’Twas injustice of theworstsort.
“Promise me, Miss Kent.” Lady Osgood fell to her knees.
Shocked, Emma tried to pull the other up. “Please don’t—”
“I shan’t move until you give me your word.” More tears slid over the lady’s sculpted cheekbones, her lips trembling. “If you don’t, I shall be forced to do something drastic. I’d rather end it all than—”
“I won’t tell anyone,” Emma said desperately. “Pleaseget up.”
“Truly?” Lady Osgood whispered. “You swear it—on everything you hold dear?”
With lingering reluctance, Emma gave a nod.
Lady Osgood rose, her gaze flitting to Strathaven. Emma couldn’t decipher the duke’s expression. What hold did he have over the lady? Would he threaten or hurt her in the future?
“Stay away from her,” Emma warned, “or Iwillsee justice done.”
Lightning flashed in the duke’s gaze, his expression that of a wrathful god ready to wage war. The air seemed to crackle with his aggression. Swiftly, Emma took Lady Osgood by the arm and dragged her back toward the house. As they traversed the twisting maze, Emma’s heart thudded, sweat dampening her unmentionables even as she kept a quick, determined pace.
With an adversary like Strathaven, it was best to keep going and never look back.
Chapter Two
“You’re not angry with me, are you, darling?” a husky feminine voice asked.
Alaric James Alexander McLeod, the eighth Duke of Strathaven, cast a cool glance over at Lady Clara Osgood. They were alone in his private cottage in St. John’s Wood, and she was naked, waiting on her hands and knees on the black satin sheets. For their mutual pleasure, he’d kept her in that pose while he disrobed. He was taking his time about it, noting how she shivered at the sound of his garments being removed, her bottom angling subtly and suggestively higher in the air.
Clara enjoyed assuming an obedient role in their bed sport. As he was an unquestionably dominant lover, this had made for a good fit... for a while, at least. He was aware of his restlessness, theennuithat remained untouched by the games he and Clara played. Less than a month into theiraffaire, he was already tiring of her company.
“Why would I be angry?” he inquired.
“Because of what happened in Lady Buckley’s garden.” Looking over her bare shoulder, Clara aimed a pout at him. “How could I have predicted that our game would be interrupted by a countrified chit? And I could hardly admit itwasa game—I do have my reputation to protect.”
“Appearances are everything,” he said in sardonic tones.
He didn’t fault Clara for not spelling out the truth of the situation to the intrepid interloper. His first marriage had taught him not to expect integrity from the fair sex. Although Laura had been dead for over two years, her shining blond hair and beautiful, spiteful face blazed in his mind’s eye before he snuffed the image out. The past was done with, and he would never repeat those mistakes again.
It had been foolish of him to be lured out into the garden by Clara and her little “surprise.” He’d let boredom get the better of him. Jaded curiosity had prompted him to see just how far she’d go to incite his lust. In truth, he hadn’t been all that impressed or aroused by her antics. Ropes and blindfolds—symbols only, with no inherent appeal. Not when the heart of challenge was missing.
For Clara had no real spirit to submit… unlike Emma Kent.
From the moment she’d tumbled into him, the obstinate miss had captured his attention. It wasn’t just her looks, which were fresh and wholesomely pretty rather than beautiful in any classical sense. Her dark sable tresses complemented her cameo skin and clean features. Her eyes were a sparkling, clear brown and had a slight feline tilt at the corners. Petite and curvy, she’d felt soft as a kitten, too.
The memory sizzled through his blood. Aye, she was a toothsome lass, but more than that it had been the way she’d melted, for an instant, in his arms. That moment of exquisite, instinctive surrender—which he’d wager his stables on that she hadn’t even recognized as such—had betrayed unplumbed depths of feminine passion.
He’d turned hard immediately.
Yet he wasn’t a fool. He’d learned long ago to stay away from virgins.
A good thing, too. As fate would have it, he knew of Miss Kent’s brother and his private enquiry firm. From all accounts, Ambrose Kent was an honorable fellow and a true crusader for justice. It seemed the apple didn’t fall far from the family tree. Miss Kent practically gleamed with virtue, her “rescue” of Clara both valiant and reckless.
AssaultingClara, indeed.
For an instant, he considered what might happen if Miss Kent followed through with her threat to report him to the magistrates. He dismissed the notion. No miss would go so far as to involve herself in a scandal. In his experience, women had a habit of saying one thing and doing another. She wouldn’t dare take him on—he was a duke.
You’re nothing. A deficient weakling. How I regret taking you in.
With indifference borne of habit, Alaric brushed aside the old duke’s scorn. Instead, he imagined the magistrates’ reaction if Miss Kent did go to them with her half-baked accusations, and his lips curled with derision. They would laugh their heads off to hear a sexual game being reported as a crime. The chit’s innocence was absurd... and perversely intriguing. As he removed his trousers, his erection bobbed in agreement. His smile grew self-mocking.
