How the Dukes Stole Christmas Page 35

  He used his thumb on her swollen nub, pressing and circling, until her legs tensed. “Hurry, Rose.” He clenched his teeth. “You feel too perfect. I cannot last.”

  She threw her head back, mouth open in a wordless scream as her body spasmed around him. Duke let go then, pounding hard, his hips churning. The white-hot release swept up from his toes and his muscles trembled with the power of it. He jerked out of her channel just before spend erupted from the head of his cock, and his hand flew over his shaft as his orgasm went on and on. Finally, his knees buckled and smacked into the wooden cabinet.

  Jesus, was he about to faint?

  When his brain stopped spinning, he braced himself and attempted to catch his breath. “My God, I cannot focus my eyes. You’ve blinded me, woman.”

  Delicate fingers caressed his jaw. “I suspect you will recover quickly.”

  Was that a hopeful note in her voice? He’d love nothing more than to continue this all night. He kissed her slowly, sweetly. “Come home with me where we may do this properly.”

  “Tonight?”

  “Yes, tonight.”

  After a long excruciating beat, she nodded. “All right, I will.”

  Grinning in unholy anticipation, he stepped back to clean up. When they were marginally put to rights, he shoved on his coat and clasped her hand. “You won’t regret this, Rose.”

  Her enthusiasm dimmed for a brief second before she masked it. He wondered over her expression as he reached for the latch. When he pulled, however, the door did not budge. He tried again, yanking harder. Only, he received the same result. “Does this door stick?”

  “I’m not sure. Let me see.” She slid around him and used two hands to wrench at the door. She shook and pulled, her arms straining. “Oh no. Come on, open! You stupid door.” She kicked at the heavy oak with her foot. “How could this have happened?”

  “Wait, are you saying . . . ?”

  Her eyes were wide with panic. “I’m saying we are locked in.”

  Chapter Eight

  Rose watched as the news sank into his brain. “Huh,” was all he said, and dragged a large hand across his jaw.

  Somehow, she’d expected a bigger reaction. Perhaps he didn’t realize the gravity of the situation.

  And why would he? He believes the staff in the house will rescue us at some point.

  Cold dread settled in her chest, replacing any warm and tender feelings left from their encounter a few moments ago. Who knew how long they could be trapped in here together?

  Morning. Henry is coming in the morning. At least they wouldn’t die in this room.

  “I cannot see how there is cause for alarm,” Duke said calmly. “Someone will come looking for you or visit the kitchens eventually. We merely need to continue a steady stream of noise whenever we suspect someone’s about.”

  He made it sound so easy. No doubt he believed it, too. Everything was easy for Duke Havermeyer, even her. A few kisses and caresses and she’d shamelessly lunged for his trouser buttons.

  Stop. You are growing hysterical. She put a hand to her stomach and tried to take a few deep breaths. This night was turning out nothing like she had expected. Moreover, he was nothing like she’d expected.

  He pleasured you with his mouth. He . . . made love to you. You are no longer a maiden.

  And he wanted to do it all over again at his home.

  Part of her was thrilled at the idea; the other part wanted to run away and forget this all happened. Of course, she had to escape this room first.

  “Rose? Are you all right?”

  “Fine,” she lied, closing her eyes and struggling for composure. “Positively perfect. I would merely like for this door to open.”

  His expression said he didn’t believe her. “How about if I try to kick it down?”

  “Please.” He was huge, over six feet. How could one flimsy door withstand the man’s brute strength?

  He removed his evening coat once more, this time handing it to her. Raising one foot, he kicked at the wood nearest the handle, grunting with the effort. The wood rattled, but held. Dash it all.

  They exchanged a brief look and then he tried again—only to get the same result. The door wouldn’t budge.

  Oh God. What would Henry and the other footmen think when they found her and Duke in the morning? How would Mr. Henry Walker explain dressing in the Lowes’ livery to Duke? She bent over, her lungs failing to pull in enough air.

