Page 1 of The Big Bad Duke (The Shadows #9)

G ideon Grey, the Duke of Wolverstone, cracked open his heavy eyelids and squinted.

Nothing but darkness.

Were his eyes truly open?

He jerked his arms, trying to scrub his face, but something heavy held them down. He yanked again, harder this time—managing to raise his hands only to his chin—when a telltale metallic clink confirmed his worst fear: he was shackled.

He could just make out the outline of his hands in the dark, tightly encased in thick iron.

His pulse quickened, beating sharply against his neck and reverberating through his sluggish body.

He tried to bolt upright, to rip the restraints free from their anchors, but the chains restrained his movement, sending him crashing back and cracking his skull against the stone wall behind him.

Ah!

God’s teeth! That hurt, sending shockwaves through his entire body and leaving his ears ringing.

No, getting up was out of the question. He could barely move away from the wall, let alone the floor.

He was restrained. Shackled.

Gideon sagged back, his spine pressed against the cold stone wall. He spread his fingers in front of his face and studied them—palms and knuckles—dirt-streaked, bruised, trembling.

His joints ached. His muscles screamed. His entire body pulsed with the deep, dull throb of a thorough beating.

What in hell and damnation had happened?

Where was he?

And how in God’s name had he come to be here?

* * *

Twenty-nine days earlier…

The Duke of Wolverstone exited the dark, silent bedchamber and closed the door behind him with a quiet click.

He paused and looked around, listening for any sound, watching for any sign that he had been seen.

Nothing but the distant strains of a cotillion and the soft murmur of conversation drifted up from below.

Satisfied that his movements had gone undetected, he crossed the corridor, the thick Persian carpet muffling his steps, and stopped outside the mistress of the house’s bedchamber.

Laughter floated up the staircase, the merriment of the people in the ballroom loud and at odds with the dark stillness and hush of the upper floors.

He opened the door and slipped inside. The bedchamber was dim, lit only by a single candle. A woman’s silhouette stood at the window and turned as he entered.

“Wolverstone.” Vivienne, Lady Hardgrove, rushed toward him, her silk gown rustling in the darkness. “I was beginning to think you wouldn’t come.”

Before he could respond, her hand settled boldly between his legs, cupping him through his breeches. The touch sent blood rushing to his groin… and it seemed only to his groin.

There wasn’t even a whisper of gooseflesh across his skin, no burn to his lips, no butterflies in his stomach. His heart beat slowly and steadily; his mind was cold and distant.

He remained frozen. Unmoved.

His cock moved, though. It swelled, shifting uncomfortably against the confines of his breeches—and that was enough for Vivienne. She smiled, her hands tracing a path upward, nimble fingers working at the buttons of his waistcoat.

“I knew you wanted this too,” she whispered, her voice breathless with desire.

He did want this. Or at least, his body did. He hadn’t felt the warmth of a woman in a long time. He needed to release the tension coiled inside him.

Though that wasn’t the only reason he was there.

His hands cupped her breasts through her bodice, then trailed down to the curve of her waist.

His cock jumped, his muscles tensing with anticipation. But his mind remained cold.

Vivienne slid her palms up his chest and over his shoulders. Then, rising on her toes, she reached up to claim his mouth.

Gideon stepped back, catching her wrists and holding her at arm’s length.

“No kisses,” he said quietly.

Something flickered in her eyes—surprise, perhaps disappointment—but she nodded.

He gave a faint smile. A smirk. Then he whirled her around and bent her over the writing desk. Her skirts rustled as he bunched them up around her waist.

She whimpered.

His fingers found the heat between her thighs, working her until she was slick and ready, her soft moans filling the quiet room. She arched against his touch, pressing back against him.

“Please,” she whispered. “I need you.”

Still working at her center, Gideon freed himself from his breeches with the other hand and pressed his cock to her core.

Vivienne let out a moan, and Gideon entered her in one quick thrust, driving into her to the hilt. She cried out, her hands clutching the edge of the desk, her body moving with his, meeting each of his rough strokes with eager motion.

“Yes, harder!” she cried.

He gripped her hips tightly, his movements rough and rhythmic, his thoughts boiling down to the single-minded need to spill—to be emptied.

To forget.

Your touch is so soft, so tender. I love your gentle soul.

The phantom voice—the memory—echoed in his mind, and he shook it away.

He clenched his jaw. There was no room for these thoughts right now. No room for her . No room for ghosts.

