Sins of a Duke (3 page)

Still, pleasure suffused her that the reason for his reluctance was not for lack of attraction. She could not hold back the radiance of her smile. “I am pleased you are concerned about my reputation. But as hidden as we are in the conservatory, we are not in danger of being seen.”

She frowned in confusion when the heat fled from his eyes, and his gaze shuttered. He blasted an arctic chill, one that had her stepping away from him.

“Oh, dear. What have I said?”

“If your plan is to compromise me, I must warn you of abject failure. Many young ladies have tried such a ruse. As you can see, I am still a bachelor. I bid you good eve, Miss Hastings.”

Her eyes widened. “Good heavens. That was not my intention. I have no designs on your person. Well, I do…but not in the way you mean.”

He scalded her with an incredulous look. “You have designs on my person?”

Heat blazed through her. “I meant, I would like to be kissed, but I have no desire to trick you into marriage. Please do not worry about my reputation, as nothing is likely to ruin it further.” She did not need the look of amazement on his face to know how ridiculous her statement sounded.

She flushed in embarrassment and gripped the folds of her gown. She was being foolish. To be caught in any situation alone with a man known as the Lord of Sin, she would probably have to flee to America to escape the backlash, even if they were not actually touching. “Forgive me. Now it is my behavior that is brazen and inappropriate. I do not know what came over me.”

He laughed, looking more baffled than angry. “Forgiven.”

Back at the main house someone opened the terrace door, and louder laughter and music spilled into the night. The air felt suddenly alive with temptation as she stared into silver eyes that were no longer cold and distant. They were…filled with heat.

“Perhaps you would honor me with another waltz instead?” he asked.

She nodded mutely. He drew her into his arms, tightened them around her, and put his cheek to her hair. She was thrilled to her toes at the intimate caress.

He moved them gracefully across the stone floor, holding her far closer than appropriate. In their
second
dance together.

Now she truly never wanted the night to end.

She licked her dry lips, and his eyes followed her motion. Fascination grew within her at the slight color that flushed along his cheekbones. A thrill of anticipation vibrated along her spine. Was he thinking of kissing her?

He stopped abruptly, even though the strains of the waltz still filtered on the air. He muttered a curse, and she offered no protest when he drew her closer.

Her excitement roared as he dipped his head and pressed his lips to hers. She tipped up on her toes and wound her arms around his nape. The pressure on her lips was firm and sweet.

“Kiss me,” he ordered gently. The desire in his voice wrapped around her, luring her to madness.

“I am kissing you,” she breathed, and brushed her lips against his again.

His fingers drew slowly over her cheek, and a frisson of sensual awareness surged through her. “Open your mouth.”

Shock froze her, then a wave of heat seized her, making her tremble. “I—” But she tentatively parted her lips, though unsure of his intentions.

He responded with a groan and deepened the kiss, slipping his tongue into her mouth.

She drew away from him, unsettled at the intimacy of his tongue sliding along hers and the startling pleasure from it. “What are— Oh, my,” she murmured when he repeated the motion.

“You are ravishing,” he murmured in satisfaction, his dark drawl rough with need. “Open more for me,” he coaxed, pressing soft kisses to the corner of her lips.

“It feels so strange, but a good strange. Are you sure—”

He stole the air from her mouth, and she forgot everything she had been thinking. His tongue slowly stroked hers, and she gave herself over to the warm, languid sensations building within her. He kissed her with gentle bites and nips, coaxing a response, and she slowly relaxed and gave him everything he asked for.

His hands slid from her neck to the side of her breast. He walked her deeper into the shadows, and she grasped his shoulders for balance as a fever of desire ignited within her. One of his hands drifted to her hips and squeezed gently. Her knees weakened until she could hardly stand as his hand curved around to her bottom.

