Chapter Three

OMETHING EXPLODED RIGHT in front of him, and Devon Audley, the Duke of March, did what any soldier with sense would do—he launched himself at the ground.

His hands and chin hit soft carpeting. Instant recognition hit him harder than the floor. He wasn’t on a battlefield, the sound hadn’t been cannon fire, and the French army wasn’t firing on him. He couldn’t see anything but a blue-gray void, yet he knew he’d just leapt to the floor of his hallway in front of a servant—a servant who must have dropped something.

Devon tried to slow his breathing, tried to relax the instinctive hammering of his heart.

“Yer Grace! A thousand apologies. Clumsy oaf that I am, I dropped me tray and the brandy snifter landed on the floor. No worries though—it was the empty one.”

The apology came in Treadwell’s roughly accented voice. A hurried shuffling moved toward him from down the hall. Devon recognized his butler’s limping footsteps. Treadwell had a deformed right leg, and his foot dragged along the floor. Devon used to assume walking was a torture for the man, but the butler bore his affliction with surprisingly good cheer.

Hell, Treadwell would try to help him up, and the man was in no shape for that. Devon grabbed his walking stick and levered to his feet. He jumped up as gracefully as he could. No doubt he’d done this enough times that his butler was accustomed to his mad behavior, but it didn’t make it any less humiliating. By now Treadwell must be convinced he was completely out of his wits.

“Well,” Treadwell said amiably, “I was coming to tell ye that yer supper’s prepared. I took the liberty of having it served in the dining room. Is the … yer guest going to join ye for the meal, then, Yer Grace?”

His guest. Devon groped his way to the wall and splayed his hand on it. He had to touch something to orient himself, though he had no idea how far down the hall he was. Damn Ashton and his daft idea that sex was the answer to every man’s problems. Maybe it worked for Ashton, given the fact that Tristan de Gray, Fifth Earl of Ashton, was an even more notorious and frequent visitor to London’s brothels than Devon had ever been.

Sex without sight hadn’t done what Tris had hoped. Devon couldn’t forget he was blind. He could smell the pretty rose perfume his guest wore, and he could cup her rounded bottom and pert breasts, but he would never forget he couldn’t see any of those delights. Still, he had to admit she intrigued him. She was so determined to get into his bed. Where had Tris found her?

She claimed she had escaped from a brothel, so where would Tris have encountered her? She didn’t speak like the sort of light-skirts he used to find in whorehouses. There was something surprisingly sweet and innocent about her and her desperate enthusiasm to entice him. Even her attempts to be brash had been … endearing. Could she really think a madam would be willing to hunt her down? In his experience, madams were hard, astute businesswomen. Would one have a girl killed to keep the others in line? But Cerise was genuinely frightened—he’d heard the truth of that in her voice. There had to be more to her story than she’d told him.…

Hell. He had to send her away and stop thinking about her. He’d told Tris not to send a woman. He could have killed her, the poor foolish chit, as easily as he’d warned her he could. Already he’d snapped his valet’s wrists when the man had done nothing more than remove his coat. Watson, the valet, had quit on the spot and run from the house.

He was going mad. “Battle madness,” one of the war surgeons had called it as he was recovering in a field hospital. At that time, he’d mocked the idea—he was blind, not insane. How could any man not savor peace once war was over? Now he knew. He couldn’t forget the war. It wouldn’t leave him alone. And he had no intention of making her suffer for it.

“Yer Grace?”

Devon cocked his head in the direction of Treadwell’s voice. “No, she will not be joining me for supper. Have a tray prepared with her meal and taken to the bedchamber she will be using. Send a bottle of good sherry as well. Give her one of my robes for her use.”

“Are ye certain she’ll be needing one, Yer Grace? Shouldn’t ye be keeping her … busy?”

“Treadwell, bloody hell.” First his friend, now his servant.

“Beg yer pardon, Yer Grace, but Lord Ashton told me as how he’s worried about ye and the way yer keeping yerself locked away in the house, and I happen to say I agree. It’s not healthy for a young gent such as yerself.”

“Thank you for your opinion,” Devon growled. “I wasn’t aware the dispensation of unwanted advice was on your list of duties.”

He’d never been the kind of duke to glower at his servants. It would be impossible to do so now. Hard to strike fear with a ducal glare when one couldn’t even look in the correct direction.

“It’s not me place to speak, Yer Grace. Yer grandfather would have had me horsewhipped if I talked to him like this. But yer not like yer grandfather, the old duke, Yer Grace. A right tyrant he was, and he would brook no talk from anyone.”

