A Tropical Rebel Gets the Duke (Las Léonas #3)

Prologue

July 1889

Paris, France

Aurora Montalban Wright was no rebel.

At least that was what most who knew her would say. It was not an unfair assessment of her character. After all, true rebels never bothered with consequences, not when a glorious mission lay in the balance. No one would label Aurora a carefree sort, and that was fine by her. Because what she’d learned early in life was that rebellions cost blood, sweat and tears, and she had none of those to spare. This, of course, did not mean she was above bending a rule—or five—if the situation called for it.

In fact, twice in her past, she’d broken every rule set before her in order to escape her circumstances. Once, humiliatingly, for a man—which came to a disastrous end. The other—equally catastrophic—for her freedom. Despite this, Aurora was not rebellious by nature. It was simply that she was galvanized by the word no . The more she was told she could not do something, the more creative she became at conquering it.

No, Aurora was no rebel, but tonight she felt like one. The worst possible news had come at the worst possible time and she desperately wanted a distraction. In fact, she wanted far more than that, she needed the kind of oblivion that only came from terrible decisions. Thankfully she was in a city where immoral diversions were easy enough to procure, if one knew which objectionable doors to darken.

Her destination, the clandestine apartment of Apollo César Sinclair Robles—a man who’d just claimed his place as the heir to a dukedom by destroying his own father—could be considered a particularly ill-advised one.

As her fiacre came to a stop on the Rue de Volney, she fleetingly considered if there weren’t less potentially disastrous ways to deal with her current mood. Then she felt the weight of the key she’d kept in her pocket for weeks and concluded there definitely were, but she still wanted to do this.

The building looked exactly as she remembered from the night she’d spent here a month earlier. It was one of those modern, luxury apartment buildings near the Parc Monceau, kept by wealthy aristocrats and business titans to commit their more slanderous peccadillos in decadent discretion.

When she reached the door, she took a moment to examine herself in the sparkling glass window. The walking suit she’d donned that morning showed the strain of the day. Her face was framed with wisps of loose curls that had escaped the braid pinned to the nape of her neck. Her hat was a bit more askew than what was fashionable and there was a stain on her left cuff she could not quite identify and was reluctant to smell.

She ought to go home, clean herself up and come another day.

She wasn’t presentable and she was certainly not in a state of mind to interact with someone who had a natural gift for trying her patience. Coming to Apollo for what she needed tonight was the furthest from sensible she’d been in a long time. The thought sent a flash of alarm through her body. She decidedly ignored the cardiovascular admonition.

Undeterred, she pushed the door open and strode right up to the porter with the key dangling from her hand and her heart making another valiant effort at warning her off.

“Oui, madame.” The porter greeted her with the detached politeness of someone too well trained to openly scowl at her clothes, but too French not to appear at least marginally aggrieved at their deplorable state.

“Lord Darnick.” The two words did the trick, and with a nod, he stepped aside and directed her toward the lift operator, who was already pressing buttons.

Clearly, women coming to see his lordship at all hours of the night was a regular occurrence. Not exactly a surprise. From the moment she’d met the man at a soiree months earlier, he’d been an unapologetic reprobate. She’d never encountered anyone who cared less about other people’s opinions than Apollo César Sinclair Robles.

The evidence of that lay in the way he’d arrived in Edinburgh like a dark avenging angel and exposed his father as a liar and a thief. Upending in a single night one of the oldest dukedoms in Britain while establishing himself as its rightful heir, leaving the peerage reeling, and his own father a social pariah.

He was arrogant, rude, and blatantly ridiculed the societal norms she’d so carefully ascribed to. From that first meeting, she’d found herself equally appalled and intrigued by him.

A smile tugged at her lips at the thought of what the new Earl of Darnick would do when she turned up at his apartment and told him she was there for sex, and the more depraved, the better.

He would probably think she was out of her mind.

