The Duke Redemption Page 4

  That part of him would soon be inside her…and could lead to irrevocable consequences if she didn’t use precautions. Specifically, the French letter tucked alongside the pistol in her skirt pocket.

  He reached for his discarded waistcoat; the sight of the sheath he withdrew filled her with relief, along with an absurd urge to laugh. Not only was he prepared, he was nonchalant about it. The fact that he took responsibility for the consequences of his pleasure spoke volumes about his character.

  He cocked a brow at her. “What were you saying?”

  “Never mind. I think you’ve got the matter, um, covered.”

  His lazy smile reached his eyes. “I don’t know what arouses me more, your peerless charms or your discretion.”

  As he undid the fall of his trousers, she leaned up on her elbows to watch. Her eyes widened as his erect member sprung free from its confines.

  Goodness…he’s huge. How will he fit?

  The rosy-brown pole was long and thick, ridged with prominent veins. When he gripped it in his big hand, his fingers barely reached around the girth. Her pulse fluttered with trepidation; simultaneously, a burst of dew moistened her core. She noted with fascination that he was getting wet too.

  Moisture leaked from a slit in the tip of his instrument, dribbling into his gliding fist. He brought himself to her. Rubbed the blunt, velvety crown of his cock up and down her slick folds until she writhed against the desk in hapless delight.

  “Ready for me, sweet?” he rasped.

  Was she ready? To experience whatever adventure lay ahead?

  Yes, yes, yes.

  “Come inside me,” she whispered.

  Wordlessly, he donned the sheath, securing the strings, and then…oh then…

  Her breath became a moan, one that his big, hard cock pushed out of her. There was no dramatic tearing like she’d feared. After momentary discomfort, her muscles softened and stretched, accommodating his slow, inexorable incursion. The sensation of having a man inside her, of being joined in this most elemental of ways, filled her with wonderment.

  “Christ, you’re tight. The way you’re gripping me...” Although his jaw was ruddy with pleasure, his brows drew together. “Are you all right, angel?”

  “I’m fine.” She touched his jaw, feeling the taut leap. “It’s just, um, been awhile.”

  Forever…I’ve been waiting for you forever.

  “Has it, sweet?” His eyes went heavy-lidded. “Then I’ll go slowly. Until you beg me not to.”

  As she considered that puzzling statement, he kissed her. The hot mating of their tongues incinerated her thoughts. He took her mouth the way his cock was taking her pussy: gently, firmly, a possession of thoroughness rather than force. Patience rather than aggression. And it made her want more.

  More of his tongue, his cock…him.

  “Please,” she breathed against his lips. “I want…I want…”

  “This?” He bucked his hips, jolting her with bliss. “Harder like this, angel?”

  “Yes,” she cried.

  “What about deeper?” He pushed her knees back, and before she could fully register the new position, he drove inside her at an angle that made her see stars. “Do you want my prick all the way inside your snug cunny?”

  She moaned her answer as he took her deeper, harder, to a place beyond her wildest imaginings. The erotic slaps of their mating flesh filled the room. When he began suckling her breasts, in time to the rhythmic thrusts of his cock, she slid her fingers into his hair, holding on as yet another release crashed over her.

  “I can feel you coming.” His blazing eyes seared into her. “The way you’re milking my cock, everything about you, goddamned perfection…”

  He surged into her once, twice, burying his face in her neck. His harsh groans heated her ear as his big body shuddered over hers. Afterward, he scooped her up, carrying her to the sofa by the fire, settling her atop him.

  Overwhelmed, she snuggled against him and drifted into blissful oblivion.

  When Bea opened her eyes, her lover was asleep.

  Gently, so as not to awaken him, she disentangled herself from his arms, which held her securely even in slumber. She rose, and her breath held when he mumbled something, his long limbs shifting against the sofa. She waited until he stilled, then she tiptoed about, getting dressed and gathering her things.

  At the door, she paused to take one last, memorizing look at the man sprawled on the sofa.

