Duke of Depravity (Sins and Scoundrels Book 1)

by Scarlett Scott

  If I could take on the pain for you, I would.

  And she had not left him. She had given him one night.

  He wanted all her nights.

  Every single damned one.

  “I do not think I am daft, Cris.” Duncan’s contemplative voice plucked him once more from the thoughts that threatened to drown him. “You care about this woman.”

  “Yes,” he rasped, the admission torn from him but nonetheless true. “Bloody, sodding hell. Much good it does me.”

  “Woo her,” his friend suggested, shocking him, for it was the least likely sentence to emerge from the mouth of Duncan Kirkwood, devil-may-care, black-hearted gaming hell owner.

  “How?” he asked before he could stay his wayward tongue. “One does not escort a governess to a ball or take her for a drive. Good God, I am not the sort of man who can stomach such nonsense even if I wished it.”

  “I am hosting a masque here tomorrow,” his friend pointed out.

  “A Cyprian ball,” he argued. “I can hardly escort her to such an event, and even if I could, Miss Turnbow would never agree to such a thing. Propriety is the woman’s middle name.” Except for when she was in his arms. The unwanted thought made heat flare inside him.

  “Tsk, Cris. It is a masquerade ball.”

  Bloody Duncan and his love of wordplay.

  Crispin could not suppress his wicked grin. “No doubt attended by ladies and gentlemen.”

  “You are learning, Duke,” Duncan mocked. “Slowly but surely. You need have no fear she will be seen. Guests are to remain discreetly masked at all times.”

  He knew he ought to be appalled by his friend’s suggestion. There was no means by which he could persuade Jacinda to attend such an inappropriate gathering. But since it was a masque, no one would know her identity. And the thought of escorting her to one of Duncan’s wild balls gave him a flutter of pleasure. How he would love to see her cheeks flush. To watch her watch the other couples engaged in amorous play. To take her to a private room and strip her bare.

  He swallowed. “Perhaps if I can convince her, it would suffice.”

  Duncan raised his glass in mock salute. “You will think of a way. Of that, I have no doubt.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  Holding a bouquet of hothouse flowers in one hand, Jacinda rapped on the duke’s study door with the other. It had been twelve hours since she had last seen him. Since she had last touched him.

  Twelve wretched hours.

  But who was counting?

  “Who is it?” he called from within his lair.

  How odd it seemed to be separate from him now. To be the servant at his whim, standing on the other side of a portal that denied her entry without his explicit consent. Just that morning, he had held her in his arms, carrying her to her chamber as if she weighed no more than a babe. We have only just begun, he had promised her, only to disappear for the majority of the day.

  She had been unable to sleep following his departure from her chamber, alternately horrified at her lapse in judgment and aching to repeat the mistake in equal measure. Instead, she had performed her own perfunctory ablutions with water gone cold the night before and dressed, pacing the floor and wondering how she would face him after going willingly to his bed.

  But she need not have worried, for he was not present at breakfast as had recently become his custom. Nor did he return for hours afterward, his arrival so near to dinner she had scarcely time to change after completing the day’s lessons with Lady Con and Lady Nora before seeking him out.

  She should not have been hurt by his defection, for he had promised her nothing, and she had given him one night. She could not allow anything more to transpire between them for the sakes of her heart and future. Already, she had begun to feel far too comfortable here at Whitley House. She could not deny she had developed feelings for the duke and his sisters. They had burrowed through the callused part of her to the softness she’d no longer believed she possessed.

  “Who is it?” he asked again, reminding her she had lingered, holding her breath in the hall, unknowing how she ought to proceed.

  His voice, dark and decadent and promising sin, made a trill lick down her spine despite her every intention to remain unaffected.

  She stiffened, forcing all such nonsense from her thoughts and body. “It is Miss Turnbow, Your Grace.”

  “You may enter.”

  Stifling the retort that rose to her lips, she did as he bid, securing the door behind her back before approaching him, the flowers outstretched as if in offering. “I believe these belong to you, sir.”

