The Wicked Ways of a Duke(38)

She shook her head, becoming frantic. “You know what I mean,” she panted, her entire body flushed with heat. “Touch me the way you did before.”

“No.” He pulled his hand back, and she gave a cry of frustration that changed to a moan as he pressed a hot, wet kiss to her stomach. “I have something better in mind, tipsy girl.”

She couldn’t imagine what could be better than what he’d done to her on the train, but then his hands spread her thighs apart and he opened his mouth over the same special place he’d touched that morning.

She cried out, her body jerking at the exquisite sensation evoked by that carnal kiss, and he stopped, lifting his head a fraction. “Do you love me?”

“Yes,” she panted, her hips writhing, arching upward. “Yes.”

He raked his tongue ever so lightly over the spot where all her pleasure seemed centered. “Say it. I want to hear you say it.”

“I love you, Rhys.” Her fingers curled in his hair. “I love you.”

He began to stroke her with his tongue, causing that indescribable pleasure to come over her once again, even hotter, even stronger, than before. Waves and waves of it, until she thought she would die.

Rhys heard the words of love amid the incoherent cries of passion that came from her, and the mingled sounds filled him with a satisfaction he’d never felt in his life before. God, she was sweet. So, so sweet.

He didn’t know what had compelled him to demand her declaration of love so relentlessly, for he didn’t much believe in love anymore, especially when, cynical bastard that he was, he suspected her feelings stemmed from the bliss of her first sexual experiences.

But even if her love wasn’t really genuine, he’d needed to hear it, here at this place where there had been no love, only sick and twisted imitations of it. He’d wanted to hear it from her, for she was sweet and fresh and wholly unaware of the dark corruptions of his boyhood. Because she smelled fresh and sweet and safe like lavender, and because in the soft, genuine goodness of her, he had perhaps found a refuge far better than his childhood hiding place had ever been.

His body was screaming for release, but he held back, wanting to please her so she would tell him again that she loved him, and when she did, he savored it along with her climax as a drowning man savors a gasp of oxygen.

But finally he could hold back no longer, and he straightened, tearing at his trousers, undoing buttons with desperate haste. He was rock hard, wanting her so badly that he feared he might actually spill himself too soon, something he hadn’t done since he was a skinny lad of fifteen bouncing his first mistress.

Rhys turned her body lengthwise on the table, then hoisted himself up, bringing his body fully over hers and bracing his weight on his arms. “Prudence,” he said, reminding himself she was a virgin, thinking to warn her what to expect, wanting to go slow, but the feel of her, velvety hot and wet, against the tip of his penis was such an erotic sensation, he knew there was no time for gentleness or warnings. With one hard thrust, he entered her.

She cried out again, and this time he knew it was not with pleasure. Cursing himself, he kissed her, smothering the sound of her pain with his mouth, hating that he’d caused it, even as he relished the virginal tightness of her.

She turned her head, burying her face against his neck with a sob as her arms came up around his neck. He began kissing her everywhere he could—her face, her neck, her ear, her hair—as if that could somehow make up for the taking of her innocence. And when her legs wrapped around him and she began arching beneath him, pulling him deeper into her, lust inflamed him, burning away any momentary guilt.

He began moving, rocking his body against hers, trying to go slow, but the feel of her tight around him was so delicious, he couldn’t contain his moves. He lost himself in the softness of her, his thrusts deep and forceful even as he tried to tell her how luscious she was. He touched her breasts, kissed her face, murmuring words to arouse and reassure her, but he didn’t even knowing what he was saying, because he was beyond any sort of control. And when he finally climaxed, the pleasure was so intense it was like pain, shattering him into thousands of infinitesimal pieces.

Even afterward, as the throes of orgasm faded away and he collapsed atop her in blessed release, he could not stop wanting to hear those words from her again.

“Love me?” he whispered, nuzzling her throat.

“Yes,” she whispered, her fingertips caressing his face.

He lifted himself above her, kissed her, nipping her lower lip between both of his. “Say it again.”

She began to laugh. “I love you.”

He laughed, too, laughed, by God, in this place, where he’d never laughed in his entire life.

A wave of satisfaction rose up inside him, a wave so powerful it hurt deep in his chest. He kissed her again, hard, then slid his arms beneath her and held her tight, and he didn’t care if her words stemmed from naive infatuation or not. He didn’t care that he’d ceased to believe in love a long time ago and that even if it were real, he was utterly undeserving of it. All he cared about was that those words from her lips silenced all the ghosts that haunted him. At least for now.





