The Duke Identity: Game of Dukes, Book 1

by Grace Callaway

  Crikey, she needed to work on her flirtation skills. She’d decided to turn a new leaf. Her new strategy was this: instead of plaguing Bennett, she would try to act in a more pleasing manner. To be more accommodating and biddable, more in the usual mold of females.

  Now she had the unexpected opportunity to try out her plan.

  Anticipation squeezed her lungs; it felt like the whole room was holding its breath.

  Bennett crossed over to the collection of billiard accessories hanging on the wall. She watched, captivated by the care he took choosing his instrument. His long fingers glided over the sticks, testing each for balance and weight, and she shivered, imagining that masterful touch on her skin.

  His final selection was a cue of polished ash. She, herself, preferred playing with a mace, a shorter, carved stick with a small shovel-shaped block at the end.

  “What shall we wager?” she said.

  “I don’t take money from ladies,” he said dismissively.

  As if you’d beat me. She managed to bite back the rejoinder. Men, she knew, didn’t like being bested; if she meant to flirt with Bennett, she should probably let him win.

  Drat. Flirting was difficult.

  Then an inspiration hit her. Flirting was about getting to know one another, wasn’t it? If she wanted to ascertain Bennett’s feelings, there was one sure way to do it.

  “Let’s play for something more interesting than money,” she suggested.

  His brooding look was a bit too penetrating. “Such as?”

  “Whoever loses the given shot answers a question of the other’s choice,” she said innocently. “If it’s a tie, we both have to answer.”

  His scarred eyebrow lifted. “You name the first shot.”

  Careful to contain her excitement, she said, “Hitting from the baulk line, the ball that lands closest to the back cushion wins.”

  The shot was her specialty. She’d practiced it hundreds of times.

  “Ladies first,” he said.

  Placing her mace on the table, she lined up her shot. As she bent over, her medallion slipped from the neckline of her wrapper, the heavy gold getting in her way. She pulled it off, put it on the table’s edge. Taking aim with her mace, she gave a precise shove.

  Her white cue ball hit the far end of the table and rolled back, stopping a mere two inches from the back cushion. A winning shot, if she’d ever seen one.

  She turned triumphantly to Bennett, whose gaze appeared riveted on her medallion.

  “Your turn,” she said.

  His eyes snapped to her ball. “Not bad.”

  “Let’s see you do better,” she retorted.

  Oops. Habits were hard to break.

  He didn’t seem put off by her challenge. Instead, a wolfish gleam appeared behind the polished lenses of his spectacles. Removing his jacket, he casually slung it over a chair and took his position at the table.

  Her heart pitter-pattered at his splendid form. He radiated virility in his unadorned blue waistcoat, his rolled-up sleeves revealing sinewy forearms sprinkled with hair. His wide shoulders lowered as he set up his cue ball. She wetted her lips as his long trouser-clad legs formed a powerful stance, the muscles of his thighs subtly flexing as he leaned over his cue.

  He thrust, the movement fluid and powerfully controlled. The ball glided across the table, rebounding from the far end. Her eyes widened as it rolled toward hers, then past it, coming to a stop…a hairsbreadth from the mark.

  She blinked. “You win.”

  “Lucky shot.”

  She didn’t believe it for a moment. Admiration rolled through her. And, being no sore loser, she said, “What’s the forfeit?”

  He studied her, his gaze inscrutable. “I can ask you anything?”

  She nodded.

  “Where did you get that medallion?”

  “This?” She retrieved her necklace from the table’s edge. “Grandpapa gave it to me. Why?”

  “I was intrigued by the markings. It’s unusual jewelry for a lady.”

  “Oh…I suppose it is.” After a moment’s hesitation, she held it up, showing it to him. “This is the crest for the House of Black. Grandfather modeled it after a medieval device. See the crossed swords? One represents protection, the other vengeance.” She tapped her fingernail against the small ruby embedded at the tip of one of the blades. “The blood is what binds our kin and warns our enemies not to cross us.”