He thrust harder, driving the memory away. His grip tightened on Vivienne’s hips. He squeezed her bottom, forcing his mind to remain here, now, in this body, with this woman.

Unsuccessful, he paused.

Vivienne whimpered in protest.

“Get up,” he ordered.

She obeyed, standing and turning to face him. Her cheeks were flushed, her coiffure undone, hair spilling over her shoulders. Her skirts slipped down, covering her thighs and legs again. She eyed him with a questioning gaze, her eyes slipping lower until they paused on his cock.

He fisted it.

She licked her lips.

Gideon tipped his head. “On your knees.”

With a wicked grin, she sank to the carpet. She raised her eyes to his, and Gideon lifted a brow. Taking his cock in her hand, she wrapped her lips around it and sucked.

Gideon closed his eyes, waiting for the wave of pleasure to surge through his body.

It didn’t.

His cock responded, his body moved—but it was all mechanical. The pleasure didn’t crest, just stirred beneath the surface in his groin, refusing to rise above his belt.

Yes , he thought, the belt is the problem. He smirked at the absurdity.

Vivienne moaned, her lips working over his cock, the smacking sounds filling the room. Gideon placed his palm on her head, guiding her, his hips pumping in a steady rhythm.

He glanced at the mantelpiece. He’d spent enough time here with Vivienne for her to brag about their encounter, as he knew she would. If any busybody noted his absence from the ballroom, they’d soon learn it had been spent in the arms—or rather, in the mouth—of Vivienne.

She was infamous for her trysts, even before her husband’s death.

That was why he chose her.

With a grunt, he spilled into her mouth—then pulled back to let the last of it drip onto her chin and bodice.

She’d need to change. That would spark questions. Force her to explain.

She’d talk. She always did.

He stepped back and watched her lick her lips before swallowing loudly.

“Since you’ve sullied my gown and ensured I’ll have to change,” she said, “will you do me the honor of undressing me and joining me in my bed?”

Gideon suppressed a grimace.

The idea of lingering in her presence made his skin crawl. He felt no warmth in her body, no comfort in her touch, and no pleasure in her arms.

Just reflex. An imitation of desire.

And something about taking a woman in her dead husband’s bed—especially considering how the man had died and by whose hand—felt foul.

If he were more depraved, he might have taken satisfaction in the act.

But Gideon rarely felt satisfaction. And certainly not like this.

He took a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped his cock clean of both their residues.

“No.” He buttoned the falls of his breeches and walked toward the side door. “Is this your dressing room?”

“Yes,” Vivienne replied irritably, a handkerchief pressed to her lips, still kneeling. “You won’t even offer me a hand?”

Gideon didn’t answer; he simply walked into the dressing room, leaving the door open to let in a sliver of light.

“How rude,” came her voice from the other room.

Gideon hunched over a basin in the dressing room, his breathing loud.

“I love your gentle soul,” the soft whisper of a memory echoed in his mind.

It had been fifteen years. The gentle man he’d once been was gone.

And so was she.

He poured water into the basin and scrubbed his hands clean.

A dark stain on his shirt cuff caught his eye. Just a speck, but noticeable enough. He scrubbed at it, but the stain had already set.

Cursing under his breath, he tugged his jacket sleeve down to hide it, then dusted off his coat, ran a hand through his hair, and gathered it into a queue.

He was ready. He looked the part now. Slightly disheveled, but not too undone.

Just like a rake after a midnight tryst.

He left the dressing room and crossed to the door.

“You’re leaving?” Vivienne asked, surprise in her voice. What did she expect?

He shrugged, not meeting her gaze. “I did everything I needed to.”

There was no answer, and Gideon didn’t wait for one. He stepped out into the corridor and closed the door behind him.

He’d done what he came to this ball to do.

Now he just needed to linger a little longer, chat with a few more guests, and ensure he’d been seen. He made his way back to the ballroom.

Soon, he could return home. Relax.

Sit in his chair… in the dark.

Alone.

He weaved through the crowd, pausing here and there to exchange pleasantries with one couple after another, ensuring he was seen by as many people as possible.

That should be enough exposure, surely. People would remember he’d been in the ballroom, and anyone who had noted his earlier absence would soon hear about his tryst with Lady Hardgrove.

Gideon positioned himself near the refreshments table, accepting a glass of wine he had no intention of drinking. His gaze drifted across the ballroom, mentally counting down the seconds.