Chapter 14


Rumor has it the Duke of St. Cyres and his bride will make their home at St. Cyres Castle after the wedding. Miss Abernathy’s American millions will no doubt go a long way toward making a silk purse out of that sow’s ear.


—Talk of the Town, 1894





She was gone when he awakened. He didn’t know how long he’d been asleep, but it had to have been at least several hours, for when he glanced at the window, he could see that it was twilight. He rolled onto his back, grimacing at the hardness of the table and the stiffness in his body from lying on it for so long.

He stared up at the rafters. They were bare, not laden with bunches of lavender as he remembered them. But then, it was only May, and he and Thomas had come to Winter Park in June, after school had ended.

Evelyn had loathed the smell of lavender and hadn’t ever come here, making this stone cottage a refuge of sorts. But boys couldn’t spend their nights in the lavender house. They were supposed to sleep in the nursery, after high tea and playtime with Uncle Evelyn.

Memories of the summer he’d spent here heaved up from deep down where he’d buried them all so long ago, memories of boot heels coming up the nursery stairs, of high tea and Animal Grab.

Best not to think of those things. As he had so many times before, Rhys shoved the horror of that boyhood summer out of his mind and strove to regain his balance. He closed his eyes and took deep breaths, taking refuge from all that was sordid in his past by thinking of Prudence.

She was so lovely. An image of her came to mind, of her round, pretty face and big dark eyes. She’d wanted him to tell her what had happened here. How could he? She was so blissfully unaware of how ugly the world was, how could he tell her about the sordid nightmare of that summer? She was so innocent.

At least she had been, until he’d taken her innocence and given her pain. He knew all about both of those, and guilt nudged him. But then he remembered how she had wrapped her arms around his neck and welcomed him so sweetly, and he couldn’t sustain remorse for what he’d done.

He took deep breaths, drinking in the scent of lavender as he imagined kissing her hair, and a feeling of peace settled over him, keeping the ghosts away until he once again fell asleep.



Rhys did not come to dinner. In fact, he did not return to the house at all that night, and did not sleep in the master’s bedchamber. These facts, and the mystery of his whereabouts, had been much discussed belowstairs in the morning, Prudence’s maid informed her, Mr. Fane having been ever so concerned about the matter. The housekeeper had been the one to put Mr. Fane’s mind at ease, telling him at breakfast that the master was likely sleeping in the lavender house, for he and his brother had often done that as boys the summer they lived here. Upon investigation, Mr. Fane had discovered the housekeeper’s guess to be an accurate one.

“Though what he slept on, miss, I’ve no idea,” Woddell said, pushing a hairpin into the intricate knot of Prudence’s hair. “Mr. Fane said there wasn’t even a cot out there. Just a hard stone floor and an old table.”

Prudence vividly remembered that table and the extraordinary things that had happened on it—how he kissed her and touched her in the most intimate places, how he demanded that she declare her love for him aloud, remembered his body on top of hers and the feel of him as he pushed that hard part of himself inside her.

That had not been quite as enjoyable as the other things he’d done, she was forced to admit, flinching a little on the vanity seat, for she was still sore where his body had invaded hers. But he had kissed her face and hair afterward, and the pain was forgotten, replaced by a passionate tenderness like nothing she’d ever felt in her life before.

Prudence closed her eyes, savoring again those special moments when she had stroked his hair and held him in her arms. Even now she felt herself blushing at the memory of his body on top of hers. Even now she could remember every word he’d said in the throes of his passion—how he loved her and how beautiful she was and how perfect her body. Those moments had filled her with a happiness even stronger than the exquisite physical sensations he’d given her, for she knew that in those moments, he had achieved what he’d been seeking—a way to forget. Just what it was he was seeking to forget, she did not know, but she promised they wouldn’t discuss it and had to be content to simply hold him in her arms afterward and stroke his hair as the sun set and he fell asleep. She’d wanted to stay with him, but the absence of both of them for too long would have caused Aunt Edith to search for her. They weren’t married yet, and fear of discovery had finally impelled her to depart from the lavender house, leaving Rhys to sleep in the only part of this cold, cold place that he could seem to tolerate.