The Duke Who Knew Too Much (27 page)

***

Surely, a man couldn’t die of pleasure.

Yet as Alaric watched Emma on her knees before him, her lips skimming so sweetly along his rod, he thought it might indeed be possible to expire from sheer want. Even in this she demonstrated her unique ability to push him to the limits of his self-control. It was clear that she had no idea what she was doing, and, paradoxically, her innocence made her explorations all the more potent.

Her delectable sucking had weakened his knees. Now, as she reached the base of his shaft, her tongue flicked out, and he nearly lost his seed at the exquisite torture of his future duchess lapping delicately at his balls.

Women had performed fellatio on him before. No one had ever made love to his cock. Had ever worshipped him with such sweet and generous ardor.

“Take my prick deeper,” the bastard growled on the other side. “I want to feel your throat.”

The fact that only a panel of velvet separated them from an audience brought an explosive edge to Alaric’s arousal. It required all of his self-restraint not to groan aloud as Emma apparently took inspiration from the other’s command. With awkwardness as endearing as it was erotic, she proceeded to cram as much of his cock as she could into her mouth.

She choked a little, and he almost shot his seed then and there.

Dark, dominant urges roared over him. He’d let her play long enough. After all that he’d disclosed to her this night, he required quid pro quo, and he would take it in the form of her sensual submission.

Hooking a finger inside her choker, he drew her from his prick. She released him with a barely perceptible
pop
that seared his nerve endings. In the moonlight, her eyes were fathomless jewels, a thousand times more brilliant than the diamond at her throat. Her hands fell to her sides, and she waited, her cheeks flushed, her surrender utterly perfect.

Wordlessly, he wrapped a hand around his cock. The other he placed at the back of her head to guide her. Silently, he mouthed, “Open.”

Her lashes fluttered. Then, obediently, she parted her lips.

Satisfaction roared through him—and that was
before
he slid inside. Her mouth enveloped him like hot silk, and his jaw clenched against a hiss of pure bliss. He forced himself to go slow, feeding her an inch of his cock at a time, getting her used to taking him this way. The sight of his shaft disappearing betwixt her lips made his seed rise, his balls pulsing, yet he reined in the impulse to thrust as deep as he could go. Instead, he kept the pace slow, easy. Drawing in and out, each time going deeper.

When he felt her tense, he palmed her jaw, urging her to relax. Somehow she understood him perfectly, her muscles softening, and he plunged in farther. Suddenly the constriction disappeared altogether, his fingers gripping her scalp as he went all the way in, his sensitive head butting her silken throat. Panting, he withdrew at once ... and her hands clutched his hips, urging him back inside.

Christ Almighty.

Everything around him blurred as he succumbed to his animal urges. The frenzied sounds of the other couple faded to the wild drumming in his chest as he drove into her mouth, fucked it, and she took everything he gave her, everything he was. Her hot, selfless giving incinerated his defenses. The warning sizzle shot up his shaft, and with his last ounce of sanity, he tried to pull free of her kiss.

She wouldn’t let him. Her hands gripped his hips, her gaze held his, and his world turned inside out. He bit down to prevent himself from shouting, tasted the tang of blood as pleasure detonated. He shuddered, shooting uncontrollably, pouring himself into her.

Over his galloping heartbeat, he heard shuffling, whispered words and laughter, the door opening and closing, leaving them alone. Emma tucked him back into his trousers; after the raw eroticism of their exchange, her prim efficiency made his lips twitch. He helped her to her feet, and when she smiled at him, another part of his anatomy twitched as well.

With his thumb, he wiped away the glistening dew at the corner of her mouth.

“Missed a drop,” he said hoarsely.

She flushed to the roots of her hair; she looked adorably pleased with herself.

“Practice makes perfect,” she said.

Her prosaic tone rustled a laugh from his chest. “If you get any more perfect, you’ll kill me.” Drawing her close, he kissed her, and the trace of his salt on her lips made him harden with shocking speed. “I haven’t yet returned the favor.”

Her cheeks grew even pinker. “You needn’t. I enjoyed that as much as you did.”

“I’m certain that’s not possible.”

“I wanted to give you something special. And you let me.” She caressed his jaw. “That is a gift in itself.”

