The duke dropped his utensils on his plate with a clatter and lounged back in his chair with all the ease of a predator in repose. Deceptive. “Come, now. Speak, lad. What troubles you?”

Fallon’s gaze swung to his. “Why should you care what I think?” She swallowed. “Your Grace,”

she added in a poor attempt to appear deferential.

His black robe now gaped open, revealing tempting bronze skin—the very image of wickedness.

A hedonistic pasha surveying his domain…and all he owned within it. No doubt he would include her among his possessions. A servant to command and treat in whatever manner he wished.

“I do care.” He frowned as if the realization surprised him. Unsettled him. “I am asking, am I not?”

Asking? She snorted. He wouldn’t know how to form a polite request. A man like him knew only how to issue demands. Like every man she had ever known with a position of power.

“Very well.” He wanted to know. She would tell him. Clearing her throat, she made certain she spoke strongly, deeply, manly. “Must you seduce every woman you meet? Have you no shame?”

To be fair, she knew he did not seduce the women in his household, but she lacked the charity to grant him that much credit. Her outrage outweighed the consideration. Outrage and something else. Something dark and ugly. Tight and uncomfortable in her chest.

His mouth quirked. “Not every woman. Perhaps only half.”

His flippancy grated. “With a special fondness for the married ones?”

He looked at her blandly, as if he were accustomed to servants speaking to him in such a forthright manner. “Everyone needs a hobby.”

Heat washed over her face at his blasé response. “A hobby? Sin and vice are a hobby for you?”

She shook her head and made a sound of disgust.

“Oh, come, Frank.” He picked up his knife and fork again. “You remind me of Diddlesworth. I thought I was rid of that prig. Is your outrage going to prompt you to resign, too?”

“I shall not resign because my employer lacks morals.” She stiffened her spine. Not after going through such lengths ,at any rate.

His gaze snapped to her face and she held her breath at the savage heat in his gray eyes, wondering if she had finally gone too far. She bit the inside of her cheek, welcoming the pain.

Why must she provoke him? Why could she not keep her opinions to herself?

“You wound me.” He splayed a hand over his heart as if an arrow rooted there. But from the dark glitter in his eyes, Fallon could see that he mocked. The wretch was incapable of feeling.

One needed a heart for that and he clearly lacked such. He was a beautiful, shallow specimen.

Nothing more.

“You know what you need, Frank?”

She arched a brow.

“You need to loosen those very proper morals of yours.” He stroked a finger along his upper lip, considering her intently. She followed the movement of that finger along his lip, mesmerized. “I wager a proper frigging would set you to rights.”

Mouth dropping, her gaze snapped from his mouth to his eyes.

He stared at her for a long moment, his expression mildly amused. And yet beyond the amusement, something lurked in his eyes. Something dangerous. Something almost…angry. As though her _innocence _ and virtue irritated him. Something he was not. Something at which he must scoff.

Her lips worked, but she could not speak. For once, words escaped her. Surely he was the most scandalous creature alive to make such a lewd suggestion. Or was that how men spoke to one another?

His smile faded. Understanding dawned in his gray eyes. Awareness.

Wariness stole over her and she shot a glance toward the lawn, ready to launch herself over the railing if he had somehow discovered her ruse.

“Bloody hell,” he muttered. “You’re a…”

She stopped breathing altogether, waiting.

“A… virgin.”

Air rushed from her lungs. She could not even muster the proper outrage, too relieved over his charge. The tension eased from her stiff shoulders.

“Christ, lad,” he continued, leaning back in his chair. “The way Nancy makes moon eyes at you, I thought for certain you were…well…experienced.” He shrugged one shoulder. “A matter easily corrected.” Clearing his throat, he reached for his coffee and took a slow slip.

“Corrected?” As if virginity were an error one needed to rectify. The reprobate. She would show him that not all men were as amoral as he.

“I can refer you to an excellent establishment. Even put a word in with the madam. Shall I give you the evening free? It’s the least I can do after your assistance with Lord Foley.”

“No!” Now he would assist in expediting her—or rather, Francis’s—ruin? She could have laughed had it not been so offensive. “I have no wish for a…liaison. I believe in waiting, sir.”

“Waiting?” The duke angled his head to the side, frowning. “Waiting for what?”

“Why, for love. Marriage.”

He stared at her as though she had sprouted a second head. “Come, Frank,” he scolded. “You sound like a sentimental woman.”

Fire licked her cheeks and she wondered if she had let her indignation get the best of her. She was pretending to be a man, after all. Perhaps it would have been wiser to act the virile, unscrupulous male, intent only on fornication. In his lordship’s eyes, that would make her manlier, no doubt. More like him.

“Not all men are like you.” Even as she spoke this, her gaze roamed over him, appreciating the tantalizing glimpse of his chest, muscled and firm as any field worker. She should feel disgust, scorn. Not this fascination.

“What you’re saying is that _you’ve _ no wish to be like me.”

She snorted. Like him? If only she could be that free. As a peer of the realm, he could be whatever he wished. But what he chose to be was…wicked.

Stepping forward, she set the small half-filled coffeepot on the tray. In the pretense of fetching a fresh pot, she began to turn. “If you would excuse me, Your Grace.”

