Page 3 of Wedded to the Duke of Seduction (Dukes of Passion #3)

CHAPTER 3

“ A hack!” The man’s whistle cut through the night air, and as if by magic, a hackney carriage appeared in front of them.

Before Marina could protest, he had bundled her inside with disturbing efficiency.

The scent of sandalwood and brandy surrounded her before she looked up to meet piercing hazel eyes.

The Duke of Blackmere.

Of course, it could only be him.

“Your Grace,” she gulped, proud that her voice remained steady despite her racing heart, “what do you think you’re doing?”

The dim light from the passing streetlamps illuminated the amused quirk of his mouth as he settled onto the seat opposite her. Marina pressed herself against the carriage wall, trying to put as much distance between them as possible in the tight space. The interior seemed to shrink, filled with his large presence.

“Now, My Lady, there’s no need to worry.” His voice dropped to a purr that sent shivers down her spine. “I assure you I mean no harm.” He leaned forward which forced her to tilt her chin up to maintain eye contact. “I merely wish to discuss your rather scandalous little stories.”

Marina’s heart thundered so loudly she was sure he could hear it.

The Duke of Blackmere was even more imposing up close than the ton’s whispers suggested. Broad-shouldered and powerfully built with eyes that seemed to see straight through her. She had written about men like him—men who commanded rooms simply with presence—but experiencing that power firsthand was altogether different.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she said, striving for a braveness she didn’t feel. “And I don’t appreciate being accosted in the middle of the night.”

His low chuckle sent heat curling through her belly. “Accosted? That’s rather dramatic. If I wanted to truly accost you, My Lady, you would know it.”

The suggestion in his words hung in the air between them, charged with possibilities that Marina had only dared explore on paper.

Marina’s hand flew to the carriage door. She was a widow who had fallen into disfavor with the ton, but she refused to be intimidated.

Just as her fingers closed around the handle, the Duke’s hand caught her wrist.

Heat surged through her at the contact. It was a jolt of awareness that had little to do with fear and everything to do with the sudden understanding of what her stories’ heroines experienced when the Duke touched them. His grip was gentle but immovable.

From his sharp intake of breath, she knew he’d felt it, too—that dangerous spark between them.

“Let go of me,” Marina demanded, but her voice came out more frantic than she intended.

The Duke made no move to release her. Instead, his thumb traced the delicate bones of her wrist, finding the pulse beneath her skin. “You have an unusual hobby for a lady of the ton,” he murmured, his eyes never leaving hers. “Sneaking about in the dark, writing stories that make dowagers blush and young ladies swoon.”

“You don’t know anything about me,” Marina replied, trying to ignore how her body responded to his touch.

Her wrist burned where his fingers held her.

His Grace clicked his tongue and gave a little shake of his head. “I expected an accomplished writer like yourself to be cleverer than that.” The amusement in his voice deepened.

“Surely,” he continued, his thumb still making small, maddening circles against her skin, “you realize jumping from a moving carriage would be an unfortunate end to your publishing career.” His eyes dropped briefly to her lips before returning to meet her gaze. “You’re in no danger from me. I simply wish to discuss your writing.” The corner of his mouth lifted. “Nothing else.”

The way he said ‘nothing else’ made it sound like a promise, or perhaps a threat, of everything else.

Marina forced her breathing to steady. “I don’t know what you mean, Your Grace. I was simply delivering some correspondence?—”

“Oh, don’t be coy with me, darling.” He released her wrist, but then he slid across the carriage to sit next to her, his large frame filling her side of the carriage as he leaned closer. “I saw you handing a manuscript to the clerk at the printer.”

His nearness was overwhelming—the heat of his body, the scent of him, the way his knee brushed against the fabric of her skirts. Marina fought to keep her breathing steady, to ignore the treacherous way her body responded to him.

“Even if that were true,” she countered, finding her voice at last, “which it is not, what business is it of yours what I choose to write?”

“What business?” His laugh held no humor. “When half of London is reading intimate details of my private life over their morning tea? When ladies I’ve never met are eyeing me in ballrooms, as if they know precisely what lies beneath my evening clothes?”

He leaned closer still, until she could feel his breath against her cheek. “When every rake and rogue in the ton is asking if all those… creative scenarios… are accurate representations of my preferences?”

Marina’s jaw clenched. Of course, he had realized the stories featured him. She’d been careless with certain details—the scar on his shoulder from a duel in Italy, the particular shade of his hair in firelight, the way his voice dropped when he?—

She cut off that dangerous line of thought.

