To Dare the Duke of Dangerfield (2 page)

Gone was the skinny child with drawn and rather plain features.

Why hadn’t he noticed her eyes before? The pale green, an unusual shade, gave her face an ethereal glow, especially against that hair as black as a starless night. The combination was intoxicatingly sensuous. He’d found it impossible not to look at her.

When she’d spoken in that soft, breathy voice, his gaze reluctantly dropped to her mouth, only to be enchanted there too. Her lips were a perfect pout that made a man want to dive in for a taste.
 

As for the luscious curves under those breeches and jacket… He’d taken one look at the round globes poking up at him and known he’d find heaven when seated there. Never had his body roared to life so quickly.
 

He was still hard, imagining in full detail what lay beneath the clothes. Her legs were long and slender, and he pictured them wrapped around him. The pleasure he’d feel when running his hands up those long lengths of silken skin would no doubt unman him. The purr of satisfaction she’d give as he kissed from her feet all the way to the hidden treasure between her thighs...

Christ. Stop it
. He refused to lust after Caitlin Southall. It was not honorable. There was no way he’d marry the daughter of the man who’d seduced and disgraced his widowed mother.
 

 
Fourteen years ago, shortly after his father passed, his mother had been lost in grief. As a boy of sixteen, he thought the support and condolences of their neighbor, the Earl of Bridgenorth, a great kindness. He had no idea how vulnerable his mother had been to a complete and utter cad.

Over the following months, the long-widowed Bridgenorth had preyed on her fear of having to raise her son and run an estate alone, seducing her in every way possible. But when she found herself with child and the Earl learned “her” money was not only entailed on Harlow but also controlled by sharp and upright lawyers, the man showed his true colors.

Harlow’s gut clenched as it always did when his anger mounted. He’d been far too young to protect her from the spiteful gossip, or the shame that followed Bridgenorth’s ruination and desertion.

But he protected her now. And his younger half-brother, Jeremy.
 

He’d tried to speak with the Earl over the years. Why would Bridgenorth not acknowledge his son? The Earl only had Caitlin. If Bridgenorth had been a gentleman and married his mother, the estate would belong to Jeremy.
 

One way or another Harlow was determined to procure Jeremy his birthright, and soon he would have it. Harlow knew Bridgenorth’s weakness. Cards.
 

Harlow would either win it from him in a game, or buy up his vowels until Bridgenorth had no choice but to hand over the estate to his unacknowledged son.

It was only fair. It was Jeremy’s birthright. It was his, Harlow’s, duty to protect his brother and ensure he got what he was entitled to.
 

He clenched his fists, and with willpower he didn’t realize he possessed he stilled the roaring desire in his blood.
 

After several painful minutes he was finally back in control of every part of his body. He whistled for
Champers
, his trusty steed, who grazed behind him on the grass. As he swung into the saddle he thanked God he was off to London that night. A turn at the gaming tables and a visit with his lovely mistress, Larissa, would take his mind off the annoying Southall vixen.

He swore into the breeze. Caitlin Southall could unseat his plans. She should be the last woman on this earth he desired. As he rode toward Telford Court he tried to talk his body into recognizing the danger of such a dalliance. However, since he’d grown harder by the time he’d reached home, it appeared his body had refused to listen.

Chapter Two

Shropshire, Telford Court, three months later

If the Duke did not grant her an audience soon, Caitlin was going to be sick all over his expensive Persian carpet.

She knew calling on him so late at night was scandalous, but his mother and younger brother were still in London, and she did not wish anyone, especially her father, to learn why she was here. The entire village knew the duke was a night owl, rarely to bed before dawn. So, when the clock struck midnight at Mansfield Manor, she had crept out of her home and ridden across the gully to Telford Court.

Caitlin tried to sit demurely and wait for His Grace to deign an audience, but he had kept her waiting for hours and it was now almost three in the morning. She flicked her gaze to the window. She didn’t have much time. She still had to sneak home before dawn. Her hope was fading with the dark night.
 

Her stomach churned from nerves and tiredness—and the fact she’d had nothing to eat or drink since earlier in the afternoon, too sick with apprehension to face dinner. However, the only reason she cared about losing the contents of her stomach was that His Grace wouldn’t be the one cleaning it up.

Over and over she’d rehearsed what she would say to him. Now, she just wanted it finished. She was not leaving his huge, imposing residence without gaining his agreement.

The only good thing to come from the enforced wait was that her rising temper had displaced her taut nerves.

The
cheek
of the man. Even a duke should have manners.

Her pique, having reached its tipping point, had her walk to the door and open it. The footman, placed strategically in the hall, leaned back against the wall, eyes closed, snoring softly. How inconsiderate of the Duke to keep his staff up so late. And how dare he keep her waiting hours as if she, too, were a servant?
 

She’d had enough.

From further down the hall came the sound of raised male voices. Inebriated voices. Before she lost her courage Caitlin stepped out of the room and marched toward the ruckus. Without allowing herself time to think, she threw the door open wide and walked straight into the room.

The heat hit her first. A fire blazed in the hearth, yet the night, when she’d ridden across the gully separating the Duke’s estate from Bridgenorth, had been mild. She also found it difficult to breathe for the haze from three smoking cheroots.

The duke had visitors.
 

Her face felt as if it was on fire too, but not from the heat. She stood in the middle of a room where three very large males sprawled about in a state of undress—cravats undone, waistcoats off and shirts half open.

“Look,” one of them drawled. “Additional entertainment. How thoughtful of you, Harlow. She’s come dressed as a man. Should I infer anything from that?”