Out of her mind or not, she had it made up, and whatever lapse this was, she would deal with it in the morning. Four steps forward and two firm knocks were all it took for her, a respected physician, to announce herself at a man’s tryst apartment somewhere between one and two in the morning.

Her heartbeat marked hurried footsteps on the other side, while she took in slow, calming breaths. The moment the door finally opened, it was suddenly clear that she had not properly prepared herself. The rapid escalation of her pulse told the story.

He looked like the very last stop on the train to ruination. All languid grace, and the ease of a man who was well aware of the damage he could do on a woman’s good sense with a mere wink and a smile.

Aurora, to her eternal shame, was not immune to either.

“Bella Doctora, I didn’t know you made house calls.” He spoke in that lazy drawl he always used with her, but there was an alertness to his gaze that betrayed his indifference.

“Don’t call me that,” she rebuked, then remembered she was here to ask for something and tempered her manner with what she hoped was a comely smile. “I came to return your key.” She held it up as she endeavored, and failed, not to gape at the triangle of bronzed, muscled chest. She didn’t dare look below his sternum lest she encountered bare forearms and swooned before she could tell the man what she was about.

“My key,” he drawled, without reaching for it. “After more than a month, you’ve decided to deliver it at one in the morning, on a Tuesday.” He’d given it to her on the night he’d brought her here, after her friend Manuela’s wedding day devolved into a scandal that had all of Paris talking for weeks. She hadn’t seen him since.

“I was looking in on a patient close by,” she retorted, truthfully, dropping the key into the pocket of his dressing gown. The other truth she failed to disclose was that she’d kept the damned key in her pocket like some kind of talisman since he’d given it to her.

“Ah yes, Doctora Montalban and her causes.” His voice dripped with cynicism, as if it amused him that she considered her profession anything serious.

“Why is it every time you call me that it feels like an insult?”

“That might have more to do with you than with me.”

It irked her that his barbs always hit their targets. She’d made an art of letting men’s opinions roll off her back, not a difficult task, since a significant number of men she encountered were imbeciles. But not this earl, not the man who’d ambushed the British aristocracy like Simón Bolívar did with the Spanish at Boyacá.

She wished that diabolical grin of his didn’t start a sizzle under her skin. “Are you going to invite me in?”

He cocked a thick, dark eyebrow at whatever he heard in her tone, but instead of inviting her inside, he braced a large hand on the top corner of the doorjamb, until his very distracting mouth was close enough to kiss. She swallowed audibly when she caught a glimpse of the corded muscle of his forearm, thick veins and dusting of dark hair. Her salivary glands seemed to run out of fluid just then.

“First you have to tell me what you’re really here for, Doctora.” He was showing off his size for her and it was fruitless to pretend it had no effect. Everything about the man eroded every preservation instinct she had.

For over ten years, she’d avoided any scenario that could place her in a vulnerable position. She’d practically forgotten that under her walking suits lived a woman with very real urges and burning desires. Until this man had crossed her path. Since then, he’d been like a toothache. Making himself known, throbbing, gnawing at her, until she’d had to do something about it.

His closeness sent her blood from a canter to a gallop, and her breaths became shorter, more erratic. The undeniable bio logical evidence of arousal and desire. She might as well get on with it. She locked her own gaze with the Earl of Darnick’s, took a breath and leaned in.

“I came here for sexual intercourse, my lord.” It was gratifying to see his predatory gaze replaced by genuine shock. But as expected with a hunter, he recovered quickly.

“Well, in that case, do come in, Doctora Montalban,” he told her with a wave of his hand before stepping aside.

She decided to ignore the sarcasm in his voice and walked into the apartment.

The moment she stepped inside, she was once again surprised by how different this place was to what she envisioned for Apollo’s lair. Instead of a showroom full of ostentatious furniture and excessive gilt, what she found was a comfortable, unpretentious room. He had an impressive collection of books. One of which was sitting open on the armrest of a chair by the fire, next to a tumbler of amber liquid. He also collected art, which to her astonishment was tasteful and interesting.

