In Bed With the Duke

by Christina Dodd

  He was gone.

  “Come back,” she whispered.

  A hand snaked out from behind her, covered her mouth and her gasp of surprise, and for a moment, her heart leaped in anticipation, for surely it was the Reaper. Then she was pulled hard against a man’s tall figure, and anticipation became terror.

  Who was this gentleman who held her so roughly against him? For he was a gentleman. He smelled not of leather and horse, but of soap and clean linens.

  She gave a muffled scream and fought him.

  “Shh.” The warning was almost silent, roughly delivered in her ear.

  He spun her around to face him.

  Mask. Costume of white rags.

  The Reaper. He had come for her.

  For one moment, a single thought possessed her.

  He could speak.

  Then other thoughts crowded her mind.

  He wore a mask, but not his usual white mask. This one was dark, and in this dim light, it appeared that the pale powder he usually applied to his skin was missing.

  He looked different, his face thinner, his jaw more determined, his nose more decisive.

  He didn’t smell right. He didn’t look right.

  Uneasy, she asked, “Is it really you?”

  He laughed, a rough chuckle of mirth. Taking her chin in his fingers, he lifted her face and kissed her.

  Oh . . . She relaxed. . . . It was him, all right. She knew his taste, the way he parted her lips, the swirl of his tongue against hers. Her hands groped their way up his arms and clung to his shoulders as she pushed closer to press her breasts against his chest.

  Still kissing her, he picked her up and set her on a small table, twelve inches by twelve, against the wall.

  It rocked precariously.

  She squeaked like a mouse and grabbed the sides.

  “Shh,” he said again.

  “What are you doing?”

  No reply.

  “How did you find me?”

  No reply.

  Instead, he lightly ran his fingers down her forehead, over her cheek, over her lips, down her throat, and lingered over the swelling mounds of her breasts.

  There was possessiveness in his touch, a reminder of who held her heart.

  The moon was bright, but they inhabited the shadows. The room was silent except for the ticking of a clock. The table beneath her bottom was hard and cold, and her feet dangled, but didn’t reach the floor.

  “You can talk,” she said. “So tell me—”

  He put his hand to his throat, wrapped as always in a long white scarf, and made a rough, painful sound.

  Yes, even last night, when their bodies were entwined, he had kept that scarf in place. “All right,” she said. “But someday will I be able to hear your voice?”

  He nodded.

  “And someday I’ll see your face?”

  This time he put his hand to his heart. That was his hope.

  Lifting her wrists, he held them away from her body. He looked at her as if he couldn’t quite believe it.

  She thought she knew what he must be thinking—that this elegant gown was not the gown of the simple companion he had first met. “I dance and smile,” she whispered. “It means nothing. I do it so I may discover his schemes to capture you.”

  The Reaper hissed in annoyance. And jealousy?

  “I won’t stop,” she said. “He’s frantic to get you and prove to everyone he holds the country in an iron grip. It’s become more than a matter of pride. If he doesn’t succeed, he’s shamed.”

  Behind the mask, the Reaper’s eyes watched her face as his hands wandered over her bare shoulders and down her arms. He lifted her fingers to his lips and kissed them, one at a time.

  She leaned her head against the wall and watched him kiss the palms of her hands. Each touch of his mouth, each whisper of his breath against her skin made her own breath quicken.

  “We can’t make love here.” She cupped his jaw and reveled in the clean feel of his bare skin. “It’s too dangerous.”

  He pointed to her and to him.

  “Yes,” she said. “To us both.”

  He smiled . . . and lifted her skirt.

  “No.” She tried to push it down. “Really. It’s not possible.”

  He took her fingers in his, pressed them to the edges of the tiny, precarious table, and indicated that she should stay still. Kneeling before her, he once again lifted her skirt. The silk and starched petticoats rustled, and she gave a stifled shriek as he slid beneath.

  She tried to clamp her legs together. “No,” she said, frantic with embarrassment and confusion. “No.”