True, he was nothing like his grandfather, a fact that had annoyed that man a great deal. Nor was he like his father. He was somewhere in between the libertine tyrant his grandfather had been and the kind, scholarly sense of responsibility that had characterized his father.

“Meself and the others—we know ye’ve been a grand master, and all of us are worried about ye. Now, if ye want to send me to the stables, ye can do so, but I’ve had me say.”

Treadwell had given sixty years of service to Devon’s family, beginning as a boot boy to his grandfather. A man who had to spend his childhood as a servant with an old man’s foot resting on his arse deserved some sort of perquisites in his later years. Letting him speak was the one the old servant seemed to enjoy the most. “Treadwell, you won’t be whipped.”

“Well, now, Yer Grace, I should fetch ye for yer meal.”

“I don’t need to be fetched. I do not need to be led to the dining room like a dog on a leash.”

“ ’Course not, Yer Grace. But let me say one more thing before I leave ye. That girl is a comely lass. Very pretty indeed.”

He didn’t need to know. For a start, he could not see her, so what did it matter if she was a beauty? But curiosity hammered at him. Relentless curiosity. “All right, what does she look like exactly?”

“She’s got lovely silky hair in me favorite shade, Yer Grace. Titian, I think it’s called. Green eyes too. Not a light green, like emeralds, but dark as ivy leaves. A lass that lovely is not going to like having to spend her night alone.”

He was left stunned by Treadwell’s description but got his wits back and gruffly said, “It’s not a matter of what she likes. It’s for her own good.”

Anne paced the bedchamber—the duke’s bedchamber. He had ensured her every comfort. A fire crackled in the hearth, warding off the chill of the rainy August night. Candles glowed around the room, the golden light falling on gilt and polished wood. The duke had sent a footman with a robe, one of his own. It was made of soft dark-green velvet, wrapped almost twice around her, and trailed on the floor.

The same footman had brought sherry and a delicate crystal glass. Another had brought supper. Her heart had dropped to her toes as the servant, his face impassive, placed a large platter on a table by the fire and lifted the silver cover to reveal a gold-rimmed plate heaped with roast beef, boiled potatoes, and vegetables.

She’d hoped—expected—the duke would summon her for supper.

Then she’d received the news that had truly whipped the carpet out from beneath her feet. Since returning to this house two weeks before, the footman had told her, the duke always slept in his study. He did not make use of his bedchamber at all.

The servant then relayed the rest of the duke’s crushing message. She would be spending her night undisturbed and she was not to trouble herself by going to him. His Grace would prefer to be alone, the servant had intoned without expression, until morning.

Anne walked the length of the room again, her robe dragging behind. Appetizing scents still filled the air from her meal, but she couldn’t eat. Not with a stomach clenched in panic. In the morning, the duke would decide “what to do with her.” Tonight was her last chance to convince him to keep her.

The only way she could do that involved his bed. She had to do something to him—something carnal—he wouldn’t be able to resist. Something he wouldn’t be able to live without once he’d experienced it.

But she had made love to the Duke of March with enthusiasm and abandon, and it appeared the earth had not moved for him. He had not begged her to stay.

How could she get another chance at seduction? He didn’t want her near him.

She nibbled at her thumbnail. For the first time since she’d decided to seduce the duke, penned a quick note of explanation to Kat, then used all her remaining money to hire a carriage, Anne was beginning to question her plan.

The Duke of March was a notoriously experienced man. She was a very ordinary woman. She wasn’t a stunning beauty. Her appeal in Madame’s brothel had been her demure ladylike looks, her blond hair, her proper demeanor and speech. At twenty-two, she still looked like the kind of young woman who should be dancing at Almack’s, yet she had been available, for a price, for almost any sin a gentleman desired. Now she was too thin, since she’d been barely able to eat for days, and a henna dye had transformed her once-admired golden hair to a brassy red.

A little voice whispered deep in her head. You simply weren’t enough. Was she just not very enticing? Or was it possible the duke had sensed she was not feeling anything, even though she’d given a good performance of moans and ecstasy? Kat had told her it was not much different to be a mistress than a prostitute, but now Anne was not so sure.

Fiercely, she shook her head. She could not give in to doubt. If she did, she was going to end up hanged. She had to be enough, and the next time they made love she would try much harder to entice, dazzle, and enthrall him.…

She would have to ignore the duke’s command. She had one last throw of the dice. He might toss her out on her backside tonight for disobedience, but she had to try.

