Once Upon A Duke (The Dukes' Club Book 1) Page 6

  Kate laughed with her friend as Imogen raked in nearly ten thousand pounds. “Well, that will pay for a sin or two.”

  “Mmmm. I may buy and sell a few scandals before the night is out.”

  This was what she’d wanted. To be part of this life and it was fascinating. The carefree extravagance of these people who did nothing but play and seek out entertainment. Perhaps Percy had played in this very room. He had drunk champagne, thrown away her money and spent a bit of time on the couches in the shadows. Well, now it was her turn to have some freedom. Freedom he had denied her.

  Kate glanced about the room. She knew almost no one in London. She most certainly couldn’t speak to anyone if she hadn’t been introduced, even if she had been bold enough to knock upon the duke’s door in the middle of the night. There were just some things one didn’t do in public. Or at least, that’s what she’d been told over and over again by Imogen.

  People stood in small groups, chatting. One of the women gestured wildly and nearly smacked her companion in the face. The champagne clearly was having its effect.

  It was tantalizing and Kate found herself watching with the shameless delight of a voyeur.

  Others lounged on the small couches. Kate spotted one couple, the young lady draped back. Her yellow skirts were spread about her like a fan and her breasts were pressed tight together. With eyes hooded with desire, she rested her chin in the cup of her hand. The gentleman beside her was stroking her arm and leaning in towards her as if he might kiss her at any moment.

  This never could have happened in Shropshire. For goodness sake, the only movements the old women had been interested in were bodily ones. The stuffy little card parties she’d attended had been painfully boring and she had been inflicted with lists of gout, slow moving bowels, and the general ill state of the future generation.

  Here, pleasure of every sense seemed to reign supreme.

  As she swept the room, her gaze stopped on a figure dressed in black. He was striding through the crowd, heading for the relative seclusion of the massive fireplace.

  Her breath caught in her throat and her grip tightened on her glass. It was him. Licking her lips, Kate tried not stare but she couldn’t stop herself.

  He stopped in front of the fire and spoke to a raven-haired man. After a moment of shameless staring, Kate wondered what the two could possibly be discussing. They stopped as soon as a young woman in pink sashayed by. The dark-haired man reached out and pulled her back against him, bending so her bottom was tucked firmly against his groin. The girl batted his hand away but then held his gaze as she trailed her hand over her own breasts.

  Pfft! Had the girl no imagination? Then again, men were rather obsessed with women’s bosoms. The question was, would the duke be inspired if she pranced over and pressed her bum into his groin? Kate stared some more, wondering if it might, indeed, be worth a try.

  The duke clapped his friend on the back, and the dark-haired man and the girl headed off into the hallway. Kate glanced back to Imogen, but she was immersed in the game. Quickly, she swung her attention back to the duke. More than anything, she wanted to go speak to him. But he hadn’t even noticed her and. . .

  The duke turned to the fire, leaning against the mantel. His dark eyes seemed vacant as he stared into the flames. Whatever could he be thinking? Well, whatever it was, she would do her utmost to turn his thoughts to more pleasing matters.

  Kate squared her shoulders. She’d marched boldly into his house. Surely, crossing a few feet of a drawing room would be infinitely easier.

  Swallowing the last half of her champagne, she plunked her glass down on the gaming table and drew in a deep breath. As she made her way to the duke, several different thoughts—how do you do, are you enjoying the weather, or would you like to bed me here and now—raced through her mind, but his broad physique kept distracting her. The wicked silhouette of his black frame was heightened by the fire, emphasizing the manner in which his shoulders stretched at the perfect cut of his black evening coat. Lord, he was the most powerful man in the room and not because of his title. Everything about him was such a mystery, from his sudden silences to his clothes.

  Entirely clothed in black, he looked like a wolf amongst pretty birds, ready to rip apart all their garish plumes. His muscled body was a strong contrast to many of the softer men around him and his black hair was pulled back from his strong jaw and chiseled cheek bones.

  At last, she stood behind him. She allowed herself to sneak a gaze towards the black coattails trimmed with silver braiding that hid his doubtlessly perfect bum.