“Your name, if you please.” His tone was mild, but she recognized the steel beneath it.

“I think not.” She lifted her chin. “I have no wish to continue this conversation. Tell the driver to stop.”

“I am merely seeing you safely home.” His smile held a predatory edge. “A lady shouldn’t walk in the streets of London alone at night.”

She hesitated, weighing her options. He was right. The streets weren’t safe at night, and she was far from home.

“Mount Street,” she said finally, hating the necessity of it.

He rapped on the carriage roof and called out the direction to the driver. Only then did she release the door handle, sitting straighter as she gathered her dignity around her like armor. An armor she feared would not save her from the Duke.

A shiver of fear danced down her spine.

“Now, about your stories…” The Duke’s mouth curved into a wolfish smile. “They are obviously inspired by my life, and the ton knows it.” His gaze swept over her in a way that made heat prickle across her skin. “You are quite the cheeky little author. I wonder who has been telling tales to you.”

“You flatter yourself, Your Grace,” Marina said primly. “Dark-haired nobles with questionable reputations are hardly rare in London. Anyone could fit such a description.”

Something dangerous flickered in his eyes. The amusement vanished, replaced by an intensity that stole her breath.

“I am not here to waste time with games, darling.” His voice demanded an obedience that sent an unwanted shiver down her spine. “The silk ribbon scene in Lady Thornley’s conservatory? The encounter in Venice with the ambassador’s wife? The particular… technique… your hero employs when pleasuring a woman with just his mouth?”

Heat bloomed across Marina’s cheeks. She had never directly heard such intimate details. They had come secondhand through Mr. Lupton’s terse notes and crude suggestions. Each scandalous encounter had been passed through layers of whispers before reaching her—indiscreet ladies confiding in their friends, servants overhearing and reporting to Lupton’s informants, and then finally distilled into the cryptic references he provided.

But the way the Duke described these encounters now made her wonder suddenly if her imagination had been too tame rather than too bold and if the reality of his liaisons had been even more passionate than her pages suggested.

“You will cease writing about me. Immediately.” It wasn’t a request.

Marina met his gaze, summoning all her courage. “I cannot.”

“Cannot?” He arched a brow. “Or will not?”

“Does it matter? The outcome is still the same.”

“You seem very certain of that.” He shifted closer to her until barely a handspan separated them. The carriage seemed to grow smaller still, filled with tension thick enough to touch. “Tell me. Are you not concerned about the consequences of refusing a duke?”

Marina lifted her chin. “The consequences for you, don’t you mean? A man of your station need only wait for the next scandal to arise. The ton’s memory is remarkably short where gentlemen are concerned.” She allowed herself a bitter smile. “Or haven’t you noticed how quickly they forget their own indiscretions?”

“Brave words for a woman who scurries through the dark to deliver her stories.” He braced one arm against the carriage wall, caging her in without touching. “Though I must admit, your spirit intrigues me. Perhaps we could strike a bargain?”

“A bargain?” Marina hated how breathless her voice sounded.

“Mm.” His gaze dropped to her lips. “I could provide you with new inspiration. More intimate details for your story. Though, of course, you would need to experience them firsthand.”

Heat pooled low in her belly at his implication. The very suggestion was outrageous, improper—and utterly thrilling. This was exactly the sort of man she wrote about, offering exactly the sort of wicked propositions her heroines secretly craved.

Marina made herself to meet his gaze even though her pulse thundered in her ears.

“How generous of Your Grace to offer, but I prefer to rely on my imagination.”

“ Do you?” He leaned even closer and the heat of his body made Marina dizzy. She smelled the brandy on his breath, saw the flecks of gold in his hazel eyes. “And does your imagination tell you what happens next, my scandalous author?”

Marina’s breath caught in her throat. The Duke’s face was mere inches away from hers now, and his eyes were dark with something more dangerous than anger. The carriage seemed to shrink around them. The air grew thick.

“I—” she began, but the words died in her throat.

He tilted his head, closing the distance between them with agonizing slowness. Marina’s eyes fluttered closed. Her body betrayed her even while her mind protested. She could feel the ghost of his breath against her lips?—

The carriage jolted to a stop.

Marina’s eyes snapped open. Through the window, she recognized the familiar outline of her townhouse on Mount Street.

She had never been so grateful and yet so resentful of arriving home.

Before the Duke could react, she grabbed the door handle and pushed it open. “Good evening, Your Grace.”

She was proud that her voice barely trembled as she stepped down onto the street.

“We’re just getting started, darling,” he called after her, his voice full of promises and a hint of a threat.