The tenderness in her eyes, her touch, swamped him with pleasure.
Relax and enjoy this. She’s different. Not like the others.

At the same time, inexplicable panic surged.
Don’t let her see who you really are. Don’t make the same mistakes. Stay in control.

“Thank you,” he managed. “Your gift was as unique as you are.”

A grin tucked into her cheeks. “I’ll take that as a compliment, your grace.”

Chapter Twenty-Seven

The next morning found Emma in the carriage with her brother. They were on their way to Silas Webb’s tenement in Whitechapel, and the very fact that she’d been included on the excursion filled her with happiness.

“Thank you for bringing me along, Ambrose,” she said.

Her brother shifted his gaze from the window to her. “I’m still not certain that it was a good idea. But I seem to have little choice about it.”

Guilt needled her insides. She’d campaigned rather fiercely to be included. “Ambrose, I—”

“I cannot very well exclude our most successful investigator from the case, can I?”

It took a moment for his words to sink in. For her to recognize the faint smile in his golden eyes. “Do you mean that? Truly?” she said.

“I can’t deny the facts, Em. You got information from Strathaven’s maids and those theatre folk that I could not. You are undoubtedly skilled.”

Joy bubbled through her. “Thank you, Ambrose.”

“You’re welcome.” His smile faded a little. “I want you to know, however, that it was never your ability that I doubted. I’ve always known how capable you are, Emma.”

“If you’re worried because of the danger, I’ll take every precaution—”

“Even if you do, I’ll always be concerned. I can’t help it. I’m your brother.” Ambrose studied the pleat on his trousers. “The truth is there’s another reason as well.”

“Because it’s not proper for a female to be an investigator?” she guessed.

Her brother gave her a wry look. “When has a Kent ever cared about convention?”

He had a point.

“What is it then?” she asked.

“Do you recall the time you came to London on your own? When the cottage caught fire, Father was ill, the family was about to be evicted, and you somehow made it here to get help?”

“I remember.” How could she forget? It had been an adventure, terrifying and thrilling. “But why do you bring it up now?”

“You were only sixteen, Em. You should
never
have gone through that.”

His quiet vehemence startled her.

“It couldn’t be helped,” she said. “I did what needed to be done.”

“Had I earned a better living, been able to take better care of the family, you would have been spared that ordeal.” His jaw clenched. “It was my job to protect all of you.”

Looking at her brother’s face, she saw how genuinely earnest he was.

“You did everything you could,” she protested. “You were working yourself to the bone to support us all. Ambrose, you cannot possibly blame yourself.”

“Marianne tells me the same. Logically, perhaps it is true. But here,”—he placed a hand to the place over his heart—“here I’ll always wish that I’d done better. Especially for you, Em.”

Her throat thickened. She’d had no idea that her brother had carried this burden.

“This is why I want you to have the freedoms, the choices you missed out on as a girl,” he said quietly. “I want you to be happy.”

“I am,” she said tremulously.

Her brother hesitated. “With Strathaven?”

She nodded.

He sighed. “I cannot say I like the man, but I will admit that I may have misjudged him in one regard. The other night, he risked his own life to save McLeod.”

When Ambrose went on to describe Alaric’s heroics during the capture of Palmer, it didn’t surprise Emma one bit. Nor did the fact that Alaric had made no mention to her of his own valiant behavior. One of her father’s sayings echoed in her head.

Virtue doesn’t call attention to itself; it is its own reward.

“Strathaven is a good man,” she said when her brother finished, “but a little complicated.”

“A little?”

Tentatively, she said, “Do you think you could bring yourself to like him?”

“Does it matter?”

“I want you to like him. To like each other,” she admitted.

A pause.

“If that is what will make you happy, then yes, Emma,” Ambrose said gently. “I will try.”

Her heart swelled. “You see, big brother? You’ve always done your best by us. By me.”

Ambrose gave a gruff nod, and she caught the sheen in his eyes before he turned back to the window.

Soon thereafter, they arrived in a part of town she’d never visited before. As they drove through the Whitechapel slums, her heart constricted at the weary resignation she saw on the sooty faces of women and babes dressed in rags. Their carriage stopped in front of dingy tenements, and they were met by Alaric, Mr. McLeod, and a coterie of guards.

Alaric bowed to her, his gaze as possessive as any touch.