  As if he sensed someone, he turned.

  Kate dropped a little curtsy and slowly lifted her eyes to his. “Good evening, Your Grace.”

  The room seemed to explode with warmth as their eyes met. Kate clasped her open fan, waving it before her face, hoping no one would notice how he affected her.

  His mouth opened and his dark gaze crackled as he took in her face and corseted breasts. “Good evening.”

  As if some very clever woman had a hold of her, Kate snapped her fan closed and pressed it to the front of her bodice, right before her plumped up bosom. “Have you found anything to entertain you this evening, Your Grace?”

  His eyes, smoldering now, focused for a moment longer on her breasts. Ever so slowly, he dragged his gaze up to her lips. “It depends on what entertainment you had in mind,” he murmured, his voice a sandy rumble.

  The very sound of it caused her skin to tingle. “I have found that the kind of entertainment you provide is quite addictive.”

  He tilted his head and folded his arms across his chest, sending a series of rippling muscle movements under his black coat. “Oh?”

  Kate’s heart raced. If she could only get him alone, perhaps they could truly talk again and more. It was so strange. There were many men here tonight, but only the duke’s presence awakened her excitement.

  She glanced towards the hallway. “Your touch is quite provocative,” she said in a low tone. “Particularly your mouth,” she added, amazed at her own wanton words.

  Her comment met with stony silence and she took a small step forward, determined not to let him send her off again. “This time, I intend to return the favor.”

  His eyes widened and a muscle tightened in his cheek. “Your gown is exquisite,” he cut in, dropping his arms to his sides. The hasty move once again revealed the pale ribbon wrapped about his wrist.

  She blinked at his quick withdrawal. She lowered her fan and glanced down to the shimmering fabric. “Why, thank you. It was a gift.”

  With his back ramrod straight, he arched a black brow. “Indeed? Who from?”

  “I don’t know, actually.” Kate smiled despite the fact this conversation was not going at all as she hoped. “It was marvelous of them. I have never owned anything so beautiful and I do wish I could thank the giver.”

  “Well, it was a damned bad idea,” he said tightly. He hesitated then clipped, “Of him. It was damned bad idea of him.” Abruptly, he turned his gaze on the room.

  Kate opened her mouth to ask if he was always so rude and odd, but then she reflected on his comment. He’d been awfully insistent on those last hims.

  The duke towered above her, his hands clasped behind his back. He was acting quite bizarrely, avoiding her eye contact. She might have attributed this to her forward behavior but. . . my lord, it seemed impossible but it felt right. He had given her the gown.

  Her cheeks heated and a wonderful sense of glee tingled through her. “You?” she breathed. “It was you, wasn’t it?”

  He glanced at her then swung his attention back with undue determination to the party before them. “I beg your pardon?”

  She ran her hands over the silken folds of her skirt, remembering the way he had run his hands over her plain gray gown. “You gave this to me.”

  Instantly, he looked down at her, his face dark. “Madam, I do not make it a habit to give gifts to women I don’t know.”

  No, he most li
kely didn’t. That’s why this was so special. Without doubt, the Duke of Darkwell had somehow gifted her with this perfect gown and he didn’t wish her to know because if she did. . . there’d be no escaping his interest in her.

  “Of course,” she murmured. “Perhaps some other gentleman is responsible then.”

  His dark face grew even more dour. He gave a quick nod and then left her standing alone by the fire. She should have been horrified, but she wasn’t. The Duke of Darkwell was determined to deny his desire for her. But she was having none of it. He wanted her, she wanted him, and that’s all there was to it. She’d have Darkwell in her bed before the week was out. Indeed, nothing was going to stop her, certainly not a little cut.

  *

  Damnation! Ryder eyed the door like a man eyeing freedom right before being led to Tyburn. What in the hell was she doing here? She was supposed to be a proper young woman—she’d certainly been dressed like one—who’d had a taste for sin, not one of the wild creatures bound for ruin who frequented the countess’ parties. Besides, he hadn’t saved her from himself to have her flaunting her person about for any jackanape to have a go.