  “Here.” Clasping her hand, he helped her sit on the floor and then lowered himself down. “We’ll wait here together. It won’t be so bad, I promise.”

  She arranged her skirts and tried not to dwell on the minuscule size of the space.

  “Are you uncomfortable in small places?”

  No use dodging the question. He would figure it out at some point anyway. “Yes, I am.” She’d been locked in a closet once as a small girl—a prank by another child—and she remembered that fear so clearly. Now she even left her bedchamber door open at night when she slept.

  “Ah. That explains it. Do elevators bother you, as well?”

  “No, they move, so it’s not quite the same. Also, I’ve never been stuck in one.”

  “Fair enough. What may I do to help?”

  “Other than get us out of here or generate more air, nothing.”

  “Rose, this room isn’t sealed shut. There are gaps around the door.” He pointed with a long finger. “And I see a hole down there by the floor, probably where a mouse—”

  She sucked air through her teeth. “Please refrain from discussing the vermin lurking nearby until we are safely rescued.”

  He chuckled, his shoulders brushing against hers. “I never thought the capable Mrs. Walker would be such a frightened little rabbit.”

  She elbowed him—hard. “Poking fun at me is hardly the best way to keep me calm.”

  He held up his big hands, the ones that had touched her intimately mere moments ago. The memory caused her lower body to throb with satisfaction and longing. As if he sensed the direction of her thoughts, he drawled, “So what shall we do to pass the time?”

  “Not that,” she snapped. They needed sedate activities, ones that would conserve their air. She asked the first question that popped into her mind. “Tell me how you got that scar above your eyebrow.”

  “This?” He ran a finger over the jagged mark, then let out a sigh. “It’s not an exciting story. I constantly escaped my tutors as a boy. Hated being indoors and forced to sit through lessons. One day I slipped out to take a swim and got caught in a riptide. Hit my head on a rock and nearly drowned. It bled for a long time.”

  “How awful. Was it not stitched?”

  A joyless sound escaped his mouth. “My father locked me in my room after. Refused to let the physician attend me.”

  Locked in his room? “My God. How old were you?”

  “Thirteen.” He lifted a shoulder. “I was subsequently shipped off to boarding school. My father didn’t speak to me again for over a year.”

  Her stomach clenched in outrage over this treatment. What sort of monster had raised this man? “And your mother?”

  “She died while I was away at school that first term. He didn’t allow me to come home for her funeral.” He grimaced. “I’ve never told anyone that before. I apologize—”

  “What a horrid man, your father. I’ll certainly never look at his portrait in the Gazette offices in the same manner. It should be taken down and burned.”

  He appeared surprised by her vehemence, momentarily silent as he frowned. “It would be wrong of me to complain. I had more advantages than most.”

  But you had no love, no support. No wonder all the man did was work. He’d been raised and conditioned to do so. “Not all advantages are material.”

  “That sounds like the wisdom of my favorite advice columnist.”

  “Because it is. And, incidentally, if you’d written to me, I would have told you to run away and join the circus.”

  He laughed, the deep so
und filling the small space. “As what? A thirteen-year-old escape artist?”

  “Bigger careers have been started with less.” They sat in companionable silence until she asked, “Is that why you never celebrate Christmas?”

  “I suppose so.” He crossed his long legs at the ankles. “I certainly have no memories of holidays by the fire, roasting chestnuts and stringing popped corn for the tree. My father always worked. Then, once my mother died, I remained at school for the holidays with the few other boys who didn’t go home. We played cards and tried to sneak out to the local dance halls.”

  “No presents? No carols? No mulled cider?” All those things made up Christmas as far as she was concerned—along with good friends. She’d never been lonely growing up.

  “No, no, and no. I take it your Christmases were quite different than mine?”

  “Much different. We had dinners with friends, sang songs, played charades . . . My mother and I enjoyed every minute of our time together. Even now, she prepares my favorite dishes and plays the piano as we all sing carols.”

  “We all?”

