Page 9 of Secrets of a Duke’s Heart (Wayward Dukes’ Alliance #25)

CHAPTER NINE

D amn and blast. How had he gotten that so wrong?

One minute he’d been savoring Clarissa’s piquant flavor, then next, she was reading him for filth and storming off. His cock twitched in agonized yearning.

“Down, boy,” he said glumly. If she weren’t his friend’s female relation and this wasn’t his friend’s own house, he would chase after her. Try to set things right.

Why had she fled? He’d perhaps taken things too far, in retrospect. As clever as she was, Miss Penfirth was a sheltered, unmarried lady.

Although she hadn’t seemed particularly innocent, now that he was replaying events in his mind. Clarissa displayed no coy shyness, only forthright enjoyment of their shared activities, and a hint of hesitation that he didn’t notice until his head cleared sufficiently for reason to reassert itself.

Jude didn’t mind if she wasn’t entirely virginal. He was hardly untouched himself. The standard women were held to was hypocritical at best. But the prospect of Clarissa being experienced with bedsport invited all kinds of questions—mainly, was this the reason she had been so angry when he compromised her? Did that bounder she’d talked about while they were trapped in the sea cave take advantage of her before throwing her over?

Her cold reaction to his admittedly grouchy proposal made much more sense if that were the case.

He snorted. And she accused him of having secrets. At least he had good reasons. Keeping his title undisclosed was essential to protecting Harriet’s reputation. Three months from now, she would be happily married on an estate in Ireland and the rumors of a kidnapped lady in Cavalier Cove would be nothing but local lore—if he kept his mouth shut and so did Prescott. No one else knew he was a duke. He’d made certain of that. He couldn’t tell Clarissa, even if he wanted to.

Which he didn’t. He was rather enjoying the novel experience of meeting a woman who liked him for himself, flaws and all.

Soon, this miserable journey would be over. He felt certain that a narrower search area would result in locating his niece. The smuggler’s days were numbered. He would hang for his crime. Jude would tie the noose himself if he had to.

Once he had the situation in hand, he could confess everything to Clarissa. Until then, the only matter he’d be taking in hand was his own cock.

He flopped into his bed, blew out the candle, and extracted his still-erect cock from his silk pajamas. His own callused hand was a poor substitute for the soft round globe of Miss Penfirth’s breasts or the way her generous bottom filled his hands. He’d been so close to hooking his arms beneath her knees, bracing her against the bookshelves, and sliding deep inside her.

He pumped up and down, remembering the texture of her skin, licking his lips for the faintest remnant of her tang. His body tightened, from his straining neck to his tense back and his calves as taut as wires, until hot liquid pooled on his belly in a rush of release.

Jude sank into the pillows with his free arm behind his head. He wanted all of her. Clarissa’s breath, her pants and sighs and little ohs when he discovered a place on her body that connected deep inside her soul. He wanted to burrow there and make a home.

You’ve gone daft. He stared into blackness. The moon’s wan light filtered through the shuttered window, past the heavy curtain, barely enough for him to discern the shape of the bedpost near his foot.

He could tie her to that bedpost. Smack her bottom. Find out just how willing she was to take everything he had to give. She was an earthy, sensual woman underneath that bright veneer of reserve.

But first, he had to get Clarissa to trust him, and that was proving to be more difficult than he had ever thought possible. Imagine—a spinster refusing a duke.

Unfathomable.

She wouldn’t turn him down a second time if she knew. Yet that begged a different question: would she still want him, Jude, when she knew he was the Duke of Montague?

He didn’t know, but he discovered that the answer mattered to him very much indeed.

* * *

The next morning Jude was jerked out of a deep slumber by frantic pounding on his door. Every muscle screamed as he rolled out of bed and limped to answer it.

“Sir, a messenger just arrived with word from the Riders. Around dawn, they inquired at the Tideswept Inn and were informed that a couple had been staying there for days. The wife was supposedly ill, but when they tried to force their way upstairs, the couple ran off.”

“Harriet.” He snapped to attention.

“Based upon the description provided, they believe so, yes.”

Within minutes, he was dressed. Despite the agony of climbing onto a horse, he was not going to let Harriet’s kidnapper get away. This time, he would find her—and that wretched smuggler would face the hangman’s noose.

Guilt burrowed into his bones. He had to contact Lucarran. Soon. Ideally, once Harriet was safe. But what could he possibly say to make the earl go through with the wedding? How could he explain that it wasn’t Harriet’s fault?

He dug his heels into the horse’s flanks and decided he would worry about that later.