“Hello, Miss Kent,” he murmured. “Recovered from your adventure last night?”

She knew that he referred not to the ball itself but what had transpired in the gallery.

“As a matter of fact,” she said, “I feel quite invigorated.”

His lips curved.

“We’ve scouted the place,” Mr. McLeod said brusquely, “and secured the perimeter. We can start questioning the neighbors. Miss Kent, Cooper and I will escort you.”

“As will I,” Alaric said.

Knowing the brothers’ combative relationship, Emma winced at Alaric’s peremptory tone. To her surprise, however, Mr. McLeod’s face split in a grin.

“Never thought I’d see the day. Ach, but you’re a McLeod through and through, brother.”

Alaric gave him a stony stare. “Meaning?”

“Meaning we Scotsmen stake our territory and don’t give up what’s ours.” Mr. McLeod buffeted his brother in the shoulder with enough force to knock any other man off his feet.

Although Alaric didn’t budge, color washed over his high cheekbones.

“If you’re done flapping your lips, Peregrine, let’s get on with it,” he muttered.

“Gladly, your grace.” Mr. McLeod was still grinning.

Emma marveled at the lighthearted banter. Recalling what Ambrose had told her in the carriage, she wondered if Alaric’s selfless act had triggered the healing of old wounds.

“Miss Kent?” Alaric offered his arm.

As they moved toward the tenements, she murmured, “Are things alright? With you and Mr. McLeod, I mean?”

Alaric hesitated. In a low, bemused voice, he said, “Aye. I think they may finally be.”

The team split into several groups, going door to door through the tenements. The most common response to their enquiries was a suspicious glare, accompanied by some variation of, “I mind me own business and don’t know nothin’.” A few inhabitants spouted tales that were obviously fabricated, based on a desire for reward money rather than reality. And no one seemed surprised or concerned by the fact that one of their neighbors had been found dead.

After an hour of fruitless canvassing, Emma found herself back on the first floor by Webb’s apartment. She idly surveyed the dusty street. The other side was almost a mirror image of the one she was standing on, with tenements directly across the way. A movement caught her eye: laundry fluttering on a line, the whiteness of the linen a stark contrast to the dirty exterior of the building.

On a hunch, she put a hand on Alaric’s sleeve. “Let’s go over there. To the tenement with the clean laundry.”

“See something, pet?” he said.

“Call it an intuition.”

“That’s more than anything else we’ve got thus far,” he said wryly.

Accompanied by Ambrose and Mr. McLeod, they went over and knocked. From within came the squeals of children and a dog barking, the scent of simmering food. A minute later, the door opened, revealing a sturdy matron with rosy cheeks and clothes that were old and darned but washed and pressed. Her cap sat neatly atop salt and pepper curls.

“Whate’er you’re peddlin’, I ain’t buyin’,” she said.

“Pardon, ma’am.” Ambrose doffed his hat. “We’re investigators looking into a matter concerning a man who lived across the street—”

“Don’t know ’im, an’ don’t want to know ’im. Now I got a pepper pot o’er the fire an’ no time for palaverin’—”

“Excuse me, ma’am.” Nudging her way forward, Emma dropped a curtsy. “My name is Miss Kent. Who do I have the pleasure of speaking to?”

“Mrs. Gibney’s the name,” the woman said reluctantly.

“We’ll only take a few minutes of your time. And I’d be happy to compensate you for it,” Emma said. “If you’d rather, I can come in and talk with you while you attend to the stew. The gentlemen can wait outside.”

The woman frowned, but her gaze went to Emma’s reticule. “Compensate?”

“Say, five pounds?” Emma said.

The woman’s eyes grew big. “How do I know you’re not pullin’ my leg?”

Opening her reticule, Emma counted out five sovereigns and offered them. “Here you go. Now may I come in?”

“You’re supposed to give the money
after
you receive the information,” Mr. McLeod muttered from behind her.

The woman, who had stretched her hand toward the money, now snatched it away as if burned. Glaring at the Scotsman, she said, “I ain’t a thief. If that’s what you’re suggestin’, you can take your blunt an’—”

“No one’s suggesting such a thing, Mrs. Gibney,” Emma said quickly. “The money is for your time, fair and square. Please take it.”