Anne strode to the door and opened it. She stepped out, ready to march to the study, when she heard a loud sound, like a cry of pain.

Was she imagining things? Had someone really shouted? She waited. No other sound came. No rushing footsteps. No voices. If someone needed help, no one was racing to provide it.

Then it came again: a deep, hoarse shout. It had definitely come from the first floor of the house. It was most decidedly a masculine sound. It must be the duke. But why weren’t his servants hurrying to help him? What was wrong?

It took several seconds for her wits to work. This was her opportunity. Whether it was the duke or not, she could say she believed it was, then of course she had to run to him and ensure he was all right. It gave her the perfect excuse to invade his study.

Goodness, what if he was truly hurt? He might have drunk more brandy. He might be foxed out of his wits. She’d heard of drunken men who fell into their fireplaces and set themselves on fire. He could be in danger.

Anne gathered up the voluminous hems of her robe and ran for the stairs.

Warm hands clamped on his arms. Devon’s eyes shot open, but he stared up into darkness. Cannon fire had surrounded him seconds before; now there was eerie silence. He couldn’t mistake the weight pressing on his biceps. Someone was pinning him down.

He threw all his strength against the soldier holding him. A desperate gurgle of shock came in answer. He had the advantage for a few seconds before the next thing securing him to the ground proved to be a bayonet. In one swift movement, he gripped his attacker by the arms and jerked the man up.

His brain registered the slender arms, the surprisingly light weight. Boy, his mind screamed at him, guilt rising like bile, but then a voice cried, “Stop!”

A panicked voice. A feminine one. “Stop, Your Grace! Please stop. You are hurting me.” Her terror cut through the void, sliced through the panic and the deafening pounding of his heart.

Christ. It was Cerise’s lush and lovely voice. It whisked away the fog in his head, shattered his confusion. He wasn’t on a battlefield; he was lying on his settee in his study. The hands touching him had been hers and not those of someone holding him down to kill him.

On a desperate groan, he released her. He sank back onto the cushions.

“What is wrong, Your Grace?”

Devon sucked in more heavy breaths, trying to slow his heartbeat. “It was just a bad dream,” he managed. Sweat coated him, cooling now that he wasn’t thrashing around in his sleep. A chill washed over his bare chest.

Her soft hand stroked his cheek. She coasted her fingertips over him tenderly. “I know something about nightmares,” she murmured gently.

He lifted her hand from his face. Fumbling, he reached for the back of the chair to hoist himself up, but something planted itself on his chest. The surprise of it kept him down, and a warm weight settled across his thighs. He guessed she was straddling him. And he tensed.

“Are you certain you don’t want to sleep in your own bed?” she whispered. “I would hate to cause you trouble and discomfort, Your Grace.”

Trouble and discomfort. It brought a dry laugh up from the depths of his throat, one that scratched like glass on the way out. “The reason I’m not in that bed has nothing to do with you, love, so you might as well go back there. I’m not in the mood for more lovemaking tonight.”

“I can get you into the mood.”

“No.” She didn’t deserve to have her windpipe crushed because he was out of his mind.

Her weight moved, sliding lightly back down his thighs. He knew her bottom was skimming over his legs. “Go to bed, love,” he growled. “I’m accustomed to the nightmares. I get them almost every night.”

“Every night? Heavens.”

He hoped he had shocked her into giving up, but she whispered seductively, “I could tire you out with a climax so you could have a good night’s sleep.”

His robe twitched open over his hips. A blast of cool night air rushed over his groin.

He had to stop her, but a warm, wet pressure ran down his sleeping cock. Sensation shot through him. He couldn’t see, couldn’t be sure, but he thought she was running her tongue along his shaft. His head dropped back as the pleasure of it speared him. The soft heat of her tongue caressed his flesh, swirled over the head. Suddenly his cock went hard, proving his words wrong. His body wanted this. Yearned for this.

“Mmmm.” Cerise gave a moan of approval, then his shaft was engulfed in warm heat. In her mouth.

He closed his eyes. He did it so he wouldn’t remember he could see nothing but a blue-gray nothingness, but instantly he had a vision of the wild black eyes of a terrified boy soldier and a rifle aimed to blow a man’s head off—

She suckled, and the suction of her hot lips jerked him off the battlefield, back into the present. Back to his study, where he was sprawled on the daybed and she was lavishing her tongue all over his rigid cock. She was remarkable. Of their own accord, his hips began to rock up, seeking to push him deeper into the welcoming wet heat of her mouth and her delectable sucking.

