The Duke's Stolen Heart (London Scandals Book 4)

by Carrie Lomax

  With a single syllable, she stole even that.

  “Yes,” she whispered. She straddled his thighs his cock in her hand. An insouciant smile played over her lips. Welcoming heat made his hips flex halfway off the couch. An instinctive, ineffectual thrust. Antonia sat back, taking all of him inside her slick pussy.

  They exhaled as one.

  “I have wanted you so badly,” she declared breathlessly.

  “You have me.” Malcolm grunted. His hands were full of sweet woman, one hand on her hip, another on her shoulder as she rode him. Beneath the sleek skin was tensile strength. Maybe she was right. He couldn’t hurt her the way his father had dismantled his intelligent and sensitive mother. But there was always a way to leave a mark on another person’s soul if you looked hard enough for a means to do harm.

  Antonia moaned. The rumble of her pleasure chased the thought away.

  “All I want,” he panted, “is to make you feel like this every day.”

  She threw back her head and undulated over him. Malcolm would never forget the sight of her body moving in time with his. She whimpered through her release. With his own riding hard behind hers, Malcom stroked the nub at the apex of her sex. Antonia uttered a feral half moan. Darkness fuzzed behind his vision. A little more. Closer.

  She dug her nails into his shoulder and panted. No shadows behind her eyes now. The only thing left was pure, radiant joy. Malcolm let himself be swept away in their shared bliss.

  When he was cogent again, he found himself staring at where their bodies were still joined. Antonia moaned, lifting and lowering her exquisite breasts. Dusky nipples puckered in the firelight. If only the world would let them be like this.

  “I would marry you if you wanted it,” he said with unsteady honesty. “But you don’t. That means we cannot do this again.” He stroked the silk-velvet skin of her upper arm. Her long hair cascaded over his shoulder to tickle his chest.

  Antonia grasped the sheath at the base of his cock and squirmed off of him. His body shuddered with the aftershock. “I might marry you if you felt more worthy of me, Malcolm. Because you deserve everything a proper wife could give you. Children. A love so true it will see you through the grim darkness that swallowed up your mother and which I see you trying to hide.” She shifted so her head laid on one elbow, peering down at him with dark eyes soft with emotion. “Yet I fear I would be the one to push you away when you needed me most. Or worse, do what I do best.”

  “Which is?” he prompted.

  “Run.” Antonia laid back down, burrowing against him. “I am not known for staying to fight. I take what I need and flee to battle on another day. Look at how I abandoned Margaret just as she was learning to stand up to her brother and sister-in-law.”

  Malcolm tried to kiss away her grief.

  “All my life, I have run away the instant life turned difficult. You need a wife—a lover, someone—who will see you through the hard moments.”

  He pulled back. “You could do it, if you resolved to stay.”

  “But I wouldn’t keep my word, Malcolm. The worst part about me isn’t that I am a thief. It’s that I’m a liar and a fraud. I don’t know of any other way to be.”

  She slipped away from him, leaving Malcolm alone with his damp, satisfied cock and still-yearning heart.

  Chapter 18

  Sunday morning, Antonia was to attend church services with the Evendaws. The countess continued to regard their freeloading guest with a good deal of suspicion, but Margaret’s plea to let her stay, and Antonia’s abrupt shift back to her usual apparel, had mollified them. Antonia torched every bit of regained trust the instant she appeared on the landing dressed in an emerald-hued afternoon dress trimmed with gold braid. Just two weeks ago, she had peered down from this same landing while Havencrest had attempted to talk his way past the butler.

  “Where are you going dressed like that?” Lady Evendaw demanded sharply as Antonia descended the stairs.

  “I’ve a private appointment.”

  “Pardon my intrusion,” the lady snapped, “but I have our family’s reputation to uphold. Gowns fit to meet with the King and mysterious appointments do not reassure. We have been very accommodating of your privacy during your stay, Miss Lowry. You have been most secretive. I demand you confide in me at once.”