  “Our friends are more like extended family.” The staff in the two houses where her mother had worked over the last fifteen years remained close. “There was never a dull moment.”

  “I take it your father is not alive.”

  “I have no memory of him.” Her mother never spoke of her father. Rose had raised the subject over the years, but her mother always had the same answer: Focus on what you have, not on what you are lacking.

  “So do you believe in mistletoe?”

  Her head swiveled toward him. “That bad luck will befall anyone who refuses a kiss under it?”

  The side of his mouth hitched in the most adorably playful manner, the one that caused her stomach to flutter. He slipped a hand into his pocket and produced a sprig of mistletoe.

  “Where did you find that?”

  “I sneaked a piece from the arrangement on your mantel. Wasn’t sure if I might need it.”

  “Turns out you did just fine on your own.”

  He lifted the plant above her head. “Even still, a man can never have too many weapons at his disposal—especially when a woman turns him into a desperate, slavering beast.”

  Her insides melted and she slid her palm over his whisker-roughened jaw. “Then you’d best get to it. I cannot have bad luck hanging over me.”

  He bent toward her, and she held her breath, anticipating the gentle press of his lips, the fire he ignited in her with a single touch. Her body had barely recovered from earlier, but she could already feel the sweet pulse of desire tugging at her insides. With his lips almost touching hers, he whispered, “I’ve never met anyone like you, Rose Walker. You have bewitched me.”

  Lord, this man could be dangerous to her heart. Hoping to prevent any more declarations, she gestured to the mistletoe. “My luck, Havermeyer. You must save me before it is too late.”

  A noise sounded in the kitchens, breaking the spell between them. Someone was out there. Rose sucked in a breath, leaning back to find Duke’s equally startled gaze. He leaped to his feet—he was surprisingly quick for a man of his size—and pounded on the door. “Ho! Let us out of here.”

  Rose joined him. “Hello! Help!”

  After a second, the door flew open and a well-dressed older man appeared, his expression etched with fury. When the stranger spotted Duke, he rocked back on his heels, his anger melting into confusion. “Duke Havermeyer? Who is this woman and what are you both doing in my house?”

  * * *

  “Your house?” Duke frowned at the vaguely familiar man. “This is her house.” He indicated Rose, who had gone unnaturally still at his side.

  The man sneered at Rose from beneath his large mustache. “I have no idea who she is, but I assure you this is my home.”

  Rose stepped forward and began to lead the man into the kitchens. “Sir, this is merely a simple misunderstanding. Please come with me—”

  “This is no misunderstanding, madam.” The stranger halted in his tracks, his tone approaching a shout. “Someone has broken into my home and . . . hosted a party of some sort. I shall bring the authorities here instantly if you don’t tell me what is going on.”

  Duke put himself between the furious man and Rose. “Do not raise your voice to her. It is clear you are confused, but I will not tolerate any disrespect for one second more.”

  “Mr. Havermeyer.” The stranger heaved out a long breath. “I am Mr. Rutherford Miller. We met last summer at the New York Yacht Club. My sister is married to Mr. Jay Cranford, who is cousin to Mr. Walter Cranford.”

  Walter Cranford was on HPC’s board of directors. “Yes, I know Cranford. In fact, he was here earlier. What does all that have to do with Mrs. Walker?” He glanced over his shoulder. Rose had gone pale, wringing her hands as she watched the exchange. Duke lifted a brow at her in the hopes she would clear this all up.

  Instead, Miller answered. “I couldn’t say, but I do know this house is still legally mine. We’ve had it on the market for a few months in an attempt to find a buyer. It has been sitting empty for weeks. Then I received a telegram tonight from Cranford telling me he had met the new owners and congratulating me on a sale that never happened.”

  “Empty?” Duke had to admit, Miller sounded entirely credible—which meant none of this made sense. “I’m confused. If this is your house, then . . .” He spun on his heel. “Rose, did you . . . rent this man’s home for the dinner party?”

  “Not exactly,” she whispered.