Only then did she notice the women. Given their sparse clothing and designation of ‘entertainment’ she quickly understood their profession. Mortified, she did not know where to look.

She turned to the man who’d spoken and her mouth went dry. He lounged in his chair with a half-naked woman on his knee. One of his hands held a nearly empty brandy balloon. The other appeared to be glued to the woman’s breast. He looked like the Devil himself—with his dark brown hair and darker, hooded eyes, regarding her with bored amusement.

This, Caitlin thought, frantically, had been a terrible mistake. Her body had already come to that conclusion and begun its retreat.
 

But Dangerfield was too fast. He reached the door first and shut it. Inside the room the heat seemed to double.
 

“
Are
you the entertainment?” Dangerfield asked. “I’m never sure what to expect when you are in my presence, Lady Southall.”

The other two men threw startled and worried looks at each other.

“
Lady
Southall?” The third man, the fair-haired man, sat up straighter and began to button his shirt.

His Grace ignored his friend’s concern. He moved until he stood quite close behind her.
 

“Yes, I
am
Lady Caitlin Southall.” She shivered even though she could feel the heat from his broad chest through her light jacket. “And no, I most certainly am
not
part of the entertainment.”

“I struggle to see what purpose, other than for our entertainment, you’d have for arriving at my home, without a chaperone, this late at night. Or should I say ‘early in the morning’? And dressed in such a provocative fashion. You know how much I admire you in trousers.”

Late? Provocative? She was the one decently dressed, even if she was in men’s clothing. “I came for a private word with you over three hours ago. I grew tired of waiting. I must get home before dawn.”

“I was not told you were here.” A gentle touch on her back made her jump. “A private word?” The pressure of his touch grew. Glided slowly down her spine. “Now that sounds promising. However, my friends and I share everything. Don’t we, ladies?”

Two of women giggled and crooned. The third simply sent her a frosty stare. Caitlin reached behind and swatted Dangerfield’s finger away.
 

“Harlow,” his fair-haired friend warned. “This is not a good idea.”
 

The duke moved to her side. “Henry is worried about my reputation, given you’ve walked into one of my private bachelor parties.”

“
Your
reputation?” Caitlin couldn’t help herself.
 

“Yes, mine. A lady discovered in this room at this moment would be compromised beyond repair. It would likely mean I’d have to offer her marriage—and that is something a man of my reputation fears most of all.”

She almost snorted. “Then your reputation is quite safe. I have no intention of allowing myself to become wed to a man such as you.”

His two friends burst out laughing, and the, as yet, un-named man said, “Oh, my. She’s priceless. Wherever did you find her?”

“Marcus doesn’t know you as well as I do.” His Grace continued, “Lady Southall has a terrible habit of bothering me.”

She couldn’t suppress her shiver of awareness as he moved to stand over her, brushing her with his body. Blocking her view of the others in the room he looked down his perfect nose at her. “Did you come for your pleasure?” he purred. “Or mine?”

It was the arrogant smile that did it. Her hand, apparently operating on its own initiative, whipped up like a snake. The sharp crack of flesh meeting flesh—together with the pain in her palm—brought Caitlin to her senses. She gasped and stumbled back as the marks of her fingers began to appear on Dangerfield’s cheek.

Dangerfield touched fingers to his face, and winced. “As usual, for no one’s pleasure I see.” He turned around to face the room. “Gentleman, may I present Lady Caitlin Southall, my neighbor.”
 

The fair-haired man rose to his feet and gave a slight bow before retaking his chair. The brown-haired man simply stayed seated and nodded his head in her direction.
 

“I’m sorry for the slap.” Caitlin couldn’t believe she had actually done it. She felt appalled. Terrified. Furious. “It’s just you have the annoying habit of making me want to punch you.”

“Really?” Dangerfield’s eyes narrowed. “You, my lady, make me want do many things. Hitting you isn’t one of them.”

She ignored his remark and glanced once more out the window. It would be getting light soon. How could she get the duke alone?
 

She turned back to Dangerfield. “Your Grace, I—”

At her pointed stares at the other gentleman, Dangerfield gave a little grin. “Of course. Introductions. Lady Southall, I hesitate to introduce you to such rakehells. However this”—he gestured to the man in the chair—“is Lord Marcus Danvers, the Marquis of Wolverstone. The reprobate busy straightening his clothes is the archangel of our group, Lord Henry St. Giles, the Earl of Cravenswood. Would you like me to introduce you to the other... ladies in the room?”

Her face warmed until she assumed it glowed as bright as the coals in the grate.
 

Refusing to be distracted by his deliberate intention to make her uncomfortable—
ladies indeed
—she said, “Since I am here, may I have a private word? If you have time.” Sarcasm dripped from every syllable. “If you aren’t too busy. I must speak with you.”

He gave an overly dramatic sigh. “Ladies, please excuse us. Perhaps you would wait for us above stairs. I’m sure this won’t take long.”

Muttering, two of the women stood and made their way out the door. The third did not.

“I’m staying.” The stunning fair-haired woman, her daringly-cut silk gown shimmering as she moved, glided to Dangerfield’s side and put her hand on his arm. “The sooner she delivers her message the sooner she can leave. I’m sure we have more pleasant activities to enjoy than talking with this,”—she waved a dismissive hand—“smelly urchin.”

His Grace laughed and scooped her up in his arms. “I swear, Larissa, you’re good for a man’s soul.” He carried her back to his chair and sat with her on his lap, looking like a king who’d claimed his bounty.

“Speak, then, Lady Southall,” he commanded.

Caitlin swallowed her pride. This was her chance—probably her only chance—and she would not let pride prevent her from receiving her due.