She pulled her lips from his, gasping for air, shaking with passion and uncertainty. And a little fear. She had not expected…
this
…when she had asked for a kiss. She had never imagined anything so improper and scandalous. But before she could pull away from the shocking intimacy of one of his hands on her derriere and another brushing her breast, he claimed her lips once more. His tongue mated with hers in long, slow licks, unraveling her from the inside out. His hand clenched her bottom, holding her against him while his mouth devoured hers with smoldering sensuality.

His lips grew fiercer, more demanding, and she felt a twinge of apprehension. Her corset seemed unusually tight, and she labored to breathe. She drew away from him, gasping, and he let her go. What was she thinking? She should run from this scandalous situation. Yet her heart fluttered in excitement. She wanted to step back into his arms and partake of a passion she had never imagined. But she didn’t dare.

He seemed to deliberately gather himself. “Forgive me for losing control.” He raked a hand through his hair and stepped back from her. “It is best you return inside at once, Miss Hastings,” he said with a brittle smile. “I will wait an appropriate interval before leaving, so our absences are not linked.”

She nodded mutely, trying to regain her composure. She was thrilled by the night’s events, but at the same time, she was at loss to explain why the
haute monde
thought him a wicked libertine. He was a gentleman through and through. He’d only kissed her at her insistence. He had been concerned for her reputation, not just out for his own pleasure.

“May I have the name of your father, so I might pay my address?” he asked, his regard intense and filled with an emotion she was unable to identify.

She went giddy with excitement. She had seen the look in his eyes when he’d danced and then kissed her. It was similar to the look she’d seen in Sebastian and Anthony’s gazes when they gazed upon their wives. Constance was not foolish enough to think Mondvale had fallen in love with her, but she realized the expression must be one of desire. He was interested in her. In courting her.

She opened her mouth to answer. And froze.

Oh, lord. She had
lied
to him. About who she was.

Should she tell him her name was Lady Constance, and not Miss Hastings? It hurt her to think if she revealed her true identity he would be disgusted. She wanted nothing to ruin the memories she would have of him, of this magical night. She couldn’t bear it.

She swallowed down her bitter regret. “I do not think that would be wise, as we have not been formally introduced.”

He tilted his head with a rueful smile. “Of course. Then I will ensure we are properly introduced the next time I see you. Go now, Miss Hastings. Until we meet again.”

Constance forced a smile and walked away from him, hating to have to leave. This was the first time she had felt hope since the facts about her shameful birth had started circulating. Hope that her dreams of love and a family were actually possible. And with a duke, as well! If there was a chance Mondvale would seek an introduction the next time he saw her, she would not return to the country. Instead, she would respond favorably to the few invitations Anthony had secured for her.

She only prayed the duke had seen something in her, enough that he would be willing to pursue her hand even after he learned her true identity—Lady Constance, the Beautiful Bastard.

She closed her eyes, forcing her heart to reason, and her mind to think logically. He was a duke, one that would be in need of a wife to be a companion and to give him heirs. An
appropriate
wife. While Constance may be “ravishing,” as he had whispered against her lips, and in possession of a sizeable dowry, no man of Mondvale’s social stature would willingly align his name with someone as singularly inappropriate as she.

And so, she ruthlessly killed the burgeoning hope, and regretfully pushed the Duke of Mondvale from her mind, thankful she had not been foolish enough to reveal her true identity. That would have been one more heartache she did not need. One she instinctively knew would be far worse than anything she’d experienced to date.

Chapter Three

Miss Desiree Hastings was exquisite. Lucan’s usually disciplined body had reacted with painful immediacy to her innocent sensuality. He could not remember ever being so strongly affected by a lady. The huskiness of her voice had washed over his skin like a caress, her tentative smile sending a shaft of desire through him, something Lady Shrewsbury’s practiced caresses and suggestive whispers had been unable to do. He should not be surprised, for Miss Hastings was truly stunning. She wore a sapphire blue evening gown, with matching gloves and delicate slippers. Her dress bared the creamy swell of her shoulders, her décolletage, and flattered her exquisite shape. He’d never seen such voluptuous curves on a young society miss before, curves that were sensual and perfect. Some of the more risqué entertainers at his club had such luscious figures, but not as desirable. He’d been struck by the most lurid thought, that her body was made to be ridden hard and deep—lush hips, tiny waist, and more than a handful of bosom.