He was rich, handsome, well-read and had an uncanny eye for art. Not that any of it mattered to her. She was not here for a marriage proposal and took a few steps toward her place by the bookshelf.

She was not here for a marriage proposal, she was here to return his key, and avail herself of his body. When she turned to look at him, she found him leaning against the door, his expression dark as he ran his eyes over her, then he pulled a watch out of his pocket.

“I’ve got an hour before my next rendezvous arrives,” he informed her from his loose-limbed stance. He was obviously trying to irk her, but he would not get the best of her tonight.

“I’m surprised you didn’t have them lined up outside the door.” He grinned at her. The tip of his pink tongue caught between a line of straight, white teeth.

“Bosom size makes things go faster.” He made that declaration while openly admiring her chest. His eyes perused her so lasciviously she almost covered them.

“You’re a pig.” A crack of his laughter resounded through the small space.

“I assume that’s at least partly why you’re here,” he retorted with frustrating assertion, before pushing off from the door and taking a few steps toward her place by the bookshelf. “Let’s reserve the endearments for later and see what we can do about all these clothes you’re wearing.”

“What?” She sounded like a dolt. This was what she’d told him she wanted. What did she expect after propositioning a scoundrel? Sweet nothings in her ear, passionate declarations?

“Your clothes, sweetheart.” He wiggled two fingers somewhere in the vicinity of her chest. “The infernally unending layers of fabric you insist on wearing. They give a man a devil of a time surmising what you’ve got under all that wool and linen.” He made a face, and her mouth twitched. Of all the things to fluster the wicked Earl of Darnick.

She took another look at him, those winged cheekbones, skin like the most perfect caramel, and the umber curls, which made her think of days in bed and rumpled, sweat-soaked sheets. It was a face a woman could ruin her life over. It was a good thing she’d already done that once and had no intention of ever doing it again.

“This is just for tonight.” It needed to be said, but he remained unbothered.

“That you don’t need to worry about, sweetheart.” He lifted a shoulder, his gaze still suspended somewhere below her neck. “I’ve never had much craving for seconds.”

She shrugged and looked away, what more was there to say to that?

“I’d appreciate it if this stayed between us.”

“Keeping secrets from your pride, are you?” he asked in a mocking tone. He was referring to her two dearest friends. The friends with which she arrived here in Paris months earlier: Luz Alana and Manuela. The only two people in the world who knew every one of her secrets, except for this one now , she thought grimly.

“My dear sister-in-law will be scandalized to know you’ve come to me in your hour of need.” Of all the unlikely twists of fate the last few months in Paris had yielded, Luz Alana finding a love match with a Scottish whisky distiller, who turned out to be an earl and Apollo’s half brother, had been one of the most surprising.

“It is not as if you’re the Marquis de Sade, you’re just convenient.” He laughed again and this time it reached his eyes. “Besides, Luz Alana and Manuela have their own lives.”

“True love is miraculous.” For her friends, it seemed to be. She’d seen enough people entrapped into those cageless prisons of duty and guilt to have any use for the sentiment.

But even she had to admit, Luz Alana and Manuela seemed to have found partners worthy of their devotion. She was glad for them, but that was not what she searched for.

Her friends believed in love worth any sacrifice. That soulmates and fairy tales were possible. Aurora did not. Not for herself, at least. She was too…marked. Too jaded to ever believe in the lies of the heart.

Love, for her, had only ever served to remind her of the ways she never quite measured up, how hard it was for her to inspire that sentiment in another, and she would never again risk her freedom for that chimera. She had a feeling Apollo César Sinclair Robles, in this at least, was a kindred spirit.

“Why are you really here, Doctora?” Apollo asked, taking another step in her direction. He was merely a couple of feet away now. From this distance she could see that his lips had a pink tint to them. She allowed herself the distraction of that perfect mouth for a moment as she considered his question.