  He caressed her calves, smooth and warm in their silk stockings. He toyed with the tie just below her knees, the one that held them in place. His hands crept up, slyly advancing regardless of her protests, and slid along the delicate skin of her inner thighs.

  She tried to lunge away, but the table wiggled beneath her weight, and again she grabbed it to steady herself.

  What did he think he was going to do? He seemed to have a definite direction in mind, for he pressed the flats of his palms hard against her knees, separating them, then lifted her thighs into the crooks of his elbows and kissed her ankle. Then her knee. Then . . .

  She had never been so shocked in her life. “No! Please!”

  Possibly he couldn’t hear her. Probably he didn’t care.

  And after a moment, she didn’t care, either.

  The man who seduced her with a single kiss on her mouth now used his tongue and lips to drive her mad. He nuzzled her, kissing her softly at first, then more insistently, putting pressure against her closed cleft. Then, with his tongue, he explored, probing here and there with a leisurely determination that seemed to indicate that he . . . he was enjoying himself.

  She was not enjoying herself. She had pressed her spine against the wall as hard as she could, trying to get away.

  Or to steady herself.

  But mostly to get away.

  Really.

  Because this was shocking beyond anything she’d ever imagined, and she was uncomfortable knowing he was tasting her . . . and discovering that she was growing damp.

  “No,” she whispered again, and rolled her head against the wall as if he could see her denial.

  He licked her, a slow, catlike lick of enjoyment, as if savoring the flavor of her . . . displeasure. His tongue probed her, inside her, and involuntarily her inner muscles clamped down as if to keep him inside.

  He laughed. She couldn’t hear him, but each nerve had grown so sensitive she could feel his face lift in amusement, feel the slight rasp of his teeth against tender flesh, feel the gust of his heated breath enter her.

  She almost came right there.

  But no. No. This wasn’t right, to have him doing these things to her while she perched, helpless, unable to touch him or move or do anything but take this kind of ruthless pleasure he forced on her.

  She tried to kick at him.

  The table shook as if an earthquake rumbled beneath the palace.

  He held her hips, keeping her in place, and as he sucked her clitoris into his mouth, she felt an earthquake indeed. It started small, as he used his lips to massage the tiny, sensitive piece of flesh. It grew as he sucked harder, pulling at her, making her gasp and scrape her nails beneath the table. Finally, encouraged by a single tiny, tender bite, the earthquake blasted through her, shaking her so hard she forgot the precarious table, her embarrassment, the ball, the prince, even the danger she should have so desperately feared. All that existed was her own pleasure and the man who forced it on her in touches of silk and kisses of ecstasy.

  Her back arched. Tears ran down her cheeks. She whimpered and moaned. She came. And came. And came until finally her overloaded nerves no longer could receive pleasure, and she went limp, barely capable of holding herself on the table.

  He gave her a last kiss and slid from beneath her skirts, his hands lingering on her legs as if the touch of her skin gave him pleasure. H
e stood and steadied her with his hands at her waist. He brushed the tears off her cheeks. He kissed her lightly, and she tasted herself on his tongue.

  That humiliated her. And pleased her. It was as if she had branded him in a way so personal only the two of them would ever know.

  He waited while she recovered, until she no longer moaned softly with each breath.

  Lifting her off the table, he set her on her feet. Again he waited until her legs could support her and her knees no longer buckled.

  He wrapped his arm around her waist and led her to the entrance. He put his finger to his lips and opened the door. He looked out, then with a nod led her into the corridor.

  They walked, she didn’t know where, until at last she could hear music and voices. They rounded a corner and she could see the lights of the ballroom. She stopped and stood there, staring, knowing she had to go back, but wanting nothing more than to stay here with him, where she could be herself, where she was safe and loved. So well loved. “Reaper . . .” She turned back to him.

  He had left her side, was returning to the darkness from whence he came.

  “Remember . . .” The word was a single low breath.

  Then he was gone.

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  The Reaper watched from the shadows as Emma, still unsteady on her feet, entered the ballroom.