  “I am invited to visit the Dowager Duchess of Summervale for tea.” This, apparently, was code for betting at cards. Antonia wondered whether it had begun that way. Empty Sunday afternoons stretched into cold evenings. An invitation issued. Tea and biscuits served. Perhaps a touch of sherry. A suggestion of cards to pass the time when conversation faltered. A grandiose bet, followed by giggles. A larger wager, followed by laughter. One high-value ante, whether from spite, or boredom, or the product of an eternal battle for social dominance played out in London’s ballrooms night after night. Silent agreement to follow the same pattern a week hence. Antonia could see the scene in her mind.

  “Oh,” Lady Evendaw said with surprise. “Are you taking Margaret?”

  “No.” Lady Summervale and her friends would eat a lamb like Maggie for lunch. Her pin money would be but an appetizer. Antonia held a thousand guineas in paper notes and a careful selection of coins. Her memorized strategies were bolstered by cards secreted away in her special jewelry pockets. Easily reached through the hidden slit in her skirt and utterly invisible. Antonia was not above cheating if it meant getting Malcolm his stupid necklace and getting out of London.

  Her mission was to leverage the animosity between her and Lady Summervale. If that meant frustrating the old bird and taking her money, well, Antonia had done worse in her lifetime.

  Why, then, did the prospect feel like a new low point?

  “This is only for you?” Lady Evendaw sputtered. “Is my daughter unworthy of being invited over for a few refreshments?”

  “My lady, the conversation will be inappropriate to innocent ears.”

  Aghast, the countess scanned Antonia’s face, her dress, and her tightly coiled dark locks. “Are you not unmarried?”

  Stupid not to have set herself up as a widow. She cursed past Antonia for a fool. “I am on the shelf, by local standards. My marriageability is not an issue, for I seek no husband.”

  She had finally broken the countess’ patience. “You will find another place to stay.”

  The lady swept from the room with her shoulders stiff and angry.

  “No, Toni, you mustn’t go.” Margaret clung to her arm.

  “It’s no use, Maggie. I won’t disappear on you,” Antonia lied. She had her bolt-hole. Havencrest could store her belongings for a few days until she had a moment to sell them. A few more days was all she needed. The need to run before her demons caught her pressed Antonia into motion. She tied her bonnet around her carefully coifed hair and fastened the closures of her mantle.

  Let the final game begin.

  * * *

  “Lady Summervale shall greet you in the parlor,” intoned a stiff-necked butler when Antonia arrived. Her gloved fingers were still. Calm confidence flooded her veins like icy water from the River Thames.

  Antonia shuddered. Unlike poor Edith of Idless, she was alive, and she intended to remain that way. She flexed her fingers to be sure they still worked.

  “Miss Lowry,” Lady Summervale said coldly as she entered the room. “I trust you brought funds sufficient to buy into the first three rounds?”

  Any ideas Antonia had harbored about genteel women slipping from tea to sherry into an ever-escalating game of cards died a merciful death. The old woman wore a gray watered silk gown trimmed with blond lace. With her white hair piled atop her head and cards flapping between her hands she might have been a fortune teller, or a witch. Antonia swallowed.

  “One hundred pounds to begin,” she replied smartly to belie her sudden nerves. This woman had decades of experience playing a game Antonia had spent two weeks learning. She removed a stack of notes from her valise and tossed them onto the table. “One hundred pounds to buy
into the game, or did I misunderstand?”

  Eight pairs of eyes greedily latched onto the rest of the bills rolled into a fat cylinder. Women with set incomes and a penchant for cards must see their incomes fluctuate substantially. Antonia had waded into shark-infested waters.

  Good. She wanted them to see her as bait.

  “You may join our table,” a lady in a saffron dress offered. “Lady Woolryte always plays partners with Lady Jersey.”

  Antonia took the indicated seat. “How do the rules work?”

  “We each put in one hundred pounds to start,” replied Lady Woolryte. She cut and flipped cards to the four women seated around the corner. “There are twelve women in six pairs. We play three rounds, increasing the betting pot as we go. The four lowest-scoring partners are dropped. The four remaining partners play three more hands. The winners face off in a final best of three hands. They split the pot equally.”

  “You may partner Lady Pembroke,” Saffron Dress decided.

  A frail-looking woman in a violet gown squinted at the practice hand she had been dealt. Antonia sighed. If she lost at cards, she would have to make herself obnoxious and provoke an individual match with the Dowager Duchess.

