Tempted by His Touch: A Limited Edition Boxed Set of Dukes, Rogues, & Alpha Heroes Historical Romance Novels Page 64

  Hunt shrugged. “Merely speaking the truth.”

  Ryder shifted on the bench. If he wasn’t careful his damned friend was going to have him rationalizing the debauchery of the very women he’d sworn not to touch again. “She’s a bloody angel, man.”

  Hunt laughed. “An angel who wants to walk about on earth for a bit and she’s going to make a piss poor choice because of it. Women always do, or at least women as inexperienced as that. For God’s sake, look at the man she married! She has deplorable taste in men.”

  She wanted him, which only solidified her poor judgment. “She shouldn’t do it at all,” he growled.

  “What, remain chaste? That’s a laugh coming from you.”

  “Not chaste. Just. She deserves someone who will care for her.”

  “How do you know what she deserves?” Hunt demanded seriously.

  “I just do.” And he did. He’d been in Mrs. Darrell’s presence twice and seen her from afar once. Yet, it was clear to him she was above the base pleasure seekers she so longed to slum with. If she truly understood the kind of people she was trying to emulate, she would hie off to the country before one could say Dick Turpine.

  Fingering the rim of his cup, Hunt said casually, “Well, if you won’t do it, perhaps I’ll take her in hand. She is lovely and I’d hate to see her used ill by some vapid buck.”

  Fury barreled down Ryder’s veins, and he slammed his fists down on the table. There was no way in Hell someone like Hunt was going to get his dirty paws on a woman like Mrs. Darrell. “You touch her and I’ll force feed you your cock one bite at a time.”

  Hunt leaned forward, a smirk curling his lips. “Why the hell should you care?” He shook his head slightly. “You don’t want her.”

  Ryder launched forward and grabbed Hunt’s shirt. “I didn’t say I don’t want her. Wanting her is not the problem.”

  Hunt blinked. “That’s it, isn’t it?”

  “What?” Ryder loosened his grip and looked away, deliberately avoiding the obvious answer.

  Hunt whistled lowly. “You actually like her.”

  “Of course I do,” he said tersely. “There’s something bloody hypnotic about her.”

  “No. Not lust, old man. You like this one. God knows we are all aware of the fact you only bed women you could never like. God’s blood, you still bed that cat, the Countess of Carmine.”

  The countess was just one woman in the long line of cold, power hungry women he bedded to slake his lust. Hunt was right. Ryder didn’t bed women he might come to like. It was a luxury he never afforded himself. He couldn’t. Somehow it felt like a horrid betrayal of Jane. And he would never betray her memory. He’d worn her ribbon since her death as a daily reminder. Ryder dropped his gaze to the table, the anger crackling up inside him. “You know why I must do what I do.”

  “Darkwell—”

  Suddenly tired, Ryder forced himself to his feet. He just couldn’t discuss this. Not even with his oldest friend.

  Hunt hesitated, his eyes darkening as if he was considering pushing. Finally, he sighed and nodded. “Off we go.”

  Wordlessly, they headed out to the dark street.

  The cold pierced the wool wrapped around Ryder and his boots squelched in the thick mud as he strode ahead.

  They walked for several moments in silence, before Hunt said softly, “Darkwell, it wasn’t your fault. We all know it. When are you going—”

  “Enough,” Ryder barked. “I don’t force you to talk about your father. Don’t force this on me.”

  “Bastard.” Hunt’s face hardened under the moon’s glow.

  “Yes,” he said, but this time his voice was a tired whisper.

  No one could convince him to put aside the truth. Very simply, it was something he would never allow himself to forget. How careless he had been. How that carelessness had destroyed his life. And how if he wasn’t careful, that carelessness could destroy someone else.

  Chapter Seven

  Everyone was staring at her. Again. Which of course was particularly ridiculous considering an extremely lavish performance with live barnyard animals was taking place on the stage below, but as Kate was learning the ton preferred to be entertained by other members of the ton.

  Dozens of opera glasses were positioned towards her, the candlelight reflecting off the glasses, sending gleams of rainbow light in her direction. Any other woman of society would be delighted. But what good was all this attention if the one man she wanted wasn’t anywhere to be seen?

