Dukes’ Club Book 1

Once Upon a Duke

OUT NOW

Ryder Blake, the eleventh Duke of Darkwell, didn’t even blink as his next morsel walked through the door. Instead, he lifted his cigar to his lips, ignored the books and a few Grecian urns he’d flung to the floor, and took a long pull. He allowed the aromatic smoke to fill his mouth as he glanced over the latest variety in a long line of women who had come to him seeking sexual freedom.

This one was different. He didn’t even need to look at her to know that. Usually, when he gave order to Grieves he was to remain undisturbed, the butler obeyed to the letter. Even if that meant no one was admitted to the house for days. Ryder blew out the smoke and the bad taste the thought gave him.

He had to admit there was nothing remarkable about her. Where some women were soufflés, she was a muffin. And from the firm line of her chin, perhaps a rather tart one.

Her bonnet, plain grey, perched on top of her blond hair shadowed her pale skin and blue grey eyes. Though she had high cheekbones, her face lacked the elegance of nobility, and her lower lip was far too full. He dropped his gaze to her well-formed but average breasts and then down to her narrow waist. The curve of her hip was a mystery, hidden beneath the surprisingly small skirt given the fashion of the day.

Yes. She was average and in every way unremarkable except for the sheer determination and unmistakable intelligence glowing in her stormy eyes. A smile, a rarity for him, pulled at his lips. He had no doubt that those plain blue-grey eyes could riot into a tempest that would ignite the coldest of blood.

And she had come to him, the coldest of them all.

“So, my dear, you’ve come to the Duke of Debauchery, have you?” he drawled, giving her a mock bow, the smoke from his cigar swirling about his hand.

She frowned, a spark lighting her eyes. “When you put it like that, it certainly sounds...”

Lifting the cigar to his lips he drew in another long draw of the heady smoke, then tilted his head to the side, curious to see if she would prove to be just like the rest of the silly women who came to him. “Dramatic?” he asked, smoke whispering from his lips.

“Boring, actually.” She shifted on her slippered feet and smiled ruefully. “I must confess I expected a more enticing introduction.”

Ryder stared at her for a moment then laughed. The deep wave of sound started in his stomach and poured from his lips. “Well, good. At least you’re not a soft bit of lace.”

She smiled, even though her brows drew together in confusion. “That I am not.”

“No sherry for you then?” He crossed to the gold and black sideboard table standing near the fire.

“Brandy.”

Ryder glanced back over his shoulder. She smiled at him. He nodded. “Certainly.”

The woman was clearly unlike any of the others who had come to him. Of that, he was now most certain. She had no guile or artifice, and he had the terrible feeling that if he asked her a question she would give him an honest, unguarded answer. This didn’t bode well for the evening. For the whole truth and honesty game was not for him. He much preferred the veil of lies that men and women wove to keep each other at a distance.

He grasped the cool decanter and poured the amber liquid into two crystal snifters. If she’d been one of the other wool-headed young women or bored wives, he would have sat and ordered her to come to him. She certainly didn’t meet his usual requirements, not having any of the self-obsession he usually preferred in the women he allowed into his bed. Self-obsessed women he found, never became obsessed. Thus, he could boot them out the door with a bauble and a smile.

But there was something raw and innocent about her that had more fire than the most practiced of women. He lowered his gaze to her left hand. No ring. Nor did there appear to be a line about the finger which might indicate its temporary removal for a romp in his bed.

She was of an age to be married at least a few years over and yet, she was not. Was she a virgin? As he lifted his gaze back to her face, he realized it didn’t matter. Whatever her experiences, though few he was certain, she was unguarded and unaccustomed to the ways of an affair.

Oddly, instead of observing him observing her, she was glancing about, taking in the room, her hands clasped calmly before her as if she hadn’t stepped into one of the most notorious houses in London. As if she hadn’t heard the earlier sounds of his fury or noticed all the books and vases strewn across the floor.

Ryder ground his teeth together as he avoided looking at her simple dress and plainly styled hair. She was so unlike the powdered and belaced tarts who came for a tumble. This one, whether she knew it or not, needed more than a tumble to awaken her body. She needed the one thing he never gave—a meeting of the minds.

Slipping his cigar between his lips, Ryder looked down at the two glasses and for a moment considered tossing the contents and sending her off. But tonight the darkness was pressing on him with renewed vigor, and for the first time in a long time he actually allowed himself to consider indulging in a bit of company to ease the pain.

Ryder cradled the snifters of brandy as he slowly approached her.

The young woman’s eyes widened and her gaze traced over his face and then over his black clad shoulders, muscled from hours of boxing drills and fencing rounds. He smiled at her blatant but genuine innocence. He couldn’t help it. His damn lips had curved of their own volition. He extended the snifter. She yanked her gaze from his chest, down to the brandy.

He waited for her fingers to stretch out.

It was the softest touch. Her gloves, plain cotton, brushed his skin. He allowed the moment to linger. The roughness of his hands brushed against the delicacy of hers. Her breasts lifted in a sharp breath, and that single movement sent the blood in his body shooting straight to his groin. He was used to it. Desire was part of his strange and empty existence. But when he met her eyes, his chest tightened with a sensation he hadn’t felt in far too many years.

Ryder fought the sudden urge to jerk back. Not in fear, but because her eyes were full of invitation. Invitation to know her utterly. Completely. To his shock, he heard a part of himself he’d been certain was dead and gone, whisper for him to not only take it. To seize it.

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