He’d wondered several times if the chit knew how vulnerable she was, ensconced in the conservatory with him. She had seemed vaguely familiar, and he’d wondered how he could have forgotten such a beauty. Her hair was of a hue he had never seen before, a pale blond that appeared as if it had been burned under the sun. It was those streaks of deeper gold interwoven with every strand that drew his eyes. She was small and sleek, and the raw sensuality she’d moved with as she entered the conservatory had filled him with desire.

Earlier, Lucan had felt her eyes on him throughout the course of the evening. He had watched her watch him, but he had been more discreet. He had wondered at her isolation, and had been tempted to seek an introduction, but had banished the thought immediately. It would never do for him to publicly give attention to a female that was not his quarry. His purpose at these society events was a cold, calculating one, and to be entranced with a ravishing young miss like her was not welcomed. His resolution had wobbled when he had noticed her following him. From her provocative walk to his location in the shadows, he had made the decision to bed her in the conservatory. Lucan had felt a keen sense of disappointment at her arrival. He had not lived twenty nine years on earth, half of his life spent amongst the depraved and the
demi monde
, to not know refreshing innocence. Her vibrant green eyes, a mixture of jade and emerald, had shone first with weariness, then sparkled with artless hunger, and finally open curiosity.

It was the innocent awareness that had waylaid his plan, or else she would have been beneath him instantly, and he would have been deep inside her.

Such a quandary.

He had arranged a clandestine meeting in the conservatory with one of his only three friends in London. No one else’s presence had been anticipated. But within moments, he’d struggled between getting rid of her or kissing her. When she asked him to dance, he had fleetingly wondered if it was a trap. Her presence with him alone by choice for any another design flummoxed him. But, God, she had enticed him, and he had seen no artifice in Miss Hastings. He had thought an intimate kiss would have sent her running. Instead, she had returned his kiss shyly, and made an achingly sweet, soft sound against his mouth that had traveled right to his cock.

Lucan took pride in the rigid control he had over his passion. But she had made him behave recklessly. At the thought of her seated on his cock, making those sweet sounds, a surge of pure lust had torn through him almost sending him to his knees. It had taken tremendous will power to pull from her. He had almost bedded an innocent. Something he had sworn never to do.

Just who was Miss Desiree Hastings? She didn’t flirt or act coy, as young ladies did in his presence. Instead of being frightened by his crude and crass words meant to drive her off, she had held her ground. Instead of being intimidated by him when he had cupped her chin, she wondered if he had planned to kiss her.

He chuckled. A warm sensation poured through him causing an ache in his chest.

Lucan watched her run lightly up the steps leading to the terrace, her every move embodying innate sensuality. He would find her when his plotted course was over, and possibly court the bewitching beauty. No woman had ever moved him to such thoughts before.

A nightingale trilled its ethereal haunting song in the distance, and he walked toward the sound. He exited the conservatory looking for Lord Justin Bollard, the Earl of Ainsley. Lucan spied him on the upper balcony, or rather, the flash of Ainsley’s purple waistcoat, so Lucan made his way under the cover of the darkness to the upper balcony.

“I thought we were to meet in the conservatory,” he said as he reached his friend.

Mocking hazel eyes met his. “You were occupied,” Ainsley drawled with amusement, and Lucan grunted.

“Which one is the lady?”

A frown marred Ainsley’s face as he shifted his gaze to Lucan. “What do you mean? I thought you had already sprung the trap. I saw you dancing with her.”

Lucan scanned the ballroom from the terrace with impatience. He had danced with three ladies tonight, and as far as he knew they were all married. His quarry was a young chit. “Who, damn it? I have not been introduced to any Lady Constance tonight.”

“But…in the conservatory.”