“God, angel,” he groaned. “It’s good.”

“Thank mmm.” Her words came out muffled and he had to laugh—a raw bite of a laugh. She had him smoldering, close to bursting into flame.

Tentatively, he reached down until his hand collided with silky softness. The long mass of her hair. It spilled over his abdomen. With so much pleasure coming from a few inches below, he hadn’t noticed the sweet, tickling sensation.

He ran his hand lower, until he found a silken curve that had to be her cheek. Gently, he eased her away, and the sensation of sliding past her velvety lips almost made him explode. “Ride me,” he growled. “Ride me hard and fast until you pound everything out of my head.”

She giggled. He was straining to hear everything, so he detected the demure notes in her light, lovely laugh. The way it was shy rather than bold. She was such an unusual prostitute, with her pretty voice, her proper speech, and her uncertainty.

Then she wrapped her hand around his shaft and he couldn’t think about anything but the way she held him, the tug as she lifted him upright, the first touch to her silky heat.

He arched his hips up, needing to thrust deep. Her bottom smacked his thighs as she came down, and he rocked up into her, lifting her high, joining them as tightly as he could.

He’d begged Cerise to ride him, but he didn’t give her a chance. He did the work. Lifting her to bury his cock to the hilt worked his muscles to the limit. Thrusting made sweat roll down his forehead and coat his chest. He had to do this. Had to thrust like a madman. And know only the sheer delight of sliding his erection deep inside her, of feeling her walls hug him tight, the delicious friction as he withdrew.

It was heaven. Heaven for a man who’d earned a place in hell for what he’d done.

Devon laughed as the weight of her bottom jiggled up and down on his spread legs, as she gasped and moaned and cried out. Cerise was a noisy lover. Her shrieks and squeals must be echoing all over the house.

He loved hearing them. He couldn’t remember the bursts of cannon fire and rifle shot when she squealed and wailed and shouted, “Oh, goodness!”

Her hands smacked against his chest as she braced herself. Sweet as her voice might be, she rode him with hard, punishing strokes as though she knew, without words, exactly what he needed.

But he wanted to watch her bosom bounce and her hips move as he rocked her. He hungered to see her face contort with agony as he thrust. Wanted to know the color of her beautifully soft hair. See her eyes as she found pleasure too.

He yearned to see her, damn it. Hell, how he did.

Frustration boiled in him. He shut his eyes and made love to her even harder than before. He should be gentler; he should slow down, yet she gripped his shoulders and pounded on him.

“Yes, Your Grace,” she cried. “I like it hard.”

Then her hands—it had to be her hands—ran down his thighs and she gripped his bottom. His John Thomas swelled and grew bigger, stiffer, ready to burst. Devon tipped back his head and howled to the heavens above. He wished he could make love to her for the rest of his life. So he never had to think or remember again.

He wanted to please her. He had to hold on. Fight to last, fight for control so he could make her scream for him in ecstasy.

“Cerise, love, what do you need?” he rasped. “I won’t last.”

“This!” she cried. Then she gasped, “Oh, Your Grace!” She gave a long, agonized moan, bouncing wildly on top of him.

Her lushly erotic scream ripped through him, and he lost control. His arse lurched up from the sofa and he drove hard into her. His body went rigid as his orgasm roared through him, spun through every nerve, took every ounce of his strength. His muscles seemed to turn to fluid. Every thought left him. There was nothing but pleasure and the pulsing of his body as the almost endless climax pummeled him.

Devon flopped back onto the settee beneath her, a ragged laugh rising from his chest. Deep inside, his heart hammered.

Cerise collapsed on him, gasping too. Her breasts, warm and damp, crushed to his chest. The earthy scent of her surrounded him, as if enclosing them in a world built solely of pleasure. He wrapped his arms around her, cradling her tighter than he’d ever embraced a woman before.

“Are you sleepy, Your Grace?” she murmured, her voice throaty after all her screams. “Or do you want another bout?”

“All right, love. Another round.” He rocked gently into her. It would take time to get aroused again. He shut his eyes and stroked her, letting his fingers see her where his eyes could not. Much better this way. She had the perfect back, long and slender, with a sweet dip at the bottom. He took care as he caressed her, remembering how she had described her bruises. He cupped the flare of her curvy bottom. She had a delectable rump. Lightly, he ran his fingers over her rounded derrière, savoring her hot, silky skin, and she giggled in her pretty, endearing way.