  His face was even handsomer with the shadow of a night beard. His muscular chest rose and fell in peaceful splendor. He was a magnificent fantasy, and he’d been hers...for one night.

  Thank you, she whispered in her heart. I’ll never forget the beauty I found in your arms.

  Opening the door, she walked out.

  4

  “Spare no details, Bea,” Fancy Sheridan said. “I want to ’ear everything about the masquerade!”

  The next afternoon, Bea was having tea with her bosom chum in the gazebo. All around the sprawling gardens of Camden Manor, butterflies floated, dipping to visit the plants she’d put there to entice them. Ducks splashed on the ornamental pond, scattering diamonds over the water’s surface. Sunshine burnished the tall stone wall that protected the garden and manor house from prying eyes.

  It was a normal summer day in Bea’s sanctuary, yet she had a heightened awareness of everything. It was as if last night’s adventures had removed some invisible veil between her and the world. Everything seemed more vibrant, more alive, her senses drinking in the world around her. The warm breeze caressing her skin. The scent of clipped hedges, lavender, and verbena. The pleasant soreness of muscles never before used…

  Seeing the curiosity shining in Fancy’s doe-brown eyes, Bea wanted to share her discoveries with her dearest friend. When Bea had purchased Camden Manor five years ago, she’d arrived broken in spirit, afraid to trust in anyone or anything. All she’d wanted was privacy, the safety of seclusion.

  Then the Sheridan family had come along.

  Fancy’s papa, Milton Sheridan, was a travelling tinker, and he and his family had come to Bea’s estate looking for work. Since Camden Manor had been left in shambles by the previous owner, Bea had cautiously hired them on. Not only had the Sheridans proved to be indispensable in the tasks of restoring the estate, they’d shown Bea true kindness and what she, the privileged daughter of a duke, had never had: acceptance for who she was.

  The Sheridans had helped her regain confidence in herself and find new purpose. They were a wandering family, but they made Bea’s estate a permanent stop on their route, staying the summer until after the harvest in a cottage she kept reserved for them. All year, Bea looked forward to their arrival. While in her new life she was known as Miss Beatrice Brown, a wealthy spinster, she trusted the Sheridans with the truth of her past.

  Fancy, in particular, had become Bea’s closest confidante.

  At two-and-twenty, Fancy was two years younger than Bea, although her plaited hair, large brown eyes, and petite figure in its patched dress made her appear even more youthful. She had not been born a Sheridan—her papa had found her as a babe abandoned in a field—but her family treated her as one of their own. Life as a travelling tinker’s daughter had given her a wisdom beyond her years. By nature, Fancy was shy and rather timid…until one got to know her.

  Unlike Bea’s so-called “friends” in London, further acquaintance with Fancy revealed her true beauty, inside and out. Only a girl as loyal and sweet as Fancy could have taught Bea to believe in friendship again. Fancy was the type of friend who would go along with anything, stick with one through thick and thin. Indeed, she’d created Bea’s butterfly costume, sewing being one of her many assorted skills.

  She’d even wanted to accompany Bea to the masquerade…but Bea had drawn the line at that. It was one thing for her to take a risk, another to endanger her friend. She would not repay the kindness of the Sheridans by causing Fancy harm.

  Bea could, however, share the experience v
icariously with her chum. Taking a fortifying sip of tea, she gave an abridged version of last night’s events. She described the handsome stranger, how he’d been the only man who had guessed her costume.

  “And I, um, spent the evening with him,” she concluded, her cheeks hot.

  “Was it nice? Did it ’urt when ’e…you know…” Eyes wide, Fancy made a circle with thumb and index finger on one hand, poking her other index finger through the hole.

  Bea sputtered on her tea. “Heavens, wherever did you learn that horrid gesture? You’re better off just saying it, dearest.”

  Fancy cast a nervous glance around the garden despite the fact that there was no one to eavesdrop…except perhaps Bea’s dog Zeus. Bea had found the brindle bull terrier bleeding at the side of the road; some bastard had left the animal to die from injuries sustained from dogfighting. She’d rescued the dog, naming him after the God of Thunder for the lightning bolt-shaped scar on his forehead. At present, Zeus lay sprawled on the gazebo floor, his snores conveying his degree of interest in the conversation.