  He had stood upon her entrance, unfairly handsome in his dark coat, snowy cravat, and breeches that had been fashioned to fit his muscled legs like a second skin. “You brought me flowers, Miss Turnbow? How could you have known that roses are my favorite?”

  She flattened her lips into a grim line of displeasure. “How did they get into my chamber?”

  A slow, sensual smile curved his lips. “I am sure I have not an inkling, Miss Turnbow.”

  The thought of him in her chamber when she was not there unsettled her. What if someone would have witnessed his trespass? And furthermore, what else had he done and seen? How long had he been there? Had he riffled through her belongings? Did he suspect her of the treachery she was bound to perpetrate against him?

  She swallowed against the knot of uncertainty that threatened to rise and close her throat altogether. “You had no right to enter my chamber. If you had been seen, or if a servant had noted the flowers before I saw them, the conclusions would have been as obvious as they would be erroneous.”

  “Obvious?” Raising an imperious brow, he slowly skirted his desk. “What do you mean to suggest, Miss Turnbow?”

  Her cheeks flamed. Last night, this wicked, arrogant, perfect duke had been deep inside her body. He had pleasured her with his tongue. But she could not say any of that aloud. And she must not note how strong his thighs were, no doubt the product of his years at war, or how broad his chest. Nay, nor should she recall how he had felt, filling her, possessing her.

  She forced her gaze back to his. “What I mean to suggest is, if the lord of the house is entering the chamber of the governess with a bouquet of flowers, it only suggests one thing.”

  He came nearer still, not stopping until he was so close his heady scent washed over her, sending a pang of need to her core. With a negligent air, he leaned his hip against his desk, crossing his booted ankles. His gray gaze consumed her. “What thing would that be, my dear Miss Turnbow? Would you care to elaborate?”

  “No,” she snapped, tiring of being his game. His levity coupled with the dangerous gift of his flowers nettled her. He could play the cat all he liked, but that did not mean she was required to be his mouse. She pressed the flowers into his chest. “You must take these, Your Grace.”

  “No,” he echoed, the ghost of a smile flitting over his sensual lips.

  “Yes.” Determined, she pressed them deeper into the solid wall of his chest, not caring the petals crushed against his coat and scattered to the floor.

  “I said no.” He caught her wrist in a firm but gentle grip, his thumb caressing a circle of delicious fire along her eager skin. “I do not give a damn who sees the bloody flowers, Jacinda. Let anyone draw what conclusion he will. I do not owe anyone beneath this roof a single cursed thing except for my sisters.” He paused, turning her hand over and raising it to his lips for a lingering kiss. “And you.”

  Whether it was his action or his words that robbed her breath, she could not say. All she knew was she gawped at the Duke of Whitley as if he had begun speaking in a foreign tongue. Confused and flustered, she attempted to regain possession of her hand, but he held fast, continuing to deliver those slow, tiny touches with his thumb.

  The heat in her body spread, turning to a fire in her veins.

  And yet, she could not allow herself to succumb to either her body’s traitorous wants and needs or to the Duke of Whitley himself. But yo
u can to Crispin, whispered a wicked voice inside her.

  Nay. Doing so would be ruinous. Dangerous. Foolish.

  Impossible.

  “You do not owe me anything, Your Grace,” she forced herself to say. “If you harbor a guilty conscience for… for what transpired between us, allow me to absolve you now. What was given was given freely, but it will not—nay, cannot—bear repetition.”

  “It cannot, or you cannot?” he asked softly, continuing the deliberate caress that wreaked such havoc upon her ability to resist him.

  A simple touch, his bare skin on hers, was all she required.

  “Both.” Her voice was breathless. She tugged her wrist to no avail, but it was a halfhearted attempt anyway for the truth. She loved his touch. She craved it, hungered for it, and the wickedest part of her answered to the darkest part of him.