  She was beautiful in her silvery gown, and more beautiful without it. She was his, and he could scarcely bear to see her go back to Prince Sandre’s side. But he had a mission.

  Swiftly, he returned to the room they had so passionately occupied.

  He had recognized it right away. The de Guignard shield decorated the double doors; this was the prince’s office, and he felt a deep satisfaction in knowing he had pleasured Emma on the prince’s decorative table.

  Inside the room was dark, yes, but the moon was out, and years of practice had taught him to see well in the dark.

  He searched the desk: the official papers strewn on top, then the contents of the desk drawers.

  In the top right-hand drawer, a pistol.

  He pulled it out and examined it. Loaded. Yes, if a person lived as Prince Sandre lived, it was a good idea to keep a pistol handy.

  In the second drawer, a list caught his eye—names, written neatly, with notations of payment beside them. The list of Moricadian citizens used to spy, willingly or unwillingly, for the prince. He read it, committed it to memory, then returned it to its place.

  Still searching, he opened the bottom drawer and heard metal rattle. He froze.

  He knew that sound.

  With the caution of a man handling a venomous snake, he pulled out an iron ring. On it dangled two huge, old black keys.

  They were medieval, and should have been rusty with time, yet they were polished and smooth, well used and well cared for.

  They were Prince Sandre’s personal keys to the dungeon.

  Revulsion gripped the Reaper, and the keys trembled in his hands, clinking like death’s own herald. He wanted to take them, fling them off the terrace so Sandre could never again go down to the dungeon to torment another poor soul.

  But that wouldn’t save the prisoners, and the Reaper didn’t dare let Sandre know he’d searched his study.

  With steely self-control, he replaced the keys, shut the drawer, and made his way into the depths of the palace to replace his costume with the formal attire of a gentleman attending a ball.

  What had started for the Reaper as a coolly plotted attempt to signal the beginning of the end for Prince Sandre and the de Guignards had now become a desperate race to end their regime before Sandre found out the truth about Emma—that she was no meek, gentle, proper companion, but a woman who would fight like a wildcat for the man she loved.

  The Reaper was that man. The stakes were too high. He had to win this game, and soon.

  Emma stood on the perimeter of the ballroom, smiling slightly, nodding as people greeted her, pretending to look for Lord and Lady Fanchere.

  Her lover had risked life and limb to find her; it perhaps spoke ill of her that she should be so flattered. But she was. Even more remarkable was that his insistence that he make love to her in such a novel, embarrassing, fabulous way should make her feel mellow and pleasured and more at ease in the palace than she could have ever imagined.

  Additionally, she now suspected something that had not occurred to her before.

  In real life, the Reaper was a gentleman.

  She swept the crowd, looking for him.

  It made sense. He could afford a fast horse; that took a good income.

  On the other nights he had visited her, he’d ridden to her side, and so he carried with him the odors of saddle and horse. Tonight he’d come into the palace as one of the guests, for he smelled of soap and clean linens.

  He could speak, but wouldn’t. Because he had an accent? Was he Moricadian? Or German or French or Italian? Or perhaps his voice was high or low or . . . Was he in this room now? Was he watching her?

  She straightened her shoulders, lifted her chin, preened for a man who might not be here.

  “Miss Chegwidden, I had hoped to speak to you tonight, but you disappeared for so long, I was in despair. Were you lost again?” Durant laughed hoarsely.

  She glanced at him, annoyed that he’d broken into her fantasy. “Yes. Yes, I was lost.”

  “I’m sorry I wasn’t there to guide you. But somehow you found your way back.”

  “I did. Yes.” She wanted him to go away. He was blocking her view of the room.

  “Be careful where you wander. Some places in this country are dangerous ones to stumble upon.” He looked different than she remembered ever seeing him. Not more serious. She’d seen him serious. This was more . . . intense.

  “I remember.” She looked into his eyes, and for one moment, there was a dizzying sense of connection.

