Duke of Midnight

“You’ve hurt my feelings, Ridley,” Apollo shot back. “Why don’t you come over here to kiss it better?”



No reply this time, save for a sob from the woman. There was the sound of rending cloth.



Damn it.



Once upon a time Apollo had thought himself a man of the world. A gentleman inured to the black sin that lurked in the depths of London. He’d drank and gambled and even purchased the favors of pretty women once in a while, for such were the pursuits of boys fresh from university and full of themselves. He’d been so innocent. So naïve. Then he’d come to Bedlam and found what true venality was. Here things that called themselves men preyed upon those weaker than they solely for the sport of it. Solely to laugh in the despairing faces of their victims.



He’d lain through too many nights unable to do anything about it.



But perhaps today he could divert the jackals from their chosen prey.



“Oi, Leech, are you sucking upon Ridley’s prick for him?” Apollo made rude smacking sounds with his lips, leaning as far forward as his chains allowed. “That’s what you get up to when you’re lazing about instead of working, isn’t it? Do you like drinking his spunk? Bet he can’t get enough of your pretty tongue, Leech.”



“Shut his lordship’s mouth for him,” Ridley growled.



On cue Leech’s stubby form appeared at the mouth to Apollo’s cave, holding a short cudgel over his shoulder.



Apollo grinned and crossed his legs, as if lounging at some society lady’s salon instead of laying on reeking filth. “A good day to you, Mr. Leech. How kind of you to stop by. Will you be taking tea with me? Or is chocolate to your better liking?”



Leech growled. He wasn’t much for words, was Leech. Ridley had a tendency to do his talking for him. But Leech did have a sort of low intelligence, belied by his short, sloping brow. He didn’t bother coming close to Apollo, but stayed just out of the chain’s reach as he swung the cudgel viciously at Apollo’s legs.



There were rumors among the inmates that Leech’s cudgel had broken arms and even legs, but Apollo was more than ready. He pulled back his legs at the last minute and laughed up at Leech.



“Oh, no, no. That’s not how we play nicely.”



The wonderful thing about Leech was that he could be depended on. He made two more abortive swings before growing enraged and charging. Apollo caught a blow on his right arm that numbed it to the shoulder, but he was able to kick the cudgel from Leech’s arm.



The guard leaped back, scowling as he nursed his hand.



The woman was moaning now, steady and awful. The hair stood up on the back of Apollo’s arms at the hurt animal sound.



“Rid-ley, oh, darling Rid-ley!” Apollo sang through gritted teeth. “Leech is sulking. Come out, come out and play with me, sweet Rid-ley!”



A foul curse came from the next cell.



“Rid-ley! We all know how tiny your prick is—can’t you find it without Leech’s help?”



That did it. Heavy boots stomping down the hall heralded Ridley’s approach and then the big man loomed into view, his breeches only half-buttoned. Ridley was six feet of pure nastiness: broad, heavy shoulders, thick arms, and a boulder of a head squatting between. The guard’s lip curled in what passed for a smile, and then Apollo realized his mistake, for behind him lurked a third man. Tyne wasn’t nearly as big as Ridley—few men were—but he could be just as vicious given the chance.



Tyne and Leech spread out, circling to attack him from his sides, while Ridley smirked, waiting for his cohorts to position themselves.



Well, that wouldn’t do.



“Now gentlemen,” Apollo drawled, standing slowly, “you know I haven’t made myself presentable. I’m not used to so many visitors this late at night. Ridley, why not send your cronies away and you and I can settle this over a nice cup of tea.”



Both Tyne and Leech attacked at the same time. Tyne aimed a blow at his head from the left while Leech ducked in and went for his middle from the right. Apollo caught Tyne’s fist on his upraised left arm. His right was still not working properly, but he was able to elbow Leech in the face, sending the smaller man flying into the wall. Apollo half-turned to Tyne and backhanded the man with his left fist. Tyne staggered but remained upright, and Apollo was just about to follow with a kick when he realized his peril.



He’d lost track of Ridley.



His feet were yanked out from under him. Apollo’s head smacked the stone floor and for a moment he knew nothing but ringing light. When next he looked up, he saw Ridley, still holding the chains that bound his feet.



Leech staggered over, hand cupped over his bleeding nose, and kicked Apollo in the face. Apollo raised an arm—moving far too slowly, something was wrong—but Leech kicked him again, this time in the ribs. There was pain, but it was muffled somehow, and that should be causing him alarm, he knew. Apollo tried to curl into himself, protect his vulnerable middle, but Ridley yanked on the chains again, pulling his legs straight. Leech had his cudgel now, and was lifting it—



Ridley grinned, his hands fumbling at the half-opened falls to his breeches. “We’ll shut your mouth good and proper this time.”



No.



True fear sparked at the back of Apollo’s mind and he lurched up, butting his head into Ridley’s middle. The guard fell on his arse, yelling. Apollo thrashed, kicking, hitting anything he could connect with.



Something slammed into his head.



He glared blearily up. Leech’s goddamned cudgel. He’d take the thing away and beat the guard with his own weapon, by God.



Tyne stepped on his throat. Apollo’s lungs heaved. Once. Twice.



No air.



Thrice…



Blackness descended.