  “What was it like to ’ave…relations?” Fancy’s face turned the color of beets.

  How do I describe the visceral, all-consuming pleasure?

  Waking up this morning, Bea had felt somehow…changed. Filled with energy despite her lack of sleep. Last night hadn’t been about losing her virginity; it had been about discovering herself. The myriad, wondrous sensations she could feel. The headiness of sharing pleasure with another. The joy of feeling, on the most primal level, that one was desirable.

  “It exceeded all my expectations.” An understatement, if ever there was one.

  “In what way?”

  Knowing what Fancy was asking, Bea said frankly, “I didn’t know that there were so many aspects to lovemaking. Besides kissing and the actual act, I mean. And to answer your earlier question: no, it didn’t hurt, exactly. It wasn’t entirely comfortable at first, but after a period of adjustment, it felt quite…natural.”

  Such a sweet girl, coming in my mouth. Her lover’s deep voice played in her head, giving her a delicious shiver. I can’t wait to screw deep inside you, feel this tight, wet little pussy holding every inch of my cock…

  Given his size—which had been a lot more than a few inches—she still didn’t comprehend how he’d fit. But he had, her body accommodating to his. Her intimate muscles fluttered, their slight soreness a reminder of how well and thoroughly they’d been used.

  Fancy’s eyes widened. “What is there besides kissing and the actual act?”

  “Well, there’s touching. And the kissing…” Bea cleared her throat. “Suffice it to say, it isn’t limited to the mouth.”

  She feared that the skin might burn off her cheeks completely if the conversation continued. At the same time, she wanted Fancy to have the facts that she, herself, had been lacking. Her own mama had only alluded to the sexual act with confusing euphemisms… The thought of her departed mother brought the usual pangs of sadness and guilt, and she shut out the bittersweet memories.

  “Sweet Jaysus.” Fancy blinked at her. “And you liked it?”

  “I did,” she replied with candor. “And I didn’t even have to use the, ahem, device you obtained for me. He had one with him.”

  Bea had learned about the sheaths from her maid Lisette who, being French, was armed with much practical knowledge. The question had been how to secure one of the contraptions; Bea couldn’t risk the scandal that such inquiries in the village would cause.

  Fancy had again come to her aid. As a tinker’s daughter, she had ways of obtaining whatever was needed. She’d snuck into her brother Liam’s supply of “Gentleman’s Goods” and, sure enough, had located the item. She and Bea had giggled helplessly as they’d examined the long tube made of sheep’s gut.

  “’E sounds like a true gent,” Fancy mused.

  “He was a gentleman in every sense of the word,” Bea said.

  Except, perhaps, for his wicked turn of speech during their lovemaking. Given that Bea had found his earthy vocabulary titillating—and that she’d propositioned a complete stranger—she supposed she wasn’t much of a lady.

  Oh well.

  “Then I’m ’appy for you,” Fancy said simply. “Will you be seeing ’im again?”

  She suppressed the pang of yearning. “Heavens, no. I don’t know his name, nor he mine, and that is the way it ought to be. It was a one-time affair.”

  “But if ’e was ’andsome and kind, wouldn’t you like to see ’im again?”

  Fancy’s question highlighted one of the key differences between her and Bea. Despite having a dazzling array of practical skills—the legacy of her tinkering family—Fancy possessed the heart of a dreamer. She believed in love, the triumph of good over evil, and faerie tale endings. An eternal optimist, she had no wish to be cured. If life presented her with a crate of lemons, she’d happily make lemonade for the entire village.

  Bea, on the other hand, was a realist. She’d paid the price for being too trusting. She now understood that beauty and love were not the keys to happiness: true contentment lay in controlling one’s own destiny. If anyone threw lemons in her direction, she’d scoop them up and toss them right back. Or she’d slam the gate and let the lemons splat where they would.