  Still, it was rather exciting. The most attention she’d ever known had been an extremely ardent group of ladies bent on the improvement of the Little Tindwing church. She’d listened for hours regarding the benefits of French versus Irish lace.

  This was far more pleasurable considering all she had to do was be herself.

  “You know, I do think you shall have to take extreme measures if you wish to seduce him,” Imogen murmured behind her pink silk fan.

  Kate gave her a withering look. “Don’t you think hunting him is drastic enough?” The only reason they were even at the opera was because dear, dear Reginald assured them the duke would be making an appearance tonight.

  “Absolutely not. This is but one step in a long series of dances.”

  Why must it be so complicated? She wanted the duke, he wanted her, and that as far as she was concerned, should have been enough. The duke knew exactly what he was doing and she, novice that she was, was left to poke about in the dark.

  It would all be worth it though. Heavens, she would run from one end of England to another if it meant having the duke’s mouth upon her body again. Every time she thought of his tongue upon her thighs, she shivered.

  “Hello, darling!” trilled a voice from the curtains.

  Kate shifted on her chair, twisting in her new ivory gown. Immediately her eyes widened. The woman in the curtained way was absolutely beautiful. Ridiculously beautiful. So beautiful, she would leave every woman behind if there was to be an impromptu contest in loveliness.

  Imogen stretched out her hands. “To be certain, it has been ages!”

  The other woman sashayed into the box, her vast indigo skirts embroidered with gold and robin’s egg fringe. The lady’s silken black hair curled about her face and was pinned in several places with golden stars dripping with sapphires.

  She leaned over and kissed Imogen upon the cheek. “You simply must go to St. Petersburg,” she said, her voice a rich hum. Snapping her peacock fan open she whispered, “The men, my dear. The Russian men. They have a stamina English men would only dream of. All that cold weather, no doubt.”

  Imogen pulled the woman down onto the delicate French chair between herself and Kate. “Were you ravished by a regiment of Cossacks?”

  The woman fluttered her fan before her breasts. “Be still my beating heart. How I dearly miss their enthusiasm.” Then she turned on Kate and quite boldly asked, “Now who might this be?”

  Imogen tilted her head and smiled. “My friend, the lovely Mrs. Darrell. Now, Mrs. Darrell, you must meet the incomparable Mrs. Barton.”

  “The actress?” Kate blurted before she could stop herself.

  “Indeed,” Mrs. Barton drawled. “They’ve let you up from the country, I see.”

  Kate’s cheeks burned as she had been rather rude. But must so many people observe her lack of polish? “Actually, I’ve liberated myself from the country.”

  “How marvelous!” Mrs. Barton gestured with her fan to the mass of society watching each other. “These old buzzards love a bit of fresh air.”

  Laughing at the woman’s saucy candor, Kate noticed that dozens more opera glasses had been turned in their direction. Apparently, Mrs. Barton was a fascinating entity to the ton as well. “Well, I suppose I am about as fresh as the air comes.”

  “How brave of you to admit it,” Mrs. Barton lilted, her dark eyes dancing with growing warmth. “I too was once a country girl. Hated it. Who wants that dreary existence, I ask you?”

  Ka
te smiled, adoring the woman’s joviality. “Do you care for the opera?”

  “I loathe it. A bunch of silly ninnies prancing about in gilded costumes trying not to step in whatever the horses leave behind. And why must they insist on having live animals on stage? Don’t they realize that even a donkey is far more entertaining than those ridiculous chorus girls? The silly dancers have only one talent.” Mrs. Barton’s eyes sparkled with mischief. “Quite flexible. They are always bending over.”

  Kate covered her mouth to stifle her laughter. Good lord, the woman was scandalous. Perhaps with practice, she too could turn such phrases. Kate glanced down to the stage then back to Mrs. Barton. “I agree it is all rather odd, but you’re an actress, how can you decry the theater?”

  “The opera is not theater,” Mrs. Barton declared passionately. “It’s a circus wrapped up in a pretty package. You’ll never catch me dancing about with my limbs bare.” She paused, and a wicked smile tilted her lips. “Well, at least not on stage.”