  But that did not mean she could indulge in such a selfish, ruinous fashion ever again. She was an honorable widow with a reputation above reproach. She was not fast. She had never once taken a lover, having neither inclination nor opportunity, being so ensconced in her work with Father.

  Not until the Duke of Whitley, that was.

  But lover was far too intimate a term to describe him. Rather, he was an indiscretion. A mistake. A regret. He had to be. Reason warred with desire.

  “But you can, Jacinda,” he said low, scarcely using any strength at all to tug her into his strong, lean form.

  Weak-hearted fool that she was, she fell into him, bracing herself with a palm flattened to his chest. The bouquet remained between them in her other hand, and she could not be certain whether it represented a flag of surrender or truce.

  He took the bouquet and tossed it aside with a growl, hauling her to him, his lips slamming down on hers.

  Surrender it was, she decided. Yes, she could. If she dared. She opened for him, her arms twining around his neck. It had been twelve hours, and if the viciousness of their kiss was any indication, they were both starving for each other. He cupped her face, holding her still for his tender onslaught.

  He smelled of leather, the crispness of the outdoors, citrus, and a faint hint of smoke. She wondered where he had been, but then his mouth was hot and demanding as it blazed a trail of fire down her throat. She thought of the flowers and her heart clenched. At least part of his time away had been spent in thinking of her.

  Her fingers tunneled into his thick, silky hair of their own accord, traveling over his skull, and that, like the rest of him, was shaped to perfection. Her fichu disappeared, revealing her modest décolletage to him, and she recalled the missing scrap of lace he had yet to return to her.

  “I only have one more fichu,” she protested weakly as his tongue settled in the hollow at the base of her throat. “You cannot steal that one, too.”

  “Mmm.” He kissed to the top of her breast, flirting with the neckline of her gown. “Buy a hundred more if you like.”

  His words startled a laugh from her that ended in a squeak when his strong hands caught her waist and lifted her atop the polished surface of his imposing desk. He stared down at her, his expression warm and unguarded in a way she had never seen it before. He seemed younger in that moment, the weight of years and war gone.

  She did not remove her arms from about his neck, though she knew she must. The selfish part of her wanted to wait another breath, another beat of her heart. To drink in the sight of him and tuck it into her memory for later when she could never look upon his countenance again. When she would look back on the stolen moments during which she had been the Duke of Whitley’s lover.

  Reality intruded then, as it always did, in the form of her conscience pricking her. She had no widow’s portion, and Father had gambled away everything they owned. And she had no choice but to betray Whitley to save herself and Father from ruin.

  But she could say none of that. “I could not buy a hundred fichus even if I wished to do so, Your Grace,” she reminded him instead.

  His gray gaze darkened. “I will buy them for you as long as you agree to never wear them in my presence.”

  “I cannot accept your gifts,” she said, breathless as his hands snagged the simple muslin of her gown and bunched it upward.

  Cool air washed over her heated skin through her stockings. He settled himself between her thighs, his touch slipping into the hollows at the backs of her knees. “Will not,” he corrected, frowning. “First the flowers and now my offer of lace. Perhaps you will accept something else from me instead, Jacinda?”

  Unadulterated want pulsed between her thighs. She swallowed, suspecting the something else to which he referred was the length of him, rigid and thick and long, a temptation pressing against her mound through the layers of clothing and respectability separating them. He caressed behind her knees, lowering his head so their mouths almost brushed.

  She stared back at him, unable to look away, unable to move. He was everything she wanted and everything she could not have. “I gave you one night.”

  Ever so tenderly, he laid a kiss upon the corner of her lips. “What if I want more?”

  She inhaled, rubbing her cheek along the bristle of whiskers on his jaw that had already begun to grow since his morning shave. “I cannot give you that.”

  But neither could she release him.

  Nor could he release her, it seemed. His hands, still clenched in her skirts, traveled higher, not stopping until her hem landed about her waist. Chemise, petticoats, and muslin pooled. Strong fingers traced the curves of her hips, guiding her thighs apart. He kissed the other corner of her mouth, his lips feathering over hers in a tantalizing caress.