She could confess that this very evening she’d received a letter from her brothers informing her they’d suspended her ability to withdraw funds from her trust. She could tell him she’d been using those funds to operate a clandestine clinic that helped women in a certain kind of trouble. She could even say that the friend who delivered the correspondence had seen the man who’d ruined Aurora at the of age fifteen aboard a steamer headed to France. She might even admit that the possibility of running into the villain of her past made her so sick with dread and shame she’d run here, to Apollo. To ruin herself again, by choice, this time. But none of those pitiful confessions would be conducive to what she’d come here for, not comfort or solace, but escape.

“Let’s just say I’m in a fairly destructive mood,” she declared, looking at him square in the eyes. “I would very much like to do something utterly ruinous and you were the first thing that came to mind.”

That damned grin… The road to hell had to be paved with renderings of it. “ That is one of the nicest things anyone has said to me.”

In reality, all she wanted was to prove to herself that her body still belonged to her. She’d been a girl the last time she’d allowed a man to touch her like she wanted to be touched this night. She’d been so eager to please then, so grateful for any kind of affection. A sad, lonely child desperate for any sort of connection. That sad girl still lived in her, but along the way, she’d learned to be selfish too. She’d also learned to please herself when she could.

A man like Apollo was quite the self-indulgence.

“May I?” he asked, bringing a hand to the top button of her jacket. Her stomach gave an anxious swoop at the touch, but she made herself bow her head in assent. With practiced ease, he flicked the small black buttons with one hand while he kept his gaze locked with hers. That persistent regard should’ve unnerved her, but she found it oddly riveting. It was as if he was forcing her to stay with him. To not allow her mind to wander from what was happening in her body.

Once he was done, he lowered his head until his lips brushed the shell of her ear.

“You’re quite skilled with buttons,” she said a bit breathlessly, if only to keep from begging for him to tear the rest of her clothes off.

“Well, I’m not just a pretty face.” He was using that teasing tone again, but this time, she thought he intended her to be in on the joke too. Aurora could not be bothered with humor in that moment. Not with him so close. She’d had no idea what his hands would feel like, or how she would react to it. It had been so long for her and those memories were not exactly pleasant. But she hadn’t expected anything so…alarming. The friction of his mouth on her skin ran through her body like flashes of lightning along the sky. It made her knees weak.

“Are you certain this is what you want, Aurora?” he asked, and her name on his lips turned that lightning into thunder.

For once, his voice was devoid of any affectation, his eyes clear of any ridicule. He was giving her the chance to reconsider. Instead of gratitude, she was suddenly irritated. Wasn’t this man a supposed scoundrel? What would it take for him to treat her like a trollop?

“Despite your assessment of my condition of hopeless spinster,” she told him cattily, “I can assure you, this is no deflowering, I’m no maiden, Darnick.” If he was surprised, she could see no evidence of it on his face.

“Is that so?” he asked, seemingly unimpressed by her confession to a shocking past. “I assure you there’s nothing maid enly about what I want to do to you.” He purred as he coasted perfect lips over the curve of her neck, up to her jaw. Her body swayed toward his, the urge to touch him winning out over her usual restraint. “And I’m beginning to grow fond of that sharp tongue of yours.” She gasped as his fingers slid up her back to the nape of her neck and held her in place as his mouth continued its wicked exploration.

“You talk too much,” she complained, then immediately felt the ghost of a smile brush against her skin. He palmed her neck possessively as he coaxed her lips with gentle, velvety slides of his tongue. She parted for him and he made a sound that set off fireworks in her belly. She remembered this part not being to her liking. Philip, she recoiled internally at the mere thought of his name, had been aggressive. His tongue drilling into her mouth. But Apollo’s kisses were the most seductive invasion. Pushing in just enough to weaken her defenses, then quickly retracting until she was the one chasing after more nips and little kisses.