She possessed a lot of hair, and it fell over his chest and shoulders like a silken throw. He gathered a mass of it in his hand, moved it so it fell over his face and he could breathe in the scent of it. He was hard again. Ready to pound into her. Ready to make her burst—

The vision came so quickly and slammed into his head so hard, he was amazed it didn’t knock him off the chair. He was back on a smoke-strewn, deafening battlefield. An enormous weight pinned his legs—the flank of his dying horse. Through a gap in the dark ash and struggling bodies, he saw the boy. A French lad. Ragged uniform. The boy had lifted a rifle, and his skinny body was jerking with tension as he got ready to shoot one of Devon’s men. Before Devon knew it, his pistol was in his hand.

A split-second choice. Shoot a soldier who was little more than a child or let a good man die—a man who’d left his wife and child to go to war.

He’d had to make the choice. That damnable, haunting, inhuman choice—

Cerise shifted on him.

He couldn’t do it. He couldn’t make love. Not now. He grasped her arms and hauled her off him, and she squeaked with surprise and fear as he dropped her down hard on his thighs. She scrambled forward, but he tightened his hold on her wrists so she couldn’t move.

“You—you’re hurting me.”

“It’s not going to work. Nothing you do will make the demons go away. You need to get off me and go upstairs, back to bed.”

“Demons?” she whispered huskily. “What demons, Your Grace?”

“Go away, angel.”

“The nightmares? Is that what you mean? You could tell me about them. I want to help you.” Her voice was purring temptation. The silly git wanted him to unburden his soul. To her.

“No.”

“Please, Your Grace, I am yours to help you in every way I can.” She ran her hands over his chest, down his abdomen, to his privates. She stroked him there. “I’m going to fondle you until you tell me.”

She thought she could tease him into some kind of sanity. Like Ashton, she thought all it would take was a bit of conversation and some fucking. “You have no idea, love. I’ve seen men torn apart by cannonballs and bullets.”

She gasped, and he knew it was in horror. But she wasn’t going to stop, was she, until he frightened her away?

“Even that’s enough to flood your mind with grisly images, isn’t it? You do not need to hear any more. Once you’ve seen things like that, you can’t make them go away. I can no longer see the back of my hand, but the color of human blood? Unforgettable.” He needed a drink. Needed to be alone. Right now he didn’t want to have to talk. He sure as hell didn’t want to hold anyone. He lifted her off his thighs, intending to plant her on the floor, but when he let her go, he heard her gasp in shock, heard her fall to the floor.

“You need to get away from me,” he barked, furious with himself. “Go up to your room.”

“I should stay. In case you have another nightmare—”

“And you’ll try to wake me? Put your pretty neck in my reach? What if I strangle you? Or start beating you to death because I’m out of my wits?”

“Y-you won’t.”

But she wasn’t sure, was she? He wasn’t bloody well sure. “I’ve hurt people, Cerise. Don’t you remember how I grabbed you and threw you to the floor when you first came here, because you touched me? And what kind of a touch was it?”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean what did you do to me that made me leap up and slam you onto the ground?”

“I—I brushed your hair out of your eyes.”

“Exactly. It was an inconsequential touch, but it set me off like a flame reaching a keg of gunpowder. I’m mad. The war, the battles, the blindness, the killing and the grief—I wasn’t strong enough to let it all just glance off me. I’m no war hero—all throughout the damned thing, I was filled with pain and fury and grief and doubts. A hero is a man who is filled with confidence, who takes action and doesn’t waste time on remorse. He doesn’t hide in the blasted dark. He gets a damned grip on himself. But I can’t. I’ve gone out of my wits, and I’m going madder by the day. I’m not getting better, I’m getting worse. That’s why I have Treadwell to scare people away.”

“You are drinking too much,” she said firmly. “That is probably why you are getting worse. If you were to stop drinking—”

“I like drinking,” he snapped. What was wrong with the chit? Didn’t she recognize the need to get away from him and stop arguing?

“But it doesn’t help—”

“It helps me. And I intend to do a fair bit of drinking right now. So you need to get out of this room and leave me alone. For the rest of the night, you will stay in that bedchamber. You will not come out until I summon you.”

Devon expected to hear her footsteps patter across the floor. If there ever was a cue for a woman to hasten out of a room, this was it. But, no, the stubborn wench was not moving.

“Go,” he roared. “Get out now.”

He should have felt satisfaction as her feet slapped against the floorboards, then the door slammed—obviously behind her as she left. Instead, he now needed a drink because he felt like a blackguard. War hero. His bark of laughter rang in the room. What a blasted joke that was.