  “Then you used it without permission?” Even saying it out loud was madness. Surely, he was wrong.

  Her lip quivered as she drew herself up. “The house had been empty, and we only needed one day and one night. I never thought anyone would notice. We did pay the real estate agent, if that helps.”

  Duke’s mouth fell open as the words fell into place. This was . . . not her house. But the staff? The decor? How on earth had she managed it?

  The details hardly mattered. The relevant part was that she had lied.

  Everything tonight had been a lie.

  The weight of that statement pressed down on him, his heart beating loudly in his ears. He was stunned, utterly flabbergasted. This was not her home. Were those her servants? Where did she and Mr. Walker actually live? No wonder she had offered to pack up the glasses; they had to vacate the premises as quickly as possible, like thieves in the night.

  He rubbed his eyes with the heels of his hands. What if his board found out the evening had been a lie? The possibility turned his blood to ice. Would they assume Duke was complicit, that he’d actively participated in the deception?

  Christ, they would roast him over a spit and eat him alive.

  The newspapers. The company. He must protect both. Nothing else mattered.

  He heard Miller square off against Rose. “It certainly does not help and I shall be firing that real estate agent directly. I don’t know who you think you are, breaking into houses and using them without permission, but I will see you reported to the authorities and—”

  “Stop,” Duke said, his tone sharp. He felt nothing, no anger or fear, merely a bitter resolve for all this to go away. “You’ll do nothing of the sort, Miller. This will be handled quickly and quietly. I’ll see you are well compensated for the inconvenience. My attorney will be around tomorrow. In the meantime, say nothing about this to anyone. Do you understand?”

  Miller grew agitated, his face turning redder. “I want answers, Havermeyer. Who is this woman? Is she a friend of yours? Did you approve of this scheme?”

  He straightened, using his height to intimidate the other man. “I do not owe you answers, so you won’t get them. We apologize for intruding and a team of maids will arrive tomorrow to clean your former home. Along with what I plan to pay you, let’s leave it at that, shall we?”

  Miller appeared like he might argue, then gave a sharp nod. “Fine. I expect to hear from you tomorrow.” With one final glare in Rose�
��s direction, he marched through the kitchen and disappeared up the stairs.

  Silence descended with all the subtlety of a hammer.

  “Was any of it real?” He kept his gaze fixed on the far wall. “Or was it all a lie?”

  “Duke—”

  “Be honest with me, Rose. I deserve the truth.”

  He heard her swallow. “I’m unmarried and reside in a boardinghouse on East Fifty-Ninth Street. The man who posed as my husband is just a friend.”

  He nearly stumbled back at the magnitude of this revelation. Dear God, it was worse than he thought. Absolutely nothing she’d told him earlier turned out to be true. Every bit of it—tonight’s dinner party, her persona, and her marriage—had been false. She had lied to him and the HPC readers for nearly two years.

  It turned out Mrs. Walker wasn’t a recluse. She was a fraud, a figment of imagination. A young girl determined to make a quick buck, spinning lies to further her career.

  Jesus, she was unmarried—and an employee—and he’d fucked her on a counter. A strange combination of anger, resentment, and shame rolled through him. He longed to throw something, to smash every glass in that goddamn larder.

  Shit, the larder. He closed his eyes. Though he dreaded the answer, he had to ask. “Before the pantry, were you a virgin?”

  Her skin turned a dull red and he had his answer. He took a deep breath and counted to ten. For God’s sake . . . How had he not realized this earlier?

  “It hardly matters.” Her voice trembled. “My maidenhead was mine to do whatever I chose with it.”

  “It matters to me,” he said carefully. “I would have been—” He had been about to say “more tender,” but if he’d known of her inexperience, the two of them never would have ended up in the pantry together in the first place.

  “I don’t regret it,” she said, daring him to say otherwise.

  He let that go—for now. Instead, he had to find out the depth of her betrayal to the company. “Do you even write the column?”

  “Yes! Every word. I have friends who help if there’s a question I cannot answer myself.”