Lucan froze. The conservatory? His gut tightened and denial surged inside him. Carefully masking his reaction, he focused on Ainsley. “What do you speak of?”

Something in Ainsley’s face tightened, and Lucan recognized it as discomfort.

“I saw you conversing with her in the conservatory, dancing with her, and then kissing her. I assumed you knew her to be Lady Constance Thornton.”

Lucan sucked in an audible breath, one that caused his friend to arch a brow sharply.

“I take it you did not know. Interesting.”

No, he had not known, had not even dreamed it could be her.

A vision of the lady in question danced before his eyes, her lush lips, and desire-filled eyes. She was enchanting, beautiful, and more tempting than any woman he had ever known—and she was the enemy.

She had bewitched him for a few precious minutes, enough that he had almost forgotten why he was here at Lady Lawrence’s ball.

The little minx
. Now he understood her hesitation when he had suggested calling upon her. It mattered not. Her hesitation had saved him from being foolhardy. But to discover the captivating Miss Hastings was his prey…

This was too easy.

A shame. He had thought he would have had to use considerable charm to inveigle her to his side. But she had made it so stunningly simple, he was nonplussed. He did a quick sweep of the ballroom and spied her speaking with a red haired beauty—Lady Phillipa Thornton, if he was not mistaken. Lady Constance stood on the sidelines tapping her foot anxiously, occasionally peeking out toward the darkened terrace.

Looking for him?

He narrowed his eyes as he took in her apprehension. Why had she lied to him? Though, indeed, if he had known the truth, their encounter would have gone very differently. He chuckled mirthlessly. Just his luck the first woman he’d felt interest for in years was the very object of his vengeance. The gods must be laughing at him uproariously.

Worse, he’d actually entertained a random thought that she resembled Marissa, his beloved sister. The reason behind his quest for revenge.

Not in looks. Marissa had been dark-haired, with hazel eyes, tall and willowy. No, it had been the hope that shone from Miss Hastings’—Lady Constance’s—eyes that hinted at their similarity. A hope he was about to savagely crush.

Discomfort curled through him, and he ruthlessly banished it. The Duke of Calydon, her brother, had no such thought for Marissa when he ruined her and led her to such a painful demise.

Ainsley’s gaze focused on him, jerking Lucan back to the present. “The lady is being ostracized. Lord Orwell did his task splendidly. He has hinted in all the right ears of Lady Constance and Lord Anthony’s illegitimacy, and encouraged everyone to remember how quickly the Dowager Duchess of Calydon married her lover after the death of the old duke. With a few whispers here and there, the rumors are being kept alive quite effectively.”

Lucan nodded. Lord Orwell had gambled away a substantial fortune at Lucan’s club,
Decadence
, and was deep in Lucan’s debt. To further his own goal, he had used Orwell to full advantage. In a game Orwell had been so sure he would win, the fool had placed twenty acres of prime London property on the table. He had lost and was desperate to reclaim his monies and land.

At the time, Lucan had not been moving in high society, too set on fulfilling the destruction of a previous enemy. But a few weeks later he had succeeded, and thus moved on to his current quarry, Sebastian Thornton, the Duke of Calydon, one of the men responsible for Marissa’s untimely death. Calydon had turned out to be Lucan’s most vexing opponent. He had not been able to find any weaknesses at all to exploit. But every man had a weakness, and he had been determined to find Calydon’s.

The duke had recently wed Lady Jocelyn Rathbourne. Lucan had studied her as a possible weakness to exploit. One thing had been clearly apparent to him on the few occasions he had observed them together. The duke obviously adored the ground Lady Jocelyn walked upon. His eyes ate her every movement, and he looked on her with tenderness. It was not an expression Lucan associated with the man. Everything he knew of Calydon had come only via the written reports he’d commissioned. Yet the reports only spoke of Calydon’s ruthlessness, his undeniable wealth, his reclusiveness, his power, and the respect he enjoyed from his peers. Nothing indicated a man besotted with his wife.

