Page 45 of Seven Nights with the Wicked Duke (Regency Beasts #3)

She didn’t stop until she reached the small drawing room, the one she’d used throughout the night as her secret haven. One last glance over her shoulder to confirm no one had followed her, and she slipped inside.

Only then did she allow herself a breath. Her fingers trembled. Whether from the aftershock of his presence or the threat of discovery, she couldn’t tell. Likely both.

Focus.

She needed her sketches. She needed to get out.

Now. The sketchbook was right where she’d left it, tucked behind the heavy velvet curtains.

She snatched it up, flipping through the pages with frantic fingers.

Hasty renderings of scandalous games, masked glances, secret exchanges.

It wasn’t much, but it would have to do.

I can do this. Just slip out like I came in. Quiet. Unseen. If I can just ? —

Click.

She froze. The soft sound of a lock sliding into place had never seemed so loud.

No, no, no.

“Such ruffled feathers,” came the voice. “It’s a good thing peacocks can’t fly.”

Her blood turned to ice. That voice. She would recognize it anywhere.

She turned slowly, instinctively hiding the sketchbook behind her back. He stepped out of the shadows, and in the dim candlelight, he looked even more imposing. Massive. Lethal. His green eyes were trained on her, glinting with a mixture of mirth and something far more dangerous.

“Who are you?”

Abigail was looking around, as if jumping out the window was a viable option. Because her exit plan was currently blocked by a behemoth of a man who demanded to know who she was.

“I… I thought these… these….”

“Dinner parties,” he offered with a chuckle.

“Yes, these dinner parties offered anonymity.”

“They do.” His smile sharpened. “For those invited.”

“I was invited.”

“I am quite certain you were not.”

Deflect, deny, and run .

“And who are you to make such inquiries?” Abigail demanded, as if semantics and hierarchy played an important role in the situation.

The man pinned her with a dark look and took one step forward. His arm rose to the ribbon holding his mask in place. Another step, and Abigail instinctively stepped back, away from him. One tug, and the ribbon came undone. One more step, and Abigail hit the back of the plush sofa in the room.

With one fluid motion, the man removed his mask and revealed his face.

Abigail felt the true meaning of fear right there and then. Because the man standing before her with the high cheekbones and the cutting jawline was none other than the host. The Duke of Blackwell.

“Tell me, little peacock,” he drawled, “do I have the right to ask who has trespassed on my house?”

It took Abigail a few seconds of staring at him like an imbecile before she could regain proper functions. Luckily for her, her common sense and dignity were the first to recover.

She was caught; that was the harsh reality. Her only option now was to explain the situation.

“Your Grace.” Her voice was suddenly steady, her soul feeling more comfortable saying the truth. “I am Abigail Harston, the eldest daughter of the Baron Wright.”

The Duke stopped in his tracks, his beautiful face shadowed by confusion, and then a flicker of recognition dawned in his eyes.

“Miss Harston.” He sounded less secure than her. “The vicar’s daughter.”

Abigail was shocked to hear none of the pity others usually uttered her name with after her father had inherited the barony. The Duke was merely stating a fact.

Before she had time to react, he broke into a genuine, gargling laugh. Seeing him laugh, she wastempted to take out her sketchbook and draw him.

“What is a good girl like you doing here?”

“I…”

The Duke’s laughter faded, but the amusement lingered at the corners of his mouth as he took another deliberate step forward.

The space between them shrank until Abigail could see the golden flecks in his storm-green eyes, could count the dark lashes framing them.

“I asked you a question, little peacock.”

Abigail shook her head and took off her mask.

For a brief moment, his lips, which were pressed tightly in amusement and perhaps suppressed anger, parted. He then straightened his back to loom over her.

“Do not tell me,” he said as he got impossibly close, his hot breath fanning her face, “that you crave the dark side.”

Her throat went dry, and her toes curled in her slippers, her whole body seized by a sensation that was not fear, not entirely.

There was one thing for sure. Abigail could not lie to save her life, and though this seemed like a life-threatening situation indeed, she just couldn’t find a good excuse.

So she did the only thing she did most of her life.

“I was commissioned by someone to draw what is happening in this place,” she blurted.

If there was any doubt that the Duke of Blackwell was an apex predator, the look he gave her at her admission spoke volumes. If he were to grow fangs and claws, Abigail would see that as a natural progression.

“Who?” he growled threateningly.

“Your Grace.” Abigail was surprised she could hold his gaze. “I will take responsibility for my actions, but I will not pull anyone’s name through the mud.”

“Whoever asked you to do this,” his voice was icy cold, “seems to be already drowned in mud themselves.”

“Still…” Abigail was adamant in her principles. “It was I who accepted the commission.”

The Duke searched her face but didn’t press her further.

Abigail might have been inexperienced, but she was not na?ve. He was strategically retreating.

His body leaned toward hers, so close that his unbuttoned coat touched the pleats of her dress. She was stunned, her fingers curled into fists, realizing the precarious situation she was in—locked in a room with a man like him.

She was so stupefied that when the Duke reached out and snatched the sketchbook from her hands, she had no time to react. The next thing she knew was him flipping through the pages.

Abigail held her breath. Her heart pounded in her chest, and not from fear anymore, but from the raw exposure of it. It stopped altogether when he stopped at a sketch of a couple in a shadowed alcove. The Duke studied it and then looked at her.

“You captured not the act,” he said surprisingly softly, “but the anticipation. The moment before.”

Abigail gasped.

“Remarkable.” He closed the sketchbook gently and then lifted his eyes to hers.

The Duke’s gaze was no longer amused, no longer calculating. It was heated, a green wildfire that swept over her, leaving scorched earth in its wake. But Abigail didn’t back down, didn’t hide.

“You are talented, Miss Harston.” He was so close that she was sure he could count the freckles on her nose. “I have a proposition for you.”

“Pr-Proposition?”

“That little stutter…” He chuckled.

He drew impossibly close, trapping her between his body and the back of the sofa.

“I will give you triple your current pay. Which means you can ask whatever you want.”

“To do what?”

“The same thing, little peacock. Draw for me my dinner parties.”

“No.” The answer came instinctively.

“Come on,” he purred, searching her face. “I can give you triple the money, along with anything else you want.”

He leaned to her, slow and deliberate. The predator scenting victory.

Abigail barely had time to react before his breath brushed the skin behind her ear.

“Say yes,” he murmured, low and intimate, “and you can have your precious, little sketchbook back.”

And then his lips touched her. A soft, searing press to the shell of her ear. Just heat and command, and the unbearable weight of a man who knew exactly what he was doing.

Abigail’s knees threatened to give out, and her hands flew to the back of the sofa to steady her trembling body.

Then, it was gone. The Duke stepped away, adjusting his golden cufflinks with a satisfied smile on his face. He turned around and walked to the door before unlocking it. He looked over his shoulder, a smirk playing on his lips, his scar deepening, making him look even more dangerous.

“Think about my offer, little peacock. You know where to find me. And this.” He waved the sketchbook at her.

The Duke left. Just walked out the door. As if he hadn’t spent the last minutes turning her world upside down multiple times.

Abigail was still struggling to gather her thoughts, still her shaking body. And quell her rising rage.

She knew her anger was not completely validated. She was there to spy on him, paid by someone, and deep down, she knew that the purpose was not innocent.

But to work for a man like the Duke of Blackwell! Such a debauched rake whose indulgence and depravity conceived this party and its sinful activities?

One thing was certain: never in a thousand years would she work for a man like the Duke of Blackwell. Never. Ever.