  You beat Lady Summervale once. Don’t give up hope before you begin. Antonia settled herself opposite the elderly lady and scooped up the hand she had been dealt. The woman in the saffron gown marked the start of a new rubber, the paper tally used to keep score.

  “What happens for the people who don’t make the higher rounds?” asked Antonia. She fanned the cards. A decent hand. She organized them by suit and by number. Lady Pembroke did the same.

  “They can play for penny ante.” Lady Woolryte sniffed, as though she would never stoop to playing for pennies when there were pounds to be had. “Or they can watch, or leave.”

  Antonia had no doubts about which option her companions preferred. They thought her a lamb to be skinned. Antonia did not know what to make of them. Fortunately, the practice hand let her assess her opponents and partner. Lady Pembroke’s gnarled hands might be slow with age, but her mind was clearly as sharp as ever. She scooped up three tricks in a row before Lady Woolryte managed to score the next two. Antonia deployed her trump cards and took three of the next four hands.

  “Beginner’s luck,” said Lady Woolryte as the lady in the saffron gown tallied their scores.

  “Nobody likes a sore loser,” Lady Pembroke replied. “Besides, you have two more chances to beat me and Miss Lowry.” She flipped and shuffled the deck with skill that spoke of many an afternoon passed playing whist. Antonia caught the older lady’s eye and winked.

  Lady Pembroke arched one eyebrow and passed out the cards. “We played a good hand. Keep it up, Miss Lowry, and we may well go home with our pockets jingling this afternoon.”

  “I raise the ante,” Antonia said as they settled in for the next game. A hush fell over the room as the other two tables of players paused to listen. She stripped another hundred pounds from her roll of bank notes and threw them into the middle of the table.

  The fine ladies stared at it as though she had thrown the carcass of a dead animal. For one wild moment, Antonia thought she had overplayed her hand. But then Lady Pembroke tossed a pile of coins on top. “Ten guineas,” she announced.

  Saffron Gown and Lady Woolryte look at one another and then to their hostess.

  The Dowager Duchess of Summervale glanced over and nodded once. “You've my permission to relieve the American of her money.”

  Saffron gown smirked. “I bid my new pashmina shawl. Lady Jersey turned quite green with envy upon seeing it.”

  “I'm pretending I didn't hear that, Julia.” Lady Jersey snapped the card down with force sufficient to demonstrate that she had not forgotten Antonia’s conduct at Almack’s a few days earlier.

  The ladies returned to their card game in earnest. The mood in the well-appointed parlor had taken on a charged quality. Cards skimmed over the table. Chips slid and clinked as the rubber scored their progress. Lady Pembroke and Antonia lost the next round by a single trick.

  “Do we wish to sweeten the betting pot again?” asked Julia with a sneer of satisfaction.

  “It's the best two out of three.” Antonia tossed another roll of banknotes onto the pile. The loss had rattled her. The cold and self-preserving part of her whispered that she should have taken Malcolm's money and run when she had the chance.

  She could lose everything with a single turn of cards. All five thousand pounds, when she factored in what she had already spent on expensive dresses to make these women view her as both a worthy opponent and a bug in need of squashing to preserve their standards. Antonia’s palms dampened inside her gloves. Paper whisked across the table.

  “Damn.” Julia threw the final trick into the center of the table. “I'm out. The pashmina is the wrong color for me, anyway.” As she was one of the few women Antonia had ever met who could wear the deep gold color and look lovely in it, she doubted any pashmina had the ability to make her look less than stunning. “Enjoy it, Lady Jersey, if you can pluck it away from our newest member.”

  “Miss Lowry may have beaten you, but she hasn’t beaten us yet,” said Lady Jersey’s partner, whose name Antonia didn’t know.

  Lady Pembroke tapped Antonia’s arm. “You make a good partner.”

  “As do you.” Antonia whispered conspiratorially. She’d be damned before she admitted to any of these women how out of place she felt. Antonia’s pride stung at how quickly she latched onto any hint of friendship. A few weeks ago, she would have cheerfully fleeced these women out of their money and jewels, without a second thought.