A hard hand fell on her arm, burning a brand through the heavy sleeve of her jacket. “Is that not so?” he queried, one brow lifting. “I’m a bloody duke with the world bowed before me, but you’ve no envy of me. I’m not determined to be wicked just for the hell of it, you know.”

“You’re not?” Her gaze narrowed on his well-carved lips, mesmerized.

“No. It’s just sinking into a woman’s body…hell,” he broke off with a rasp that made her belly quiver. Heat swirled through her, tightening and pulling in places she never knew could feel before.

“You wouldn’t know what I’m talking about, but it feels damn sweet. It reminds me I’m alive. A definite improvement from the shit I’ve waded through in my life.” He laughed then, a horrible, tormented sound. As abruptly as he grabbed her, he released her. “Go. Return to your duties.”

At the brusque command, she fled. Do not look back. Do not look back. A single glimpse at her face and he might read the deep want he had ignited inside her with his words.

She slowed before crossing the threshold, gathering her composure before pushing on—a foolish female who had fallen under the demon duke’s spell and thought that perhaps she could be the one to rescue him. Absurd. Especially considering the one most in need of rescue was herself.

Chapter 14

The sound of shattering glass brought Fallon to her feet. The well-worn copy of Mary Shelley’s _The Modern Prometheus _ that she had borrowed from the library thudded to the floor. She had always wanted to read it, but Master Brocklehurst deemed novels trash and never permitted them at school.

Biting her lip, she stared at the door connecting her room to the duke’s. The hour was late, but he usually returned home later. Sometimes not until morning. Given her reading material, her pulse hammered a bit too quickly. The noise coming from the next room only made her heart gallop and goose bumps pucker her flesh.

Deciding it appropriate to investigate—wouldn’t a dutiful valet make certain all was well with his master?—she rose to her feet. Picking the book off the floor, she marked her page and set it on the small bedside table. Still wearing her trousers and cambric shirt, she gathered her wig off the dresser. Standing before the mirror, she secured it upon her head, taking care that no red-gold tendrils peeked free. With a final tug, she turned and slipped on her jacket. Satisfied, she knocked once on the adjoining door. Nothing. Silence. Pressing down on the latch, she entered the shadowed room.

Her gaze immediately flew to the movement near the window. Lord Hunt was shrugging free of his jacket as he kissed a giggling female sprawled beneath him on the chaise. Jacket discarded in a rumpled heap on the floor, he delved both hands into her hair and held her still for a deep kiss.

Their tongues parried outside their mouths.

Face burning, Fallon quickly looked away, searching for Damon. Her stomach churned at the thought of him occupied in a similar manner. For heaven’s sake, she was his valet! Why could she not accept that he was wicked incarnate? Why must she feel such fierce…disappointment at the prospect? As though she possessed some claim on him? Or hoped to?

In a flash, she realized the emotion she experienced—the deep, gnawing burn in her chest—was not disappointment but an altogether different emotion. _Jealousy. _ She was jealous of any female warming the duke’s bed. Any female allowed to brush her fingers, her lips, to that sinful tattoo.

To trace its horrible beauty.

Her gaze landed on the duke, passed out on the bed, clearly soused, a woman curled against him.

Satisfaction spiraled through her to see that he was not in a receptive mood. A frown marred his companion’s face as she tried to paw him awake. Grasping his face, fingers digging into his shadowed cheeks, she tried to shake him awake. Damon groaned and rolled to his side to escape her. Dark fury spiraled through Fallon. She wanted to fly across the room and wrench the female from him. Clearing her throat, she waited for the room’s occupants to take note of her.

“C’mon now,” the woman on the bed purred, her hand fumbling at his breeches, dipping inside.

“I came here for a bit of sport. Wake up.”

“Gracious!” Unable to stay silent, Fallon clapped her hands so fiercely it made her palms sting.

“It’s certainly late.”

Lord Hunt glanced up, scowling. “Then get yourself to bed.”

The woman on the bed perked up somewhat. She crawled across the bed on her hands and knees, her br**sts nearly tumbling from her loosened gown, one dark nipple dangling, exposed. “You’re a lively looking one. Bet you won’t quit on me.”

“Look, Ethan!” The woman in his arms giggled. “Jenny wants to diddle the butler.”

“Valet,” Fallon automatically corrected. Surprisingly, she felt no outrage over the shocking banter. Her lips twisted with grim acceptance. No doubt a consequence of living beneath Damon’s roof.

“Easy for you to laugh, Dottie. You’ve someone to play with.” Jenny’s scarlet lips pulled into a pout. Staring at Fallon, she circled her fingers around her exposed nipple. “You look like a vigorous lad.”

Leveling the tart a disdainful look, Fallon pronounced in clipped tones, “His Grace needs his rest.” She swept all of them her chilliest stare, the one Master Brocklehurst had used to freeze the girls of Penwich to the spot and turn their blood to ice. “Perhaps you could call on him tomorrow.” She flicked a glance to Damon. Dead to the world. “When His Grace is up to visitors.”

Although she heartily hoped not. She could do with an end to the parade of women traipsing through his bedchamber.

“Are you kicking us out, boy?”

Fallon met Lord Hunt’s stare, determined to stand firm. “Yes.” She lifted her chin. “I am.”