She needed more contact, hungered for it. Her body softened and he caught her by the waist, holding her up as he took her mouth with breathtaking skill. She never knew a man could make love to a woman’s lips, but if there was one to do it, it would be this devil with the face of a god.

“Is this what you wanted?” he asked, before latching his mouth to hers again.

Oh yes, she thought, this was what she’d come for. This man’s mouth would make her forget. When he pulled away, she gasped in protest, her hands scrambling to bring him back.

“Who are you rebelling against tonight, Fiera?” Her body reacted to that last word. A hot, languid sensation spread through her even as she narrowed her eyes at the irritating precision of his words. He’d called her a wild woman, a ferocious thing. It was exactly who she was tonight.

Then, be it , she told herself. Se feroz.

She closed the space between them again, and strong arms came around her. She shut her eyes and swayed her head. Playing the part of the swooning virgin to his ravishing rake.

“This is no rebellion, my lord,” she told him, her lips grazing his collarbone. His breath hot against her face. “Let’s call it a reclaiming.”

He stiffened, as though her choice of words caught him off guard, but in the next second, he was lifting her off the ground.

“I will be gentle,” he told her, and she made an offended noise, which pulled something out of him that in any other man would’ve been called a giggle. “Unless, of course, that’s not to your liking, Fiera.”

In fact, it was not to her liking.

Philip had demanded she lay perfectly still. Like an inanimate object while he rutted against her. And she, little fool that she’d been, had thought it all so romantic. The consummation of all her dreams. The thought of how stupid she’d been made bile crawl up her throat.

Pendeja.

“My previous experiences involved being treated like a doll,” There was no hiding the bitterness in her tone. “I’d like something a bit more inventive.” He cocked an eyebrow at that, his eyes penetrating. She made sure she gave away nothing. Apollo didn’t need the details. Rogues never did.

“How far into the realm of depravity are we talking here?” His hand had traveled behind her head again and it seemed he was as good at taking out hairpins as he was at undoing buttons. “Know that the more depraved, the better,” he whispered, but she was much too entranced by the brush of his fingers in her hair. He tugged and pulled until she felt the long braid coming loose at her back. “This is magnificent,” he told her, as he finally undid the braid and her dark brown curls spread over her back and shoulders.

It was her one vanity that she kept it too long. Which meant it was almost always in a braid, to keep it from her face when she worked. Of all the places for him to focus on, she never thought this was where a rake like Apollo Sinclair would begin. But the man was only predictable in his unpredictability.

They were standing so close she could see the catch and release of his breaths. His scent of leather and cedar enveloped her. She was very tempted to reach out. She was wearing gloves and wished she were brave enough to take them off so she could run the back of her hands over his cheeks.

“I’m not afraid,” she declared into the small space between them.

He looked at her curiously, as if he could tell that statement had been more for herself than for him.

“Can I ask a few questions?” His voice was so soft she wondered if she was not doing a very good job of hiding her nerves.

“Yes, but I reserve the right not to answer.” He laughed, a low, rumbling sound that crept deep into her bones. Made her limbs heavy, made her aware of a pulsing ache between her thighs. It made the want grow into something more like need.

“All of my questions have to do with extracting every ounce of pleasure from you as I can.”

He went to her right hand and pulled on the tip of one glove, and she stiffened, suddenly self-conscious.

“I must say, I didn’t think this would be the part of your body I’d encounter resistance.” He kept his voice light, but his eyes were intent on her face.

It was silly, but she didn’t want him to see her hands. Hers were not the soft, delicate hands he was almost certainly used to. They were rough, angrily red in places where the carbolic acid she used to prevent infection in her clients irritated her skin.

“They’re very dry and scaly,” she said in a caustic tone, angry at herself for her embarrassment. “Working hands, which might be a foreign concept to you.” She could see the calluses on his palms even as she said it. She’d been exceedingly rude, but there was no anger in his eyes at her words, just more of that puzzling inquisitiveness. When most men would recoil at her barbs, he seemed to take them as a challenge.