  Hunt sauntered up, a glass of whiskey in hand. “You’ve met the famous bit of lace?” The man looked in ridiculous good humor. Then again, a few moments in the hallway with a lovely woman could do that to a man.

  Ryder narrowed his eyes, taking in the state of Hunt’s breeches. “Never you mind.” He was trying to keep the chit away from sin, not send more demons her way. “Do up your buttons, man.”

  “Pardon?” Hunt glanced down and laughed dryly. “Bess is a bit of a handful. We’re fortunate we were able to return her skirts to rights, never mind my breeches.”

  “What do you mean by famous?”

  “God, man,” Hunt commented as he worked his buttons to rights. “I thought you, of all people, should know who she is.”

  Ryder shook his head, unable to tear his gaze from the gathering group of young bucks about her. In the candlelight, her gown sparkled like one of the crystal champagne glasses. With her golden hair and pale skin, she positively glowed, and clearly every man in the room had noticed.

  The thought was damned irritating and he was regretting have wandered into Madame Sophie’s. Why hadn’t he bought her a high-necked gown meant for the repelling of all lascivious males? That would have been the intelligent thing to do. But no, he had to go and give her something she’d like.

  “She’s only one of the wealthiest women in Britain. A hundred thousand a year. Recently widowed. She’s a fat-pursed Mecca to all fortune hunting bastards.”

  “Widowed?” Ryder repeated. What the hell did he mean widowed?

  “Mmm. She was married to Percy Darrell, that great idiot.”

  Percy Darrell? The man had been an utter ass, bright as dross, and had spent every waking moment gaming, wenching or driving about the parks. Sometimes all three at once.

  He hadn’t even been aware that Darrell had a wife.

  “Kept her locked away in the country, apparently.”

  A hint of dread took hold of Ryder’s stomach. Well, that certainly explained why she’d shown up at his doorstep demanding pleasure. The woman was hell bent on tossing all propriety to the wind.

  And he’d gone and given her the gown that was causing every knave in the place to eye her as if they might, as a merry group, toss her on her back, lift her skirts and take turns giving her a blissful smile all night long. “Do you think she has any idea what she’s doing?”

  Hunt shrugged. “Country girls can be just as wild as the city ones. Sometimes wilder. And her cousin, Imogen Cavendish, has her by the hand. So, I’ve no doubt she’ll be creating a pleasant little scandal in no time. Besides, a woman like that can do whatever she pleases as long as she doesn’t get caught outright.”

  Ryder eyed Mrs. Darrell. She was smiling up at a randy buck in a wine-colored coat. The blackguard passed her another glass of champagne—which she took. Worse, she batted—batted—her damned lashes at the man.

  Ryder’s fingers curled into fists. The woman was going to be debauched within the week if she kept going as she was. Bloody hell, it might even be tonight. Half a dozen young idiots stood round her. One, a fop in purple velvet, offered her his snuff box to which she shook her head. The motion caused her curled hair to caress her pale shoulders and the diamonds in the curls winked, teasing the men around her.

  A fellow in dark green leaned forward and whispered in her ear. Her eyes flared open and then she laughed, exposing the beautiful line of her throat. At that very moment, she glanced Ryder’s way and the humor in her eyes warmed into a banked fire of desire. Then she quickly looked away, taking a sip of champagne.

  Hunt cocked his head, surveying the young Mrs. Darrell. “She is rather lovely. And much to the annoyance of those lusty fops, she keeps looking at you. I don’t suppose you’ve considered ushering her over the threshold of—” Hunt voice died down as he took a good look at Ryder. He hesitated then tapped Ryder on the shoulder. “You know, you can’t kill off the rogues with that stare. . . though it is an admirable attempt.”

  Ryder tore his gaze away and drew in a slow breath. He was being a complete fool. The lady was free. The very fact he felt like throttling the group of young men gathering about her was a bad sign. It meant he wanted to do more than bed her. He actually wanted to know her. That would never happen. His heart was sure of that.