Then Lucan discovered Calydon possessed a sister, one he adored. There had been a knee jerk reaction in Lucan’s gut, and he had known with icy clarity how he could execute his vengeance in the cruelest possible manner.

It would be a sister for a sister.

The debt to pay must be comparable to the crime. Only then would Calydon understand the nature of his punishment. Calydon would have mourned the ruination of his precious wife. But a sister—he would have wiped her tears, soothed her fears, been there for her from birth. That was how Lucan had been with Marissa. And he knew instinctively Lady Constance’s destruction would torment Calydon more. Lucan had resolved that Calydon must know what profound pain and sorrow felt like. And the depth of failure Lucan had felt when he had failed Marissa should be experienced by the man, measure for measure.

Conveniently, Lord Orwell had revealed his hatred for Lord Anthony Thornton, Calydon’s brother, because Anthony had foiled Orwell’s kidnapping of the lady he had been obsessed with—Lady Phillipa. Lucan had carefully stoked Orwell’s wrath and given him the task of finding anything he could about Calydon that could ruin him. Lucan had been both shocked and delighted when Orwell produced a letter the old Duke of Calydon had left his family lawyer, renouncing his two younger children as not being of his blood. It was the exact weapon Lucan had needed to win the war Calydon had not realized was being waged against him. Lucan had always been in the business of owning secrets and trading them. He had instantly recognized the value of the letter and had forgiven Orwell his debt in trade for it. Then Orwell had leaked the vile gossip, and Lucan sat back to watch the impact.

Surprisingly, Calydon had extended his considerable power to quash the rumors, making it known he would limit his business dealings to only those he could trust not to gossip about, or cut his illegitimate sister and brother. Annoying, but Lucan had finally found the chink in the man’s armor.

Lady Constance.

She had instantly become all important to Lucan. And he had kept the gossip about her alive and flourishing. For every step Calydon made to smooth out her reception in society, Lucan had thwarted it from the shadows.

“What are you thinking?” Ainsley asked now, at his prolonged silence.

Lucan was unable to peel his gaze from Lady Constance. He now clearly saw what he had not observed earlier. How isolated she was. The vivacity of the woman he had danced with in the conservatory had wilted. She did not feel herself to be part of the gathering. He had thought she was simply aloof, choosing to stay on the sidelines.

And yet, it spoke volumes that the few ladies he had danced with had not spoken about her. They should have been eager to gossip and malign her to any man willing to listen.

Lucan pushed out a breath. “No,” he answered at length, “I did not know who she was. No one mentioned her name to me tonight.”

“I do not think when a lady is with you they would want to bring Lady Constance to your attention. She is incredibly beautiful. She was considered the toast of the season last year. Did she not introduce herself?” Ainsley asked, curiosity rife in his voice, along with a hint of amusement. “Did she not know with whom she danced?”

Lucan frowned. The lady had clearly known who he was—she had referred to him as “Your Grace.” Yet, she had chosen to remain alone with him in the dark. His reputation was notorious. He fully understood he was a novelty to society, the object of their fascination and repulsion.

He, Ainsley, the Reverend, and Marcus Stone owned and operated one of the most exclusive—and infamous—gaming halls in London. He’d been told over and over that a duke could not own, let alone work in, a club. It was simply not done. He did not care. He had owned it before the title was conferred upon him, and he was not about to disown it merely to please society. It offended many that a gentleman’s club of such notoriety even existed on St. James Street only a few blocks from White’s, but they had all still clamored to join. Because he offered them vice, gambling, music, scandalous dancing women, and the freedom to put on a mask and be themselves in an exclusive club that catered only to the
haute
monde
and the gentry’s wealthiest.

He turned to his friend. “Yes, well, she introduced herself as a Miss Desiree Hastings. She clearly did not want me to know who she was.” He thought of her laughing eyes and innocent recklessness, and was instantly irritated. “Why is she even here? How did she secure an invitation?”