Chapter Five

Alicia’s virtue would have had a fighting chance...if the Admiralty had not mistakenly sent her the countess’s letters.

The packet had been waiting when she returned from Marie’s. A packet full of sheaves addressed to Octavius from the countess. And a single, unfinished letter, addressed to the countess and written in Octavius’s familiar hand.

A wiser woman would have left the packet untouched.

The words within the letters were not meant for her eyes. Even Octavius would never have been so cruel. She read them nonetheless—line after excruciating line, pulsing with love that was somehow both prurient and pure. Mutual joy lived within the lines, between them, even—reverence for each other’s bodies, infinite respect for each other’s souls, and a solemn commitment to the child their love had delivered into this world.

Alicia had passed a finger over Octavius’s signature, hearing the words of the vicious patron—the countess would have made the admiral the perfect wife if the barren shrew he married had the grace to die.

She nearly choked.

The whole world thought her worthless. The young woman had wished her dead. She dropped the letter onto her bed. She was, as she’d always been, unwanted.

Though not entirely.

Not anymore.

One duke, one dangerous, possibly mad and devastatingly handsome duke, had sworn a lifetime of celibacy in exchange for three nights in her arms.

He tried to buy you using Octavius’s debt. But hadn’t he also given her a glimpse of passion, sublime?

If she agreed, they would enter into a wicked accounting she abhorred. She’d become a lover. A person who indulged in pleasures never meant to be theirs.

On the other hand, who would she harm? She was betraying no one.

Yes, she had vowed to protect her freedom, but the duke hadn’t asked for her autonomy. He’d asked for her permission.

Heaven, did she wish to grant him that. How she longed to know passion.

She’d known he was hot and hard from the time he’d taken her into his arms. For her. Not for someone else he imagined when he closed his eyes.

She’d been tempted.

Not just tempted. Convinced.

She might argue reasons—valid reasons—but the truth was, she’d refused mostly out of fear.

She was afraid no longer. She’d had enough of being on the outside looking in. Everyone else indulged without compunction. Why couldn’t she? Just for three nights?

The very next morning, she visited Marie, delivering a note with her terms. Anonymity. No lasting ties. The morning after that, she received directions.

Aunt Hester, to her surprise, had accepted that she’d been summoned by a relation of her father’s. Her protest had been minimal at best. She did not like to travel and her coterie of gossiping friends were due to arrive for their usual weekly tea on the morrow.

She departed, per his instructions, in the crestless carriage he’d sent. The curtains remained tightly drawn as the carriage rambled through so many twists and turns, she could have been anywhere in England.

Anywhere within a half-day’s ride of London, anyway.

She only ventured to look out the window when the coachman abruptly stopped. A sheep, he explained, had become entangled in the prickly blackthorn brush lining the drive, and they could not pass without mounting a rescue.

“Them at the castle don’t keep it trimmed the way they used to,” he complained.

Indeed, the hedgerow seemed wild, twisted, and menacing, though not nearly as menacing as the castle tower at the top of the hill, half shrouded by clouds and half eerily-outlined by the moon.

“That’s where we’re headed,” the coachman said. “Unless you wish to turn back.”

A castle. Of course, the duke would have a castle.

When they reached the entry, she placed her fingers into the coachman’s hand and slid inelegantly from his grace’s carriage. Her walking boots hit gravel, and, simultaneously, the tower lit from the sky with unholy light. A crack of thunder followed, sounding like a coachman’s whip.

Aptly impressive welcome, devil duke.

Ashbey’s power had felt supernatural from the first. His timing, eerie. But—she inhaled—any lingering disquiet was nothing more than fancy born of a long ride in a closed, curtained carriage. The only power the duke possessed was the power she granted.

Correction.

The duke did not have power over her beyond the power she granted. Of course, a duke had power enough to appear supernatural to a mere mortal like herself.

She must remind herself he was a man. Flesh and blood like any other. If, perhaps, more gifted in the flesh.

Lucky for her.

She survived the marl with minimal damage to her shoes, and faced the forbidding oak doors, waiting for the footman to heft the iron knocker. Her gaze slid to the footman. Did he believe the lie her clothing conveyed: that she was a housekeeper, come to be interviewed?

Doubtful.

The door swung open. Light from a fire in the great hall silhouetted an aging servant. With exaggerated motions, he ushered her inside.

“Wait here, ma’am.”

Without even an unspoken offer to remove her sodden cloak, the servant disappeared.

She wasn’t ready to relinquish the thick, woolen garment anyway, even if rain drops glistened between its fibers. Dampness clung to the stone walls, making the chill on the inside nearly worse than outside. The flames leaping in the giant hearth did little to tame the shadows or ease the cold. Surprisingly, her teeth did not chatter.

Lud, but the place was old. She would have expected some modification. She glanced up into the darkened rafters. Something squeaked.

Bats?

She scowled and took a step closer to the hearth. Disembodied voices echoed against the walls. She tilted her head, but could not discern a single word.

If she released the reins on her imagination, she could fancy herself transported back in time, a medieval vassal awaiting the Lord of the Manor. Doubtless, such fancies would serve the duke’s purpose. No matter how indebted she felt, she was no helpless maid to his feudal lord.

The duke appeared on the stair, his face cloaked by shadow. “You came.”

She moistened her lips. “Did you ever doubt, Your Grace? This was all impressively planned.”

He stepped into the hall. He wore no cravat and his linen shirt fell open at his throat, making her feel as if she had already sinned. She forced her gaze up from the indecent exposure of flesh. Heat crept into her cheeks.

“Let us not begin on a lie,” he said. “Admit you are here of your own free will, or go.”

“Do you deny you placed me in your debt?”

“Charity, of course,” he replied. “It is your choice to perceive obligation. I’ll not take a martyr into my bed.”