  Then—

  “Miss Chegwidden. I’ve been looking for you.” Prince Sandre picked up her hand as if he had the right to touch her. “Where have you been?”

  “She was lost,” Durant said. “It’s a chronic situation with Miss Chegwidden.”

  The prince turned on him with a ferocity that made Emma gasp. “Get away from us.”

  Durant shrank back, fear as real and sharp as knives. Turning on his heel, he fled, leaving her alone with the prince.

  Any feeling of connection vanished. Her pity welled up, and all she could think was, Poor man. She didn’t care what kind of assurances he’d given her. Something horrible had happened in that dungeon, and Prince Sandre had been there to do it.

  Prince Sandre swung back on her. “Where were you?”

  “As Durant said, I was lost. I turned the wrong way and wandered for a long time.” That was true, as far as it went, but she blushed when she remembered where she had gone and whom she had found.

  He scrutinized her face, and guests scattered as he pulled her into an alcove. “For an hour? You were lost for an hour?”

  “I saw much of the palace. I fear I intruded on your privacy.”

  “Where were you?”

  She didn’t like his tone. “If I knew, I wouldn’t have been lost!”

  His blue eyes went frigid, and he squeezed her fingers hard enough to dig the simple silver ring into her flesh.

  She stiffened under the lash of pain, and said rapidly, “I was in a long corridor with rooms opening off it. I saw a terrace, white in the moonlight. I went out in hopes of finding my way down to the kitchens, but no.”

  His grip loosened. “You were in my personal area.”

  “I thought so. Even in the dark, the rooms were luxurious.”

  He mulled over her explanation. “How did you get back?”

  “I tried what felt like the wrong way, and here I am.” She wanted to add that she was sorry to be back, but although the fury in his eyes was fading, he still held her hand, and she was afraid.

  “Everyone was asking where you were. I was worried.”

  Worried th
at she’d run away and left him looking like a fool. But she nodded. “I was worried, too. I had no idea the palace had so many rooms.”

  Lord and Lady Fanchere stepped into the alcove.

  “Sandre, this privacy is not proper.” Lady Fanchere’s voice was severe.

  “I had to speak to Miss Chegwidden about the proper way to behave when one is invited to a royal ball.” Prince Sandre smiled, but it looked more like a baring of teeth.

  Emma wanted to slap him, or contradict him, but her hand hurt. She eased it away from his and glanced down. He’d squeezed hard enough to cut her with her own ring; blood was drying, sticky and brown, between her fingers.

  Lady Fanchere noticed, and probably guessed at the cause, for she took Prince Sandre’s arm and turned him toward the ballroom. “I suppose you’ve heard what Aimée’s doing now?”

  No! Emma started to take a step forward, to stop Lady Fanchere.

  Lord Fanchere caught Emma’s arm and shook his head. Too late, he mouthed.

  Prince Sandre sighed in exasperation. “What crack-brained scheme has Aimée come up with now?”

  Lord Fanchere offered Emma his arm, and they followed the cousins.

  “She’s decided to go abroad.” Lady Fanchere was delighted and obviously expected Prince Sandre to be, too.

  His head snapped around. “What?”

  Lady Fanchere was oblivious to his displeasure. “She’s going to Italy first for the winter, then moving on to Austria for the summer. It is exactly what she needs, and she’s excited as I’ve seen her for years.”

  They strolled through the crowd, and all the while, Emma strained, wanting Lady Fanchere to stop talking.

  “How is she managing this?” Prince Sandre asked with elaborate interest.

  Lord Fanchere stepped forward. “I’m setting up an account for her to draw on while she’s abroad.”

  “Are you?” Prince Sandre flicked him a glance.

  “Eleonore asked me to,” Lord Fanchere said.

  “Yes. I suppose you must do what Eleonore says.” Prince Sandre chuckled as if it were a joke.

  But Lord Fanchere treated the matter seriously. “She asks me for so little, and I would do much more.” Taking his wife’s hand, he kissed it. “Because she has given me so much.”