  “And have him run for the hills when he sees my face?” Her smile was sardonic, the taut pull of her damaged right cheek a reminder of what she’d become in the world’s eyes. “Last night only happened because I wore a mask. Because he could not see who I truly am.”

  “Maybe ’e did see who you are.” Fancy leaned her elbows on the table, her heart-shaped face stubborn with hope. “The cove guessed that you were a butterfly, didn’t ’e? Maybe ’e wouldn’t care about the scar, which ain’t ’alf as bad as you make it out to be. You’re beautiful, and the right man would see it. And your beauty ain’t just on the outside. You’re generous, caring, and—”

  “Rich. Don’t forget my best feature,” Bea said.

  Fancy gave her an exasperated look. “Your money ain’t your best feature.”

  “It is to me. It’s the source of my independence, the reason I can live life on my own terms.” Terms that would not include a handsome and masterful lover, she told herself, no matter how wonderful the experience had been. “Last night was a fantasy, nothing more. I’m glad to have satisfied my curiosity. But now I’ll move on and tend to the things that truly matter.”

  “What’s more important than love?” Fancy said philosophically.

  “This was lust, not love.” The important distinction had to be made and, Bea thought, never forgotten. “And you’re one to talk: you turned down two proposals this year.”

  Fancy snorted. “Those ’ad naught to do with love. Those ’ad to do with fellows wanting a housekeeper, cook, and nanny for their children. I already do all that for me own family, why would I be wanting more o’ the same?”

  Despite Fancy’s optimistic nature, she could also be startlingly astute. While Bea didn’t believe in love for herself, she supported her friend’s dreams. Fancy had always wanted a husband to love and who loved her in return…and Fancy deserved to have what she wanted.

  “One day you’ll find what you’re looking for.” Reaching over, Bea patted her friend’s small but capable hand. “No one deserves love more than you.”

  “You deserve it too,” Fancy said doggedly.

  Bea smiled, ready to change the topic from love. In truth, she did have something rather troubling to discuss. She removed a folded piece of paper from the pocket of her skirts, placing it on the table.

  “Enough of faerie tales,” she said. “I received a letter this morning.”

  “Another one?” Fancy scowled. “From that blighted railway fellow who won’t let you be?”

  For the last two months, Bea had been engaged in a contentious exchange of letters with an obnoxious industrialist by the name of Wickham Murray. Murray wanted to build his railway through her estate and had sent repeated offers to buy her la
nd. Despite Bea’s refusals, the letters kept coming. He wouldn’t take no for an answer, proposing that they should meet in person in London—the last place on earth she wanted to be.

  His behavior fit with the stories she’d read about him in the papers. According to the articles, he’d been dubbed “The Iron Duke” for a number of reasons. The obvious one was his success: the company he ran with two partners, Great London Northern Railway, was the premier business of its kind, earning him an exalted status. Murray’s moniker also referenced his will when it came to getting what he wanted: his charm and negotiation skills were legendary.

  And, if the scandal sheets were to be believed, his prowess extended into his personal affairs.

  Blessed with “godly” looks and wealth, he was said to cause a female frenzy wherever he went. Even if women succeeded in attracting his notice, they didn’t hold it for long: his affairs were short-lived and too numerous to count. One of the more lurid scandal rags even claimed to have interviewed his past lovers; according to these “anonymous sources,” his stamina and male equipment were the true reasons he was called The Iron Duke.

  There was a final connotation to his moniker. The term “duke” was evidently used to refer to the men who ruled London’s underclass, and Murray, despite his aristocratic roots, had cut his teeth with this cunning, ruthless group. Before he’d become a railway industrialist, he’d made his fortune working for a moneylender; how the younger son of a viscount had ended up in that world remained a mystery.

  Bea could sum up what she knew of Murray in three words: charming, arrogant, and shady. As she contemplated the new missive, however, she didn’t think he had written it.

  “This letter seems different from Murray’s other ones,” she said. “He typically uses expensive stationary with his company crest, not this thin stuff. His penmanship is bolder than this hand, and he’s always signed his name whereas this note is anonymous. Not to mention, the tone is decidedly less polite.”