“I had to work in the coffee harvest for my uncle down in Antioquia every year until I left for school.” He showed her nicks and cuts on those beautiful, big hands. “I know the work you do, Doctora.”

“All right,” she sighed, tugging the gloves off brusquely, then lifting her bare hands for his view. “Happy?” He took one of them in his, rubbed his thumb over her flaky knuckles, touched the angry red spots where the chemicals burned her sometimes.

“A healer’s hands,” he observed in a voice she’d never heard before.

He placed a butterfly-soft kiss on her palm. She sighed at the contact, self-conscious and moved by the gesture. When he took the other hand, he suckled the tip of each of her fingers, which had a different effect on her. From her hands, he moved on to the remaining garments on her person.

She was on fire by the time he had her just in her chemise.

“No corset,” he remarked admiringly, before taking a step back without letting go of her hands.

“The things I’ve seen corsets do to women’s bodies would give you nightmares for the rest of your days.” She could not seem to be able to talk to him without lecturing. But if he caught her tone, he didn’t seem bothered by it. He was much too busy cupping her breasts over the muslin of her undergarments.

“It’s criminal to hide this under all that wool and linen.” His eyes were hot. His big hands massaged the slope of her breasts, flicking a nipple with his nail, which incited a feline bowing of her spine. She’d never been touched like this, and she liked it.

It was carnal and yet so gentle. So devastatingly tender.

“Do you like having them kissed?” The question stumped her. She’d thought he’d begin with something simpler. Easier to answer without blushing. She could just not respond or she could lie, give him an impression of her experience which provided some armor for what was about to happen, but she had the feeling that being honest would not put her at a disadvantage with him.

“I hope to find out tonight,” she remarked, honestly. He raised an eyebrow, obviously wanting to ask more. She braced herself for it, but instead he continued to caress her breasts. Each time he ran the pads of his fingers over one of them, the sensation shot a current of pleasure to her core.

“May I see them?” His fingers were poised on the top button of her chemise.

“Please,” she breathed out, shivering from the effects of his light, sensual touch. She’d thought of Apollo as a hunter, one who would make quick work of his prey, but Lord Darnick would not be rushed.

His mouth was right on her clavicle, and she had to start mentally reciting the bones in her hand to keep from moaning.

“I find many things about you arousing, Doctora.” She wished she could open her eyes. Watch him as he mouthed at her skin. Look at his fingers flexing into her flesh. She imagined her muscle and bone reacting to his hands. Molding to them. Had a silly thought of his heat searing past layers of flesh until he warmed up the coldest, darkest parts of her soul. “I’d love to lay you out in the sunlight,” he told her as he suckled one of her nipples over the fabric, with such ardor that she found herself clutching handfuls of his shirt. “I’d love to learn if they flush with a hint of red like your cheeks do.”

“I know you enjoy conversing, but if you could please do more of what you just did with your mouth,” she urged. He let out a surprised laugh before applying himself to tracing her areolae with the tip of his tongue.

“I have a very detailed program for my tongue, involving every inch of you,” he promised as he focused on undoing her skirts. He divested her of her boots and stockings with impressive alacrity, and in seconds, she was sitting on his sofa with Apollo kneeling at her feet. He traced his hands over her ankles, her calves, the underside of her knees. He’d removed his dressing gown, but he still had on his shirt and trousers. But even under the fabric, she could see powerful muscles contract and flex.

“Are you certain of this?” he asked her as he parted her knees.

“Please don’t ask again, or I’ll start to wonder if you are.” At her words, he leaned in and caught her skin between his teeth and growled.

“I’ll have to work to remedy that, then.” He offered her a disarming smile that made her insides quiver. Then applied himself to her debauching with the same intensity. She groaned as he ran his fingers along the inside of her thighs.

“I have French letters.” He shook his head.

