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Deepest Desires of a Wicked Duke(3)

By:Sharon Page


Portia shoved at the man’s arm and kicked at his shins behind her. But she was sinking, weakening, falling.

His leering laugh sounded against her ear. “Next thing ye know, love, ye’ll be waking up in His Grace’s bed.”

Desperate, she tried once more to fight. What did he mean—waking up in a duke’s bed?

“The Duke of Sinclair will be right pleased.” The second man laughed in a sneering tone.

The Duke of Sinclair? She had once loved the Duke of Sinclair. She had once agreed to marry him, but the duke had told her that he couldn’t marry her, that he was going to let her go because he’d make a rotten husband. And for the ten years after, he’d proven the truth of those words, doing nothing but throw large, scandalous orgies.

But he wouldn’t actually kidnap someone. Would he?

Blackness rose up and swallowed her whole.

* * *

Silk ropes wrapped around the Duke of Sinclair’s wrists, binding them together behind the back of the chair. More rope tied his ankles to the chair legs. A blond courtesan’s melon-sized breasts pushed into his face, almost smothering him. Another woman—a redhead with a spectacular rack of tits of her own—stroked his semi-erect cock. With her tongue. A third woman—a brunette—flicked his shoulders playfully with a whip.

The duke—known to intimates as Sin—was supposed to be the women’s “prisoner,” but he was in charge of this game. They would do anything he wanted. And he wanted them to make him forget her.

Portia. The woman he could never have.

For ten years, holding extravagant orgies or intimate ménages with groups of four or five had worked. Tonight, it bloody well wasn’t.

The red-haired woman, Emmie, laved the head of his cock with her pretty little tongue. Normally, his prick would go bolt upright, hard and throbbing.

But all he felt was an uncomfortable surge of guilt and regret.

“Sorry, love,” Sin muttered. “Sorry to all of you. I can’t do this tonight.”

“Why not?” breathed Emmie.

“Tsk.” The brunette, Laurette, folded her arms over her chest and tapped the whip against her bare thigh. She arched a brow. “I know what the problem is. You’re getting older, Your Grace. You’re almost thirty. You get a little tired with old age.”

“Thirty is not old,” he growled. “And I’m not bloody well thirty. I’m much younger than that.”

Emmie widened her eyes innocently. “If His Grace says so. I remember when you first came to London. The most gorgeous brown-haired lordling you was, Your Grace, with the dreamiest chocolate brown eyes. It couldn’t have been that long ago. And he was about eighteen. He can’t be more than twenty-five now?”

Sin knew she meant well—meant to imply he wasn’t so old. Emmie had lovely breasts and sweet pink nipples that were long and thick when they hardened, but she was not particularly endowed in the upper story.

Laurette shook her head. “I remember when ye first came to London. Lad of nineteen ye were—and looked as if butter wouldn’t melt in yer mouth. That was in 1811. See—ten years ago.”

“And, thus, I happen to be twenty-nine,” he growled.

The blonde, Sukey, pulled on a scarlet silk robe, wrapping it around her lush curves. “Then it’s the brandy. You’ve pickled it. What happens when you put anything in brine? It goes soft.”

He glanced at the empty glass on a nearby table. He’d downed about four. “It’s not the brandy,” he growled. “Tonight, I’m just preoccupied. Untie me and leave me.”

“As you wish, Your Grace. But we could have had so much fun.” Pouting, Laurette set to undoing the knots she’d made. Emmie and Sukey tried to change his mind, but Sin knew it was pointless. Nothing sexual was going to happen to him tonight.

The three women curtsied because he was a damn duke. Then they scurried out the door.

Defiantly, he drank some of the brandy. A man couldn’t pickle his cock.

Or could he?

Hell. He put the alcohol down.

He walked to the window of his bedchamber and looked out over the gardens. It was a late spring—only the toughest of his partygoers were fucking outdoors. Music poured out from the ballroom, along with wild laughter and squeals of pleasure. His house always shook with moans and screams as people had sex and climaxed en masse.

He had an orgy under way and he had never been so disinterested in his life.

Last night, he’d gone into the Seven Dials area for gaming and he’d seen her. Portia had been carrying a small child in her arms—a child she had rescued from a slum tenement.

As he’d watched her go, desire for her had hit him like Gentleman Jackson’s fist.