  Hunt threw his head back and laughed.

  “What?” Ryder demanded.

  “It was her, wasn’t it?”

  “Who?”

  “The innocent chit you turned away.” Hunt’s laughter died down and he leveled his gaze on Ryder’s amused eyes. “It was Mrs. Darrell.”

  Ryder ground his teeth down and fought the urge to belt the smug look off Hunt’s face. “It is none of your affair.”

  “And here you were trying to preserve the poor girl’s sense of honor.” Hunt patted him on the back then took a long drink of whiskey. He passed the glass to Ryder. “She’s a widow, my friend. At one of the countess’ parties. There’s nothing left to save.”

  Ryder tossed back the contents. “Doesn’t matter. I’m not interested.”

  “Of course not, old boy.” Hunt took the empty glass. As he walked away, he said over his shoulder, “Do remind me about your lack of interest after you’ve killed all those sods fawning over her, would you?”

  Ryder smashed his teeth together, holding in a hotheaded retort, one that would only convince his friend he was a mere two steps away from bedding the woman and let Hunt head off. In all his years, Ryder had never been one to lie to himself and now was not a good time to start. Hunt had always known a falsehood the moment it passed Ryder’s lips.

  He’d only ever wanted one woman the way he now wanted Mrs. Darrell. His wife. His heart would never belong to anyone but Jane. Long ago, he’d sworn to himself that, though he could give his body, he would never allow any woman to have his heart.

  No matter, that Jane left him alone on this godforsaken earth. The thought instantly ripped at his gut. He turned from Mrs. Darrell. He couldn’t risk the attachment that such desire encouraged. But damnation, he wanted the woman’s sweet mouth under his, he wanted to flick his tongue over the wet folds of her hot cunny and he hungered to thrust his cock deep inside her welcoming body. But worse, he wanted to open up the secrets of her mind and, perhaps, even the beauty of her heart. That was exactly why he was going to stay away from the entrancing young widow.

  Without another thought, and though he knew it would infuriate the countess, he was leaving without a word or their typical meeting in her bedroom. Ryder grabbed a carafe of brandy and headed out to his coach.

  The only thing that was going to get the image of that woman surrounded by a crowd of randy admirers out of his head was a dedicated night of drinking.

  Chapter 6

  Where the devil was Imogen?

  Dawn’s yellow-gray light slipped in through the curtained windows, gen
tly illuminating gentlemen sprawled on the floor. A few ladies draped upon the couches with their skirts rucked up slept, revealing silken stockings, uncaring in their state of inebriation.

  Champagne glasses and plates of half eaten pastel-colored sweets were everywhere. Kate hesitated, contemplating how she might negotiate her way through the odd mixture of flowers, cards and men strewn upon the floor. Several of the floor-bound gentlemen laid face down, their cravats and coats about their bodies. Still, it was disconcerting. She didn’t want one to suddenly look as she stepped over his head. So, she tucked her skirts up and darted quickly between the prone bodies.

  A few people still gambled, their cries of enthusiasm less hardy than before. Two very drunk ladies stood by the door, holding on to each other to keep upright.

  “I adore you,” the lady in lavender proclaimed.

  “I adore you, too!” the one in yellow gushed.

  “You’re so adorable,” the one in lavender cooed, the sweeping purple flowers in her hair poking at her friend’s shoulder.

  “No. No. My dearest, you’re adorable!” her friend replied as they embraced and started to blubber. “I don’t deserve you!”

  Pleasantly tipsy, Kate merely shook her head. When she reached the far side of the room, she paused by a table laden with guttering candles. Where the deuce was Imogen? Her feet hurt and she was ready to fall into bed. Though sadly, since the duke had departed, it would be alone.

  A giggle drifted in from the hallway and Kate tensed. No. It couldn’t be. Could it? The giggle came again and she groaned. At the same time, she had to fight back her own laugh. Nothing like this would have happened in Shropshire!

  She turned and tiptoed into the dark hallway.

  Squinting at the darkness, she whispered, “Imogen?”