“As always, you are very direct.”

“Do you disapprove?”

“No.” She liked the way he spoke—free of embarrassment or disdain. In fact, it stole her breath. “I find prevarication of little use. I am here. Three days I have promised, three days I will give.”

“Nights, my lady.” His tenor warmed.

Her usual distaste for my lady failed. The words became honey on his lips—smooth, rich, and sweet.

He clasped his hands behind his back, slowly circling her. “Nights at the mercy of both your passions—” his lids veiled his gaze, “—and mine.”

“Oh my.” She longed to be at his mercy, and she longed to have him at hers.

He chuckled, a sound at odds with the dungeon-like surroundings.

She bent a knee, and inclined her head in a short, swift mockery of a curtsey. “Three nights you have, Your Grace. I trust you have kept your end of the bargain.”

“The three servants present have not been given your name. You’ve met the coachman and Kent. The final is a woman, who will serve as cook and lady’s maid. I assure you, they are loyal and discreet. There will be no lasting ties.”

She closed her eyes and exhaled.

“Have you any remaining limitations that would prevent you from enjoying what is to come?” he asked.

Irony she did not appreciate laced through his words. She looked him in the eye. She wanted him, yes. But a spade should be called a spade.

“I am sorry,” she said with sarcasm. “Did you assume I would have no difficulty agreeing to become your whore?”

He was silent for too long, and something dark lurked behind his gaze. “Such an ugly word,” he said finally, “from such pretty lips.”

“If not a whore, what am I?”

“You are...” He stopped abruptly and blinked, as if his instinctive answer had caused him surprise.

Had she not been so desperate to know what he kept silent, she would have cheered the small win. Instead, she shivered.

“Forgive me.” He recovered. “I should have offered to take your cloak. You are soaking.”

He unclasped the hooks at her throat, lifted the cloak from her shoulders and then dropped it onto the wet stone floor.

She sighed. “You’ve ruined it, no doubt.”

“I will buy you another.” His gaze grew speculative. “A cloak lined with sable, perhaps.”

She lifted her brows. “Sable would be warm, certainly.”

“It could be yours. If...” His voice trailed.

She narrowed her eyes. “If?”

“If you are good.” He stepped close enough for her to feel his heat against the exposed skin above her fichu. He brought his lips next to her ear. “And you will be good, won’t you, love?”

“I am afraid I am at a loss, Your Grace.”

He cupped her cheek. “I’d be happy to be of help.”

“How does the Duke of Ashbey define good? Because I suspect you are not referring to virtue.”

He smiled, dark and wolfish. “Just admit you are here of your own free will so we may proceed.”

His radiating heat made her dizzy. Her dependably sturdy legs quivered. “I thought I had.”

“Not quite.”

His face was blurred, his lips impossibly close. His scent was an invitation to the darkest of her needs. Again, she remembered the old wives’ tale: Demons could not be summoned without express request.

To hell with cloaks and banter.

“Yes,” she replied. “I am here of my own free will.”

His ragged sigh gave her chills. “Then let us leave questions of virtue.”

“Devil,” she whispered.

“I am,” he said, with all seriousness. “But I am also a devil you desire.”

What was the point of denial? “Yes.”

“The truth at last.” He stepped away. “There is a bath prepared. Warm yourself. And be ready.” He pulled the bell and within seconds the old butler appeared. “Kent, would you lead the lady to my chamber?”

She followed the servant up the stairs, feeling the duke’s gaze fixed upon her clinging skirts.

The Duke of Ashbey might have been Mr. John Smith of a London rookery for all the dignity he had just displayed. His most valued possessions had been consigned to flame, and now he’d relinquished one of the few remaining things that gave him worth—mastery of himself.

Resting his forehead against the smooth wooden door that led to the dressing room and then the bedchamber beyond, he listened. Her sigh throbbed in his weighted cock.

He gripped the doorframe, tensing his muscles as if he could physically resist his need. His desire taunted, urging him to stroke his cock until he spent on the floor like an eager lad.

He would not debase them both.

He would have his angel soon enough. They would come together in the messy ritual belonging not to Heaven, nor to Hades, but to earth—slow, deliberate, thorough, and real. He would savor all her luscious curves, and then sink into her as if she were solace personified. And after they came together, he’d be cleansed of the past and its pain.

He closed his eyes, reliving the very first time he had laid eyes on Lady Stone.

He’d come back to life. There was no other way to describe the quickening. Resurrection, but incomplete. Solitude had never bothered him, but he’d been shrinking for too long. Shrinking away from the land of the living. Their moment of connection had brought him back with a rush of pain and a surge of desire.

He craved more. She could give him more. And she would. He’d paid dearly for the woman.

He swatted away guilt. She’d said she was here of her own free will. Was that not enough to muzzle his conscience?

Through the wood he heard the murmuring of female conversation. Mrs. Kent had been willing to travel back to the ruins of Wisterley and more than eager to prepare a few meals and help Alicia dress, oddly enough. Kent, of course, had never been afraid.

But he would not think of the rumors that clung to the castle, nor would he consider the wing ruined by char and decay.

He was here, at Wisterley. For the first time since the fire, he was anticipating a night within the castle. And the tingle in his balls? The one that filled him with glee (Yes—devil take it—glee)?

That was a sensation he hadn’t felt since he was randy and young, still hopeful he might one day escape the gloom.

He turned his attention back to the woman within Wisterley’s oldest and only undamaged tower.

The water swished.

He imagined her standing in the copper tub, bare as Venus. More likely, she had retained her shift. She was proper that way.

So proper he could not wait to spread her thighs.

It was up to him to ensure she was properly, thoroughly satisfied.

He was fully ‘up’ to the task.