  Imogen patted Mrs. Barton’s arm with her fan. “You will corrupt our young friend.”

  Mrs. Barton rolled her eyes. “What can we say that is not more shocking than this appallingly bad performance? Just look.”

  Kate glanced at the stage to witness a foppish young man mincing in a pair of violet tights. Perhaps Mrs. Barton had a point.

  “Ah, I see he’s arrived,” Mrs. Barton said, her voice slightly husky as she glanced through her opera glasses.

  “Who?” Kate asked.

  “The Duke of Darkwell, of course. Only one man could cause such a stir.”

  It was true. Three quarters of the audience had turned to gander at his box. The poor singers on stage couldn’t compete as the duke stood in his box gazing upon them all with the utmost arrogance. Kate’s breath caught in her throat the moment she spotted him. His black coat, waist coat and cravat made him appear sinister in the shadows, but she knew without question there was more to him than the façade he presented.

  Without taking her attention from him, she leaned towards Mrs. Barton. “Why are people so fascinated by him?”

  “Besides his appearance?” she commented slyly.

  Kate tensed. She didn’t actually like the idea of another woman finding the duke attractive. Though she had no idea when she’d begun to think of him as hers. Even if at present nothing could be further from the truth.

  Mrs. Barton glanced her over with a new degree of interest. “So, you fancy the duke, do you?”

  Kate remained silent, but snapped her gaze away from his box.

  “Darkwell is all desire touched with a haunting bitterness. Sad really, but undoubtedly compelling.”

  Swallowing back a hasty retort that Mrs. Barton was surely wrong, Kate clasped her hands in her lap. She knew at first hand the passion Darkwell was capable of, but he was bitter? “How so?”

  “Why, the devotion in him. I have never seen it in any other man. He will never forget. Because he will not, no one else will.”

  A sense of fascinating dread grabbed hold of her insides. In a few moments of conversation, she was receiving the distinct impression that having an affair with her duke was going to be anything but simple. “Forget what?”

  Mrs. Barton rolled her almond eyes. “Goodness, if you are going to survive in London you must know the gossip.”

  “The gossip is atrociously old.” Imogen poked at Mrs. Barton with her fan. “Perhaps you shouldn’t tell her.”

  With a touch of drama that the most practiced of actresses longed for, Mrs. Barton pressed her hand to her bosom and said wide eyed, “What, throw the girl to the lion without a whip? I would never be so cruel.”

  “I don’t understand,” Kate said quickly, ready to pepper the actress with questions. “Tell me what?”

  The wide-eyed innocent look faded from Mrs. Barton to be replaced by a calculating smile. “The gossips have died down, they do after five years, but every now and again it resurfaces.” She leaned back in her chair and drew in a slow breath as if she took no real joy from imparting this bit of news. “You see, he was careless with his wife and she died, poor soul.”

  Kate bit down so hard on her lip, she had to fight back a gasp. It wasn’t possible!

  “Hardly,” Imogen hissed, glancing from side-to-side. “And it was ages ago.”

  Mrs. Barton waved her comment away. “Well, perhaps, but he never should have let her take care of his tenants. Now, to his credit, he went into the deepest mourning, locking himself away entirely from society for a whole year. Can you believe that? The man is deliciously and dangerously mad.”

  Mad, indeed. Kate couldn’t believe it. She’d been alone in his presence, and though there had been a harshness to him, there’d been something more. When he made love to her body, she felt the tenderness in him. Such tenderness could not exist in a careless man. She knew carelessness all too well from her own husband. “What happened?”

  Imogen answered, waving her fan slowly, as if cooling a sudden heat in her cheeks. “Well, he was innocent of any real wrongdoing, but the poor dear died quite miserably of small pox.”

  A sad smile curved Mrs. Barton’s bright lips. “Caught it nursing his tenants, as I said.”

  Kate’s heart clenched in pain for him. How terrible it must have been. She firmly believed men were incapable of love, but now, given the duke’s behavior. . . “Did he care for her very much?”

  “Care? I don’t think that strong enough a word, my dear.” Mrs. Barton shrugged a slender shoulder. “Given his lack of non-existent relationships with women, one would have to assume he loved her.”

  “I see.” For some reason, Kate’s spirits dimmed.