  “The medallion is a calling card to your enemies?” There was a harshness to his voice that she didn’t understand. “If they receive it, they know vengeance has come calling?”

  “No.” Frowning, she tried to explain it better. “Grandfather doesn’t give the medallion to foes, only family members, loyal retainers, and those to whom he wishes to grant a boon. The medallions are meant to protect the wearers from anyone who might do us harm.”

  Something passed through Bennett’s eyes. She didn’t know what he was thinking, but she felt the shift in his emotion. It invaded the room, as heavy and ripe as the air before a storm.

  Uncertainty pelted her. “Um, ready for the next shot?”

  The long case clock counted the moments as he studied her. Just like that, the storm seemed to pass. His expression cleared, and he nodded.

  Relieved, she said, “Let’s play a winning hazard. You go first this time.”

  He set up the balls. After executing a flawless shot, he stepped aside for her to go.

  I can still tie. Gripping her mace, she visually lined her cue ball up with the red object ball. As she prepared to make her shot, however, awareness prickled through her. She could feel Bennett’s intent focus upon her. He didn’t look at her the way the duke had; Ransom’s flirtation had been casual, meaningless, his interest in her no deeper than the challenge of the moment. She was a diversion for his tedium, a way to refill his coffers so he could resume his rakehell ways.

  Bennett, however, gave her his full attention. As if she were a creature he’d never encountered before and he wanted to understand her inner workings. No man had ever looked at her that way.

  She forced herself to concentrate. But her arms were trembling, and when she shoved her mace, her ball veered off-course.

  Annoyed at herself, she watched as her cue ball missed the red one completely. “You win again. What’s your question?”

  Her plan wasn’t going well. At this rate, she’d never get to ask him if he did, indeed, rig that fountain and why. With an inward sigh, she wondered what mundane thing he would ask her now.

  “Will you forgive me, Tessa?”

  Her heart punched against her ribs. Bennett’s expression was stark, yet the tautness of his large frame conveyed that her answer mattered to him.

  “For what?” she whispered.

  “My treatment of you yesterday was unforgiveable. I was at fault. I lost control, and I blamed you for it.” A muscled ticked along his jaw. He gripped the upright cue in one hand, the ropey muscles of his forearm shifting. “I was no gentleman, and I ask for your forgiveness.”

  “It was my fault,” she blurted. “I shouldn’t have thrown myself at you.”

  “It was a good stratagem,” he said quietly. “But you caught me off-guard, and I don’t like being surprised.”

  She took a few steps closer. “I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t be. I’m the one who took my anger out on you.” He set his cue down on the table, shoved his hands in his pockets. “If I could take back those words,” he said gruffly, “I would.”

  His apology flooded her with warmth. And wonder. No one had ever taken such care with her feelings—had taken such care with her.

  “It’s all right,” she said softly…because now it was.

  “No, it isn’t.” His gaze was steady, earnest. “What I called you—it’s not true.”

  “I did assault you in a brothel,” she said with sudden humor. “Many might agree with your assessment.”

  “You’re not a trollop.” His fierce rebuttal made her strangely giddy. “
What I said reflects on me, not you. I spoke out of anger…because of something that happened in my past. But that has nothing to do with you. And I won’t have you calling yourself a trollop or making a joke of it. Or even thinking it.”

  “What happened in your past?” she said.

  “I don’t talk about it.” The steel shield slid over his expression. “I mention it only to prove a point: what happened was not your fault but mine. Now will you accept my apology or not?”

  His brusque tone told her not to push…for now. Besides, she’d never shared such aching honesty with anyone before. She wasn’t ready for the intimacy to end.

  You wanted to win Bennett’s affections. ’Tis now or never. Be brave.

  In that moment, she realized that honesty—exposing one’s true desire—required more courage than any contrived stratagem.

  Drawing a breath, she closed the remaining space between them. He stilled, tension tightening his broad shoulders. Tipping her head back, she looked into his guarded gaze.

  “I’ll accept your apology,” she said, “if you’ll accept mine.”

  His brows drew together. “You’ve naught to apologize for.”

