so easily swept aside.

  “I daresay the Earl was quite upset with my departure.”

  She almost laughed at how red-faced he’d been the next morning, when he’d called. Even her mother was beginning to grow weary in her championing of him, despite his considerable wealth.

  “Indeed?”

  Charles studied her face with the intensity of a man who intended to kiss a woman. Was it wanton to wish so desperately that he would? Heat suffused her entire body in a vicious blush.

  “In truth, I ought to apologize.” He spoke in a quiet, intimate tone, impossible to overhear from the other side of the door. “I should not have kissed you.”

  Disappointment dragged at her elation. “You regret it?”

  He ran a finger down her cheek and she found herself leaning toward him.

  “Yes and no.”

  Her eyes closed, the better to appreciate the sensation of his touch.

  “I’ve been thinking of you far too often...”

  Charles’s voice sounded gently in her ear, sensual and low.

  “How you rob me of my senses...”

  His small sigh whispered across her skin like a caress.

  “I shouldn’t have come tonight. In truth, I should never come again.”

  Never come again?

  Eleanor’s eyes flew open. “Charles, don’t say such things.”

  He clenched his jaw and stroked the pad of his thumb over her lower lip. His touch against her mouth brought to mind a curious act described in the salacious tale she’d read, and a small flame kindled the fire.

  Curiosity simmered through her.

  Did she dare be so bold?

  Chapter Seventeen

  Charles knew he ought to walk away at that very moment. Leave London with the journals he did have and not return until he was certain Eleanor had been safely wedded and bedded and was forever out of his grasp.

  And yet the idea of her marrying Devonington set his blood to boiling.

  To imagine her in Devonington’s bed...it was more than he could stand. Not that he hadn’t imagined her in a bed—only it had been his own, her skin like hot silk under his hands.

  She regarded him with a brazen stare, as though she could read his thoughts, as though she meant to entice them. It was getting harder and harder to walk away from the temptation that was Eleanor Murray.

  So Charles did not walk away.

  He did not even step back to break the inappropriate closeness between them.

  He could not bring himself to, no matter how reason played in his mind. His thumb brushed over her full bottom lip once more, reveling in the supple pliancy of her warm skin. Her lips parted—and then she drew in the digit with a hot, gentle suck.

  His mouth fell open on a surprised exhalation and his manhood lurched to attention.

  She tilted her head upward, releasing his thumb and capturing his gaze instead. “One of the journals proved to be most...edifying.”

  Charles swallowed around a dry throat. “I think you ought to have taken my advice and not read them.”

  Eleanor lifted an eyebrow in a show of naughty prowess. “Should I?”

  This level of flirtation would make his shaft burst if she continued. Regardless, it did not stop him from speaking—from asking what he should not. “What was it exactly that you read?”

  “Of the other things the ghawazi do.” Her cheeks flushed. “Aside from dancing.”

  An image of her in swirls of near-transparent silk lodged in Charles’s mind, the same image as had done so the last few nights. Ever since they’d looked at that image of the nearly naked woman together. His skin tingled with the nearness of her and his shaft raged against his breeches. Ridiculous, considering she hadn’t even touched him. Well, save when she’d sucked on his finger as if...

  He shook his head. “You should not have read them. They are not fitting for a lady.”

  “I have questions.”

  Walk away, Charles.

  But again he did not listen to his ow
n command, and instead found himself pressing deeper into the damning conversation. “What questions?”

  She pulled in a deep breath and her bosom swelled against the red silk dress she wore. He thought of her nipples beneath, pink and perfect. His tongue longed to circle the sweet buds, to draw them into the warmth of his mouth and suckle her until the nubs grew taut.

  Her lashes had lowered to a languid half-lidded gaze. “When a woman sucks a man’s thumb, is it not in suggestion of her taking into her mouth...?” She paused, bit her lip and looked down to his breeches.

  “Eleanor, this conversation is not—”

  “Appropriate. Yes, I know.” Her blush deepened to an even darker shade of red. “But there is much we have done that is not appropriate. Please answer the question. When a woman sucks on a man’s thumb—”

  “Yes,” he gritted out.

  Dear God, this conversation was becoming the greatest torture of the sweetest kind.

  She nodded. “And if a man could be pleased thus, could not a woman?”

  Sweat prickled on his brow. “A woman can be pleased in many ways.”

  “So, is it possible to please one another without penetration?”

  The woman was going to kill him with such talk. “Yes.”

  “A man and woman can both be pleased while she continues to remain a virgin?”

  Her line of questioning was suddenly apparent.

  The room had grown far too warm, her gaze far too bold, and his willpower was far too damned weak. What man could resist such temptation?

  Still, he knew he needed to try. “Eleanor, we shouldn’t—”

  “I know.”

  She stroked her fingertips over the lapel of his jacket before glancing up at his face. She rose up on her toes and pressed a kiss to his lips. There was no delicate innocence about her. No, this time her affections were those of a woman hot and hungry with need.

  Charles ought to have resisted. God knew, he should have gently pushed her away. In truth, he had every intention of doing so—until she boldly sucked his tongue and gave a low, hungry moan. Her body melted against his, a delicious pressure against the strain of desire aching in his groin.