  Malcolm had done this to her. He had peeled away her defenses. Filed down her sharp edges. Margaret had softened her further by burrowing into her heart and making a soft nest for her to rest. Antonia hadn’t realized how tired she was of hiding from the world until she no longer needed to.

  “I wish you luck. If we make it through the next three games, we have a good chance of taking the pot. I haven't seen one so good in months.” Lady Pembroke appeared gleeful at the prospect.

  “Do we switch partners for each round?” Antonia asked.

  “If you want to, we can trade. I like the way you play, though. Strategic.” The old woman tapped her temple. “You’ll need that when we’re up against Lady Summervale.”

  That was not to happen during the next round. They faced off against two women Antonia did not recognize, and won. Each time, she sweetened the pot. Each time, the other women followed eagerly. Whist sharks, Antonia thought ruefully as she snatched the final, winning trick.

  They took a short break to refresh themselves with tea and biscuits. The pile of coins and paper, a pashmina, two silver bracelets, and a ring sat in an obscene heap in the center of the table.

  When they again took their places, Lady Summervale settled heavily into the chair. “I’ve no further appetite for wagers. The pot is sufficient.”

  Antonia met her pale blue gaze. She dipped into her reticule and came forth with a handful of gold. “Fifty guineas.”

  “I said, the prize is big enough,” the dowager snapped.

  “Are you afraid you cannot match me?” Antonia challenged.

  “I can and will match any lady.”

  Her quarry had taken the bait. Now Antonia had to set the hook. “Are you saying I am not a lady?”

  “You are but a miss. You oughtn’t even be here. Who are your parents? What connections brought you into the bosom of good and guileless people such as the Evendaws?”

  “My family remains in America. I am mistress of my own fortune.” Unbowed, Antonia stared down the woman whose love and pain for her lost daughter had curdled, and saw a reflection of herself. She embodied of a type of freedom that galled these fine women whose choices had been bounded by considerations of class and wealth.

  Her effrontery in challenging them in their own castle turned Lady Summervale’s face a mottled red. “‘I shall make my own decisions,’ is t
he battle cry of a foolish woman. Name your price, Miss Lowry. I’ll defeat you if it kills me.” The Duchess dropped into her chair. Her hands shook as she dealt the cards and fanned them out.

  “I want the Heart’s Cry necklace.”

  Chapter 19

  “Fitting,” the Dowager Duchess of Summervale jeered when she finally collected herself. Great whoops of laughter made her chest heave and jangle. “Its last owner was as pigheaded as you are, Miss Lowry. My late daughter was quite a bluestocking whilst she lived. Until she met the Duke of Havencrest and every notion of independence turned into so much dust,” she said bitterly. “It all came to heartache, of course.” Lady Summervale pried herself out of her chair using her cane. “Wait here.”

  The woman named Julia snapped open a fan and deployed it vigorously. “Didn’t the late Duchess of Havencrest—”

  “Yes,” interrupted Lady Pembroke. “Miss Lowry. Please sit. I am pleased to partner such a talented player.”

  “It is all chance,” Antonia replied demurely. The sound of thumping cane on wood returned. Lady Pembroke brushed the diamond ring on her left pinky finger. Antonia nodded. A tap of her nose meant spades. Understood.

  “Here it is,” Lady Summervale declared. She placed a black box on the edge of the card table. “The cursed Heart’s Cry.”

  Antonia gasped. It was smaller than she had expected, but the deep red of the fancy diamond was indeed cut into the shape of a heart roughly equal in size to the lower half she had given to Malcolm. Delicate whorls and scrolls of gold filigree curled around it. To gaze on the gem was to be spellbound by the perfection of its shape and color. The black velvet box in which the jewel laid had the feeling of a miniature coffin. A deep sense of foreboding lodged in Antonia’s breast.

  “Deal,” said Lady Pembroke sharply. Antonia jerked into action, hurriedly passing out cards. The first game saw them soundly defeated. The second round, she managed to squeak out a win. The third round, cards whisked silently over the table. Antonia’s partner made a heart shape with her hands and then folded them. A signal. How appropriate that the final round of cards, hearts were the trump suit. Antonia focused.