  “I don’t mean for the kiss. I mean for everything else,” she said tremulously. “For all the tricks I’ve played on you. They were childish and…not nice.”

  “Apology accepted.” His expression eased, his eyes crinkling with humor. “Although I must confess that your bucket over the door was quite inventive.”

  “No more inventive than rigging a fountain.” She said it without thinking and could have kicked herself for his guard went up immediately. “I didn’t mean—”

  “It’s all right. I did rig the fountain.” His lips twisted. “I owe you an apology for that too.”

  “You don’t. I’m glad you did it,” she said in a rush.

  He stared at her. “You are?”

  Be brave. Be bold. Be a Black.

  “I didn’t want Ransom to kiss me. That is, I did…”—she fumbled, and seeing his scowl, she forged on hurriedly—“but only because I wanted to forget you. To forget our kiss.”

  Emotion flared in his scorched earth eyes. “Tessa—”

  “But I couldn’t. I can’t.” Even though her heart was racing, she held his gaze. She placed a hand on his chest, felt his hard, pounding vitality beneath her palm. “Because, Bennett…you’re the only one I want to kiss.”

  12

  Ah, hell.

  Staring at Tessa’s beautiful face, her shy confession in his ears, Harry knew he was lost.

  He was attracted to her for so many reasons. Her artless beauty, her playful irreverence, the way she made him want to either throttle her or laugh aloud or kiss her senseless and it didn’t matter which because in the end it came down to this: she made him feel.

  To top it off, she was gazing at him as if he was the only thing she wanted in the world. There was a vulnerable glimmer in her eyes, her sensual bottom lip caught beneath her teeth. She looked worried…as if she wasn’t sure the attraction she felt was mutual.

  All of it, all of her, was like setting a match to the powder keg of his suppressed desires.

  The lust he’d been keeping in check exploded, blowing reason to smithereens.

  Before he knew it, he’d lifted her onto the billiards table, crowding into the vee of her legs. She gasped, but her arms lifted to his neck, her head tilting back. Whipping off his glasses and tossing them onto the green baize, he took what she offered. What he’d been craving since the last time he’d kissed her. Their mouths fused, his tongue delving into her sweetness. He feasted, and, Christ Almighty, she let him, encouraged him.

  When she shyly licked his tongue, he felt that stroke all the way in his balls.

  Hungrily, he found her earlobe, sucking it between his lips. Her wanton whimper made him shudder, his erection straining against his trousers. God, God, he had to have more.

  Untying her wrapper, he pushed it off her shoulders, and it fluttered like a shed cocoon onto the table. He cupped her breast through her night rail. The fruit was delicate, not quite filling his palm, its firm, rounded shape infinitely pleasing. Her nipple was stiff beneath the fine muslin, the size of a small raspberry. When he drew a thumb across the taut peak, her eyes grew dazed, her mouth slackening.

  “Like that, sprite?” he murmured.

  “Oh, yes,” she sighed. “Do it again.”

  Despite his arousal, he felt a tug of amusement. Hell, who knew that her boldness could have its benefits? He found himself torn between the desire to laugh and to wring more of those lusty sighs from her lips. The choice wasn’t difficult.

  He bent his head, sucking her clothed nipple into his mouth.

  “Zounds.” Her fingers speared into his hair, holding him close. “Bennett.”

  He had the irrational desire to hear her say his real name. Instead, he tongued her, plastering the wet fabric against the prominent berry, flicking it until she moaned. He did it to her other tit, and she wriggled against him, so hot and needy that he reached for the hem of her nightgown. Pushed it up and up. The sight of his large, roughened hand on her milky thigh was unbearably erotic…and brought reality crashing back.

  What the devil am I doing? I can’t—

  “Please, don’t stop,” she panted. “Don’t.”

  He couldn’t resist her sweet pleas, the verdant need in her eyes. His hand moved up her sleek thigh, toward the apex, and lust slammed into him at what he found.

  “Your pussy is so soft and wet,” he said thickly.

