Page 72 of The Wayward Duke
When she found her voice, the confession fell raw and honest between them. “I already have your heart, don’t I?” she whispered. “I’m craving something else entirely.” Her nails raked through his dark hair, wringing a rough noise from Julian’s throat that vibrated against her chest.
“As soon as you’ve healed, I’m going to strip every stitch of clothing from your body.” His voice was gravel and smoke. “Tie your wrists and take you hard until you’ve spent yourself from pleasure. But don’t start something we can’t finish yet.”
Sighing, she said, “Is that your way of reminding me to focus on Bartholomew Pritchard?”
“Only for now.” He kissed her cheek. “He must have money to play those tables. Men only go to bet deep.”
Caroline idly traced her fingertips along his nape as she theorised aloud. “Perhaps he’s a swindler himself. An old mentor teaching his protégé the tricks of the trade, in exchange for a share of aristocratic spoils. It would be easy to overlook a few murders if he’s profiting handsomely. We’ll visit the Brimstone tomorrow night.”
“I won’t be able to go under an alias,” he pointed out. “All the aristocrats will know me.”
“Nicholas Thorne and Alexandra Grey are patrons of a few of my charities,” she said, referring to the club’s owner and his wife. “I’m familiar with their staff. I’ll disguise myself as a serving maid. Try to find out where Mr Pritchard lives. He might be harbouring Kellerman.”
“I don’t like putting you in danger.” Julian traced her lower lip with the edge of his thumb.
“I could say the same about you,” she replied.
30
The servant’s cap did little to tame the riotous wig of ink-dark curls spilling over Caroline’s shoulders. She adjusted it with gloved fingers, tucking a few stray locks beneath the brim. Her cloak concealed her daring obsidian gown and the item hidden within its voluminous folds – a demi-mask crafted of black silk and lace to shield her identity.
These were her weapons tonight, not satin and diamonds.
A knock preceded Julian’s entrance, and Caroline met those frost-coloured eyes in the mirror as he filled the doorway. Broad shoulders stretched the fine fabric of his evening kit.
“Where did you get that cap?” His gaze moved over her, no doubt cataloguing each detail.
Caroline turned to face him, offering a coy smile. “It’s on loan from one of the maids.”
In two swift strides, he had her backed against the armoire, palms planted on either side of her head. He towered over her, all imposing height and lean muscle. The scent of spice and smoke enveloped her. Caroline inhaled sharply as his hard body pressed to hers.
“Tell me,” Julian said, his voice dropping to a silken caress that set her nerves alight. “What do you have on under the cloak?”
Caroline smiled up at him, doing her best to affect innocence. “Betsy’s uniform, of course.”
His hands slid lower, palms skating over her hips through the concealing cloak. His touch was pure temptation.
“Would you care to play at servant and employer sometime? I suddenly find myself longing to discipline you.”
Oh, she just bet he did. Imagination supplied several vivid ways he might choose to chastise her later.
“I think that could be arranged,” she said. “Would ‘Your Grace’, ‘my lord’, or ‘sir’ please you more?”
“Mmm. I’ve never been a ‘sir’. It holds an undeniable appeal.” As punishment, he nipped at her jaw, just sharp enough to sting. Caroline gasped as the brief flash of pain melted into molten pleasure. “We could stay in tonight,” he suggested, voice rough with want. “Play out that naughty fantasy right here.”
Oh, she burned to take him up on that tantalising offer, to stoke the smouldering desire that arced hot between them.
But duty called tonight.
Caroline reached up and patted his cheek. “As delightful as that sounds, we have an assassin to catch.”
Julian released her with a soft huff of frustration. He offered his arm, and they descended the grand staircase to the carriage waiting below.
Inside the darkened interior, Caroline smoothed her clothes as she fought to slow her racing heart. She only hoped her disguise would prove distraction enough for Bartholomew Pritchard.
When the carriage slowed to a halt, her husband turned to her. Tension radiated from him in palpable waves. “You’ll stay with the staff tonight,” he instructed. “Don’t speak to the patrons or do anything reckless to put yourself in harm’s way. The moment you discover anything about Pritchard, you return to the carriage to wait for me. No unnecessary risks, do you understand?”
She gave him a teasing smile, hoping to ease his concern. “Only the necessary ones.”