THE MORNING SUN dappled the forest floor beneath his feet as Maximus tramped along the next day. He’d risen early, restless without his usual exercises in the London cellar. His work was in the city and he had an itch to return to it.



Courting a woman for marriage was a trying business.



Belle bumped her head under his palm as if in sympathy. Percy and Starling had already ranged ahead, but Belle liked to stay by his side.



Well, usually, anyway.



Her narrow ears suddenly perked and she was off, bounding gracefully through the underbrush. He could hear the other dogs yipping in greeting.



Ridiculously, he thought he could feel his heart beat faster. Despite their antagonism, despite her threats to his equilibrium, he wanted to see her, and right now he wouldn’t examine why.



In another few steps he made the clearing with the pond and looked about. He could see the dogs milling a quarter way around the pond—even Bon Bon was there—but he couldn’t yet see her on the path.



And then he did see her and arousal went straight to his cock.



Artemis Greaves was in the pond, as graceful as a naiad, her skirts bound up at her waist, standing thigh deep in the sparkling water.



How dare she.



He strode swiftly around the pond to stand at the shore nearest to where she was wading. “Miss Greaves.”



She glanced at him and if anything looked displeased to see him. “Your Grace.”



“What,” he said softly but dangerously, “are you doing in the pond?”



“I would have thought that obvious,” she murmured as she began moving toward the shore. “I’m wading.”



He gritted his teeth. The closer she came to shore the more milky white leg emerged from the water. It was soon apparent that she was bare from just below the juncture of her thighs all the way to her narrow feet. Her skin glistened in the morning sun, pale and vulnerable, wholly, terribly erotic.



As a gentleman he should look away.



But damn it, it was his pond.



“Anyone could happen upon you,” he hissed, aware at the back of his mind that he sounded like a prudish old woman.



“Do you really think so?” she asked, finally reaching the shore and stepping onto the mossy bank of the pond. “I doubt most of your guests usually rise before nine of the clock at the earliest. Penelope hardly ever emerges from her rooms before noon.”



She stood there, head cocked, as if she truly wanted to debate the morning habits of his guests. She’d made no move to lower her skirts. He watched a bead of water slide slickly down one rounded thigh, over the pretty contours of her knee, faster down the smooth slope of her calf to drip off one delicate anklebone.



He snapped his gaze up to her face.



She still looked merely curious, as if standing half nude in front of him was a completely acceptable way to start the day.



Good God, did she think him a eunuch?



He wanted to shake her, to scold her until she hung her head in shame. He wanted to—



“Put down your skirts,” he growled. “If this is your way of provoking me because of our disagreement, I’ll have you know it won’t work.”



“That wasn’t my intent,” she said calmly. “As I told you, I was simply wading for no other reason but the enjoyment of it. However, I do think you incorrect.”



“I…” He couldn’t follow her with her legs so alluringly exposed. “What?”



“What makes you think I can’t provoke you?” She arched an eyebrow and untied the knot that held her skirts up. They fell, shrouding her gorgeous legs to the ankle, and that did not annoy him at all.



“You’re not to go wading in my pond again,” he said.



She shrugged and picked up her shoes and stockings where they lay on the path. “Very well, Your Grace, but it’s a great pity. I should’ve liked to go swimming.”



She pivoted and glided up the path, bewitching bare ankles flashing under her skirts, leaving Maximus to imagine her swimming in his pond, gloriously nude.



All. That. White. Flesh.



For a second his mind seemed to stutter.



When he looked up again, she and the dogs were nearly into the woods again, her bottom swaying enticingly. He actually had to trot to catch up.



He glanced sideways at her when he did and saw her lips pressed firmly together.



“You know how to swim?”



For a moment he thought she wouldn’t deign to answer. Then she sighed. “Yes. Apollo and I were allowed to run mostly wild as children. There was a little pond on a neighboring farmer’s land. We’d sneak over there and after some trial and error, we both learned to swim.”



Maximus frowned. Craven’s report had been very factual—the date of her birth, who her parents were, her relation to Lady Penelope—but he found there was more he’d like to know about Miss Greaves. It was always prudent to learn all one could about one’s enemies.



“You didn’t have a governess?”



She laughed softly, though it sounded sad. “We had three. They’d stay for months or even a year or so, and then Papa would run out of money and have to let them go. Somehow Apollo and I learned to read and write and do simple sums, but not much more than that. I have no French, can’t play any instrument, never learned to draw.”



“Your educational lack doesn’t seem to bother you,” he observed.



She shrugged. “Would it make a difference if I were bothered? I have some other skills not usually seen in ladies: swimming, as I told you, and how to shoot a gun. I can bargain down a butcher to within an inch of his life. I know how to make soap and how to put a bill collector off. I can do mending but not embroidery, can drive a cart but not ride a horse, know how to grow cabbages and carrots and even make them into a nice soup, but I haven’t the least idea how to trellis roses.”



Maximus’s hands tightened into fists at his side at this recitation. No gentleman should let his delicately bred daughter grow to womanhood without the most basic instruction of her station.



“Yet you’re the granddaughter of the Earl of Ashridge.”



“Yes.” Her voice was terse and he knew he’d stumbled on some tender spot.