“We won’t need them tonight, mujer,” he informed her, then kissed the spot where his fingers had been. What did that mean? Was he only…? The question fled her mind when his fingers parted her sex. That deep ache worsening with every touch. Her previous experience had allowed no time for anticipation, those few occasions had been awkward and painful, and left her feeling repulsed with herself. She knew now, of course, that it didn’t have to be that way.

Tonight she’d hoped for an equally impersonal if more pleasurable experience. But Apollo refused to let her go into her own head. He kept pressing his hands into her, lapping at her skin.

Whispering things that didn’t allow her any distance from what she’d asked him to give her.

“You are a luxury,” he muttered against her skin. “Every inch of you is delicious.”

She sighed as she watched him work, the way he discovered more places to kiss. She shivered, her hand fisted at her side as he left small, teasing bites along her thigh, up and up until his lips were so close to where she needed him.

“Apollo,” she panted, her fingernails digging into the cushions as he tortured her.

“This is lovely,” he admired, as he played with her mound of curls. With one finger, he pierced the seam of her. “Look at me,” he ordered as he continued to stroke his thumb up and down her swollen labia. With great effort she opened her eyes and found that bone-melting gaze fixed on her. “What?” she asked, much too breathless to actually sound as peevish as she intended.

He grinned, teeth flashing white. “It’s only fair I receive a medical lecture in exchange for my efforts.”

“You want a lecture, now?” she practically sobbed.

He nodded, gripping her hips until her bottom was at the edge of the sofa, his mouth just inches from her heat. “See, I was absolutely terrible in anatomy class,” he pretended to explain, as he applied burning flicks of his tongue to her skin. “I could never remember the proper name for any of the important bits.”

“Won’t that be distracting?” she breathed out as he pushed her chemise up to her waist.

“Take it off, Fiera.” His voice was barely above a whisper, but she found herself doing his bidding. Something wicked stirred in her, a need to have him see all of her.

As she pulled the muslin over her head, she heard him make a sound that was something between a growl and a grunt.

His big shoulders nudged her thighs apart as he focused on her sex. “Lie there and let me work.”

She winced at his words, which were an unwelcome reminder of her previous experience. Apollo was nothing like the man she’d been stupid enough to almost throw her life away for, but the request for her to “lie there” brought back unwanted memories.

You’re much too wanton, Aurora. If people knew how shameless you are…

“Are you still with me, Fiera?” He tugged on her curls, bringing her focus back to him, then buried his nose in that hot, aching place.

“Yes,” she breathed out, as his mouth did something depraved to her sex.

“I’d like my lesson now,” he demanded, petting her mound.

“That’s the mons pubis,” she gasped as he inhaled her. He left traces of fire all over her skin. She wanted to touch him, but she couldn’t. She didn’t want to seem too eager, to show him a need he could later throw in her face.

“I like your scent,” he whispered, as he took her in again.

Even as her mind reeled, her body still reacted to his touch. A point of boiling-hot need grew into a chasm inside her as she watched him. “So wet, mi Fiera,” he admired as he administered the filthiest of massages. The pads of his fingers slid over her wet flesh. He plucked her open and licked that secret place until she cried out.

“So pretty and pink.” He scraped his teeth against her sensitive skin. Making her moan. “The prettiest brown,” he whispered, then pierced her with two fingers. “You make me feel like a starving man, Aurora.” He looked up at her then, and she almost looked away. His eyes were hot enough to set her on fire.

“That’s the labia minora,” she gasped when he slid the tip of his tongue along it. He lapped at her, so achingly slow. Once, twice, then faster until she was panting. She whimpered when his fingers tapped on the tight bud. Her mind began to swim, and her limbs felt liquid, and her existence seemed to whittle down to the place where his mouth met her skin.

“I think I know this one.” He pulled the clitoral hood and blew on the nub until she was shaking all over, begging him to do something, anything to give her release. “Yes, sweetheart,” he muttered, and she moaned in response. “You needed this,” he crooned as