  “Will not,” he repeated. Gently, he gripped her hips and slid her forward until her bare mound brushed the swell at the fall of his breeches. “You’re soaked, darling.”

  She could not deny his statement when the proof coated his breeches. They were buff, and the economical part of her mind wondered if there would be a stain. Would his valet spot it and know the cause? Her cheeks went hot at the thought.

  “You are wicked,” she scolded.

  He gave her a smoldering grin, his mouth a scant distance from hers. “Depraved. You never did answer my question, Cin.”

  The sobriquet was unexpected. On his tongue, it sounded deliciously wicked. Not unlike the word. Sin. Yes, the worst part of her liked it well. All her life, she had been Jacinda. Jacinda the good daughter, Jacinda the loyal wife, Jacinda the quiet widow. For the first time, a wild sense of possibility flitted through her. She saw herself, just for a flash, as someone she might be instead with the shackles of her responsibilities removed.

  But the shackles remained, loosened rather than removed, and she could not escape. “What was your question, Your Grace?”

  “Crispin,” he prodded, one of his knowing hands dipping between her thighs to trace her most intimate, sensitive flesh. “Will you accept something else from me, Cin?”

  Long fingers found the bud of her sex, just the whisper of a touch, so light. She swallowed the moan that rose in her throat but could not keep her body from responding. Her hips undulated, seeking, longing for more pressure.

  She should tell him to go to the devil. Should recall what she was about, what she was meant to do, and push him away and flip down her skirts. But her greed superseded duty. She wanted those fingers on her. Wanted those fingers inside her. Wanted his mouth and his tongue and his…

  Oh, Lord in heaven.

  Jacinda expelled a humid breath. “Crispin.”

  He hummed a sound of approval, still stroking over her slick nub enough to tantalize but not satisfy. “Tell me what you want. I am your servant to command. Whatever you order me to do, I shall do.” He kissed her again, lingeringly, his tongue swiping across her bottom lip. “I promise.”

  She should know better than to believe the promise of a rakehell. A man she dared not trust. And yet, her resolve had been stripped away as surely as her skirts. One more time, wheedled the wickedness inside her. What can be the harm?


  “Tell me what you want,” he prodded. “Take what you want, Cin.”

  Jacinda wetted lips that had suddenly gone dry. He was giving her what she had never had in all her life. The twin prizes that eluded every woman thanks to her sex. Things she had not even realized she longed for until this very second.

  Power.

  Freedom.

  She knew what she wanted, and it was the Duke of Whitley on his knees before her, pleasuring her with his mouth. It was a pleasure she had not known existed, and even now, the mere remembrance of his tongue dancing over her sensitive flesh, alternating with the suction of his mouth and the nip of his teeth, sent a thunderbolt of arousal straight to her core.

  But she did not dare say what she wanted aloud. Instead, she guided his mouth to hers. When she would have deepened the kiss, however, he withdrew. His gray gaze bored into hers. “Tell me what you want,” he urged again, teasing her with his fingers relentlessly.

  The steady ache between her legs had built into a crescendo with his clever digits exerting just enough pressure to arouse her without allowing her to reach her pinnacle. Her body longed for the release he denied her.

  Still, she could not speak aloud the new iniquity that ran through her. “Crispin.”

  “Cin.” He kissed her again, and it was a kiss that claimed, a kiss that made certain no other kiss that came in its wake could ever match it. “You can.” Kiss. “You will.” Kiss. “Say it now.”

  His fingers traced her seam, and when she would have twisted her hips to bring him inside her, he withdrew his touch altogether. She was bereft, denied of the one thing she needed the most.

  Holding her gaze, he raised fingers glistening with her dew and sucked them into his mouth. When a guttural sound of appreciation rumbled from him, something inside her broke.

  She was in control.

  She knew what she wanted.

  And she was going to take it.