  Her thighs tensed as he parted her dark, silky nest. He slid a finger along her slit, ripe and juicy as a summer peach. When his thumb skated over her hidden bud, she jolted.

  “That feels…odd,” she gasped. “I don’t know if I like it.”

  He hid a smile. “Let me know what you decide.”

  Entranced by her expressive face, he adjusted his strokes to maximize her pleasure. Soon she was moaning, her dew coating his fingers. Damn, but she was responsive. So sweetly lusty. Her hips rocked demandingly into his touch, and he rubbed her nubbin harder at the same time that he cupped her breast, pinching the needy tip.

  Her lips formed an “O” of surprise. She came suddenly, beautifully. Her moisture gushed into his palm, and his turgid cock jerked in response, seed leaking and dampening his smalls.

  Groaning, he was bending to claim her mouth again when he heard a shattering noise.

  His head swung up. “What was that?”

  “Wh-what?”

  She blinked at him, cheeks flushed and eyes languid, tempting him to forget whatever he thought he’d heard. But his gut told him something wasn’t right. Swift Nick apparently sensed it too, for the ferret was bounding toward the door that separated the billiards and drawing rooms.

  “It sounded like glass breaking.” Shoving on his spectacles, Harry retrieved his pistol from his jacket before striding to join the animal, who was now doing an agitated dance by the door. He swung to look at Tessa. “Stay here.”

  She nodded, eyes wide.

  He readied his weapon, yanked the door open, and saw the cause of the noise: a gaping hole in the front window. As he headed toward it, he glimpsed figures moving in the darkness beyond.

  “Who’s there?” he shouted. “Answer me, or I’ll shoot.”

  “Toss ’em in. No time to light the rest,” a man’s voice hissed. “Let’s get out o’ ’ere!”

  Before Harry could take aim, two objects came hurtling through the broken window…iron canisters with lit fuses, rolling in opposite directions. Harry ran to the closest one, stamping out the flame. The other was out of reach, fuse almost burned, no time to get there. Moving on instinct, he scooped up the device he’d deactivated and sprinted toward the billiards room.

  He made it through the doorway, grabbing a frozen Tessa, dragging her to the billiards table. Shoving her beneath the heavy wood frame, he dove under, covering her body with his. A blast tore through the night, the ground shaking. Pl
aster rained onto the table overhead.

  He lifted his head. “Are you all right?”

  “Yes.” She looked stunned but unharmed. “What happened?”

  “Explosive device. I have to check the drawing room.”

  He rolled off of her, pulled them both to their feet. As he did, the unexploded tube bumped in his pocket. He removed it carefully, set it on the billiards table.

  “Is that…?” Tessa stared at the canister, the cotton stuffing coming out of one end.

  Cotton that looked innocent but could kill.

  “It’s highly volatile,” he warned. “Don’t touch it.”

  He would examine it later, but he already knew what it was.

  Because he’d created it.

  How did the explosive cotton end up in a blasting device? Is this the work of Aloysius De Witt?

  “There’s smoke coming from the drawing room,” Tessa gasped.

  Bloody hell. Pushing aside his turmoil, Harry scanned the room for something to fight the fire. He went to the window, yanked down a velvet drape. “Wake the house, go!”

  She took off running.

  Gripping the fabric, he sprinted to the drawing room to face the rising flames.

  13

  The grey, ghostly light before dawn matched the somber mood in her grandfather’s study.

  Although Tessa hadn’t slept, she’d done a quick ablution and changed into a frock. Now she and her father occupied chairs across the desk from Grandpapa. Bennett stood next to her, Ming by her grandfather’s side. In the wingchair behind the massive oak desk, Grandpapa looked haggard. He’d left off his wig, his shorn grey head aging him, making him look his three-and-sixty years.

  Rage smoldered in his eyes as he looked at the black iron tube on the blotter. Earlier, Bennett, who was familiar with blasting materials from his time as a navvy, had disassembled the device. He’d removed the guts, placed them carefully in a box. To Tessa, the shredded cotton had looked innocuous, but having seen the damage done to the drawing room, her insides had chilled.