  “I don’t like to speak ill of him, for he is close friends with the Duke of Hunt who is a very close friend of mine. But the entire ton is aware of his vicious mood swings. You must have heard how he is merry for weeks and then he disappears for days.” Mrs. Barton gently placed her jeweled hand on Kate’s. “Such a man should not be trusted.”

  “But—” She had read it in the gossip sheets.

  It was marked knowledge the man was unpredictable; one moment making merry, the next he would lash out in anger. The spontaneity of his fiery moods had led to more than one duel due to the cutting nature of his tongue. She had even met him in the midst of one such mood.

  Yet. . . “Surely you exaggerate?”

  Mrs. Barton laughed, her face lightening. “Poor girl, I don’t mean to set you off him. A woman can take her pleasure of him, and no doubt come out of it a much happier lady. But never trust anything but your body to him, and even then only for a brief tryst. I do think his heart belongs to another lady. One no woman can. . .” Mrs. Barton seemed to search for some delicate word, but at last she drew her hand back and confessed, “ever replace.”

  Kate bit her lower lip, shock pulsing through her body at this new information. Five years ago, she hadn’t been reading the gossip sheets and Imogen hadn’t mentioned a word about the duke being such a determined widower. Perhaps Mrs. Barton was just a gossipmonger, but she seemed quite sincere.

  Though, there was the fact dear, dear Reginald attempted to warn her about the duke. Imogen had stopped him. Which made no sense.

  Ever so slowly, Kate turned her gaze up to the duke’s box.

  The seat was empty. The man she’d seen with him the night before sat in one of the seats.

  “Whatever his past, he is fascinating.”

  “One could never contradict that.” Mrs. Barton snapped her fan shut.

  Kate stared at the empty seat. “If you’ll excuse me, I’m off to the powder room.”

  Mrs. Barton followed Kate’s gaze to the balcony then waggled her brows suggestively. “I do think I shall join you.”

  Imogen merely nodded at them then turned to pretend to watch the opera. Unsure of the woman’s machinations, Kate stood and took the folds of her ivory and teal under skirts in her hands so she could maneuver out into the hall.

  As they ducked through the curtai
ned doorway, Mrs. Barton sauntered beside her, their skirts brushing. In the much dimmer light of the hallway, there was a truly wicked look to the woman, as if a dozen sinful thoughts were dancing through her head.

  Gently, she linked her arm with Kate’s. Her smooth hand caressed her skin. Kate glanced at the actress, startled by the sudden intimacy. It felt surprisingly soothing.

  They walked in silence for a moment then Mrs. Barton traced her fan down the length of Kate’s arm. “So. You were married to Percy Darrell?”

  Immediately, Kate tensed and snuck a look at Mrs. Barton from the corner of her eye. “Yes.”

  “You poor woman!” She flicked her fan open, waving it back and forth till her curls fluttered. “He was an utter ass.”

  Kate nearly tripped at the woman’s bluntness. But lord, she was right. She was the first person to cry out exactly the kind of man Percy had been, and Kate was nearly dumbstruck by it.

  Mrs. Barton leaned towards Kate, her dark eyes wide with concern. The air filled with her exotic perfume. “Do forgive me. Have I committed a faux pas? You didn’t love the bounder?”

  Kate finally was able to clear her throat, and she laughed. “God, no.”

  She stopped at the finality of her own words. It was so shaming the way she’d been utterly tricked, not only by Percy but her own emotions. She’d been swept away by a supposed feelings of love which in the end proved to be nothing more than her own imaginations. Her father called her a fool and what was worse, he’d been right. And he had never spoken to her again because of it.

  “I did, for a few short months before we wed.” Kate swallowed and forced a smile. “But then I learned the true ways of a man.”

  “Complete bastard. I don’t know how he could have neglected such a treasure as yourself. But one will never truly understand the workings of the male mindset. One moment you are a goddess to them,” she rolled her eyes and slipped her arm around Kate’s waist, “the next no better than a kitchen maid.”

  Mrs. Barton glanced right to left, her face alight with a conspiratorial glow. “From the look in your eye just a few moments ago,” she whispered. “You have quite a sharp lust for the duke.”