In the Devil's Bed (Sins of the Duke Book 1) (9 page)

Twisting in her seat, Regan’s eyes followed him. “Papa?”

He blinked, his forehead creasing in thought. Slowly, he turned his gaze towards his desk. A single book rested on the corner. Crossing over to it, he picked it up, dwarfing the volume in his hands.

“Papa?” she demanded. Silence met her as he stared back, his eyes glittering hard as stone.

Wordlessly, he turned from her and walked to the bookcase at the far wall, his footsteps barely echoing on the hardwood floor.

Her heart pounded in her chest.

He paused and raised the book to the third shelf. Panic tightened her stomach, as he slid it into an empty space. “Papa? Why won’t you speak to me? What is it?”

The room flashed white then darkened. A harsh breath rasped in the distance. And Regan ran. Ran down a narrow alley. She would find him. He hadn’t really disappeared. Her father was waiting for her. Somewhere.

“Papa!” she called. The white glimmer of his hair shone out in front of her. His black cloak spun about his body. She couldn’t see his face, but relief flooded her.

Just as she reached out her hand to him, another figure flashed before him. A blade glinted as it raced out and stabbed into her father’s chest. Her father collapsed to his knees, sucked to the black ground.

“Papa!” she screamed.

The attacker disappeared in a blur. Regan raced forward, but could see nothing in the darkness. She ran. She ran until she could hear nothing but her ragged breath in her ears. But she couldn’t reach her father. The crumpled heap of his body remained just out of reach. At last, her fingers grasped his cloak. She pulled his body towards her.

Blood pooled over her hands. It soaked her skirts and blackened the stones under her knees.

A scream pierced the air. Her scream. James Chance stared up at her, his eyes cold and dead.

***

Y
our Grace,

Lady Regan has continued her work in the East End and the hospital is nearing completion. She is a very determined young woman who seems certain that she can change the world around her-

Jack squinted in the flickering candlelight at the words scrawled before him. He slammed his hand down on the French writing desk and the ink bottle jumped, clattering against the wood.

Bloody hell, if she only knew what he was doing. She’d toss him out of her life forever with fury and hate in her eyes. Jack blew out a sigh.

As was her right.

He pushed the chair back, its thin legs grating against the polished wood floor. The thick blankets of his bed beckoned, but he could not rid his thoughts of her. Folding the parchment, Jack picked up the red wax stick by his quill and held it in the candle’s flame. He’d send the report to the duke.

Hell, he was doing this for Devlin.

Dripping the red wax onto the letter, Jack gritted his jaw. Every word had somehow felt like a betrayal of the beautiful woman sleeping in the bedroom next to his. Jack tossed the letter and the wax stick onto his desk. In all hope, he’d be done with this altogether in a few weeks. He’d find a suitable public opportunity to ruin her and then—

A scream tore through the air. Regan’s scream.

His head jerked up. He had guards all around the house, patrolling. Had someone still infiltrated his defenses?

In what felt like an instant, he was at her door. He yanked it open and stalked into the room. He checked right to left, searching for whoever had made their way in.

All he found was Regan, sitting upright. Her red hair spilled over her pale shoulders and white nightgown. Her eyes were wide with fear as her mouth hung open and she sucked in deep breaths. Her fingers dug into the covers around her, twisting them in her hands.

He snapped his gaze about the room, probing for someone. Anyone. But as Jack swung his eyes to the tall, curtained windows, then to her armoire, and back to the bed, but saw no one. “What is it? What happened?” he demanded.

Regan’s stared at him, her face pale in the faint light.

Slowly, Jack lowered his pistol. He kept his finger resting just by the trigger. “You screamed.”

She looked down, the muscles working in her throat. “I—I had a dream— And it was. . .” She broke off. Lady Regan lifted a slender hand to her mouth. “It was terrifying,” she whispered.

A dream? Jack let out a sigh of relief as he shut the door behind him. He strode towards the bed and grabbed the small tinderbox sitting beside the taper candle. He quickly struck it to life. Light sputtered from the candle, dancing over Regan’s face and body.

The soft light touched her skin as intimately as a caress. It fell over the hollow of her throat and the gentle slope of her pale neck. And it silhouetted her body beneath her gown. Jack swallowed. Shadows darkened the undersides of her full breasts and one of the shoulders of her gown had slipped down her arm, exposing her pale skin.

Crouching, he leaned his forearms on the goose down mattress. He understood dreams. Had awoken himself many times, bathed in a cold sweat. The images of a past he wanted to forget trapped inside his head. “Dreams can be terrible things,” he soothed. “I should know.”

Meeting his eyes, a tentative smile lifted her pink lips. “You cannot be frightened by such things.”

God, if she only knew the terror he had suffered the nights he still dreamed of the workhouse. “Not all is as it seems.”

He paused, glancing up into her face, framed with her tumbling red hair. “Would you like me to leave?”

Her eyes, almost black in the candlelight, widened. “No,” she breathed. “Would you stay? For a moment.”

“Of course.” He only wished there had been someone who could have protected him and Devlin on those cold nights when they had sat in horror of every creak and shudder of the workhouse. He glanced about, looking for a place to sit.

It struck him, for a moment, as odd that none of her family had come running. But then again, he was aware Lady Sylvia was out. . . And he’d discovered that Lord Geoffrey Chance had a predilection for downing bottles of brandy before he passed out every night.

She reached down and gently placed her fingers on his arm. “You could sit here. . .” her words trailed off and her chest lifted in a slow breath. “I don’t mean for—“

“Shhh. I understand.” He did understand, but hell, he was still a man. Not a nanny. The soft swell of her breasts drew his attention away from her face and he resisted the urge to lift his hands to their roundness. Instead, he placed his hand over hers and slowly shifted his weight onto the bed, sitting on the edge.

He trailed his fingers over her skin, stroking her. Soothing her, and savoring the feel of her. “In truth, my lady, you are wrong. I have been truly disturbed by dreams.”

She leaned back against the piled pillows, her hair flowing out around her, dark against the white sheets. “You?”

A soft laugh rumbled from his chest. “Of course. Do you not think me human?” Human? Bloody hell, he was beginning to feel too damned human. He was sitting on a bed with a beautiful woman in her nightdress. A woman he wanted with a powerful need. There wasn’t much stopping him from pressing the situation, except that once again, she was vulnerable.

She rolled onto her side, cupping her chin with her hand. The thin fabric of her gown slipped over her body, pressing against her breasts. “I suppose. I simply thought you to be too strong.”

She thought him strong, did she? The sudden desire to show her how strong and how he could use that strength, to please her, tightened his body. Lady Regan was deceptively quiet, but he could see her own strength; a fired steel, glowing in her eyes.

A single strand of long hair fell onto her face as she looked down. Jack brushed it between his fingers. Caressing the cool softness of it, he placed it behind her shoulder. He wanted to plunge his whole hand into her hair and let it wash his skin while he tasted her mouth.

Her eyes fixed on his. The temperature in the room lifted. And he went hard. So hard it almost hurt.

But she looked away. “What kind of dreams?” she questioned.

Jack drew in a deep breath. How could he tell her? The dreams of men torn apart? Of children starved and neglected? “Things from my childhood.”

She turned back to him, sympathy softening her blue eyes. Bloody hell, he didn’t wish her sympathy. He was not worthy of it. How could he be? He was comforting her over a nightmare, but all he wanted to do was slip the folds of her gown over her head and thrust deep into her body till she felt nothing but him.

***

R
egan pushed herself up onto her elbow. She desperately wished to slide the covers back. She felt so hot. But she couldn’t do that with him here. And she didn’t wish him to leave. As improper as it was, she felt safe.

But he wanted her. She could feel it the air, as if there was no separation between them. Even though his hands were on the mattress inches away from her, she felt like he was already intimate with her.

She’d seen sex. Men and women coupling quickly in an alley. Sylvia had alluded to hours of pleasure with the right man. What terrified Regan the most was that Hazard seemed too much like the right man. That was a thought she couldn’t allow herself to contemplate. “Captain Hazard, might I ask you a question?”

His dark eyes narrowed. “I won’t guarantee an answer.”

She wanted to know what his nightmares were. Did he dream of battle? “What did you do in the military?”

Captain Hazard leaned back, his back as straight as any Brigadier General. “I killed the French, or anyone who supported Napoleon.”

Harsh energy crackled from him, as if daring her to ask more. Regan grasped the sheet beneath her fingers, the linen cool.

“I see.” She shook her head. “Actually, I don’t see. Exactly. Were you a—“ She didn’t know the proper terms. While she had followed the movements of the armies, the small details had never interested her. “A foot soldier?”

“You mean infantry?”

Regan nodded, half afraid of what he might say. But a strong need to know his past tugged at her. Besides, if she didn’t keep speaking, her thoughts would drift back to the hard muscles of his body.

“In a way, yes. But I did many things in my course of time in the Army.” His sooty eyes shuttered his thoughts away, taunting her with his abrupt distance. But a spark of pain flickered in his gaze, deep. So deep, Regan knew it cut into his soul.

The abrupt urge to take the large man in her arms and soothe away his suffering hit her like a wave. It was completely irrational and utterly compelling. “How long were you in the military?”

Captain Hazard shifted on the bed, suddenly appearing uncomfortable. “Fourteen years.”

Regan pushed herself all the way up into a seated position and tugged the blanket with her, despite the heat. “I thought you left the military directly after Waterloo?”

“I did.”

Tilting her head to the side, Regan rapidly calculated the years in her head. He could not be more than thirty-one. Thirty-two perhaps? What he was saying could not be right. “But that would have made you fourteen or fifteen when you joined.”

“Eleven,” he stated like a school master informing a student that two and two are four.

“Merciful heavens,” she gasped.

“Lady Regan, do not concern yourself over my past. What has been done is done.”

“Yes, but—“

“Truly.” His lips curled in a hard smile that did not reach his eyes. “Now let us change the subject. Have you seen
Cosi fan tutte
?” he said carelessly. “I thought it ridiculous.”

Regan blinked. Eleven? That would place him at twenty-nine years of age. Dear God, he’d seemed so much older. But he’d only been a little boy. Where had his parents been to allow such a thing? Probably dead.

“Lady Regan, do you dislike Mozart that much?”

“Please. Call me Regan.”

He let out a growling laugh. “Not wise. Remember, I am little more than a servant. And I don’t wish to provoke the wrath of a Chance.”

“This may be true, but you are also a respected businessman who rubs shoulders with Carlton House.“ She quickly searched for some reason to justify such a request. “I call my footman Charlie. So why shouldn’t you call me Regan?”

He laughed, a low rumble that washed over her skin. “You’ve got the logic of a bleedin’ con. Right then. Regan it is.”

Regan slipped her fingers over the top of his hand and squeezed. She nearly groaned at the friction of his warm skin under hers. His thumb closed over the tips of her fingers, locking them in his grasp.

Their eyes met. Suddenly Regan was hit by an onslaught of senses. The spicy smell of him, herbs she did not know, filled the air. The broadness of his chest, inches from her own, heightened Regan’s awareness.

He was too near. Too large. Too wide for a gentleman. And the heat flowing from his hand to hers traveled through her veins like wine.

Tilting his head down so that his eyes were level with hers, he said, “Jack. Please call me Jack.”

Regan wet her lips, and whispered, “Jack.” The name crossed her lips like a forbidden word, filling her with pleasure and a touch of fear.

In his eyes raged a storm of pain. And. . . something else. Something Regan wanted to understand. She lowered her eyes to his lips. She’d never kissed a man in her entire life, never had time to. But if she were ever to kiss one, he would be the one. Slowly, Regan raised her hand to the side of his face and pressed her mouth lightly to his.

Salty, warm skin burned against her mouth. Her body tensed. She wanted to open her lips and taste him, but she wasn’t sure if she was supposed to do such a thing. Even as her body urged her to take more, Regan forced herself to lean back.

Jack’s broad chest rose in a long breath, then he took the blanket in his strong fingers and inch by slow inch, pulled it down her legs.

As the soft wool caressed her skin, Regan’s eyes widened as desire pooled in her limbs. She bit her lower lip. No idea what was going to happen next. But whatever it was, she wanted to experience it.

His hands slid around her waist and covered the small of her back. Their gentle power seared through the thin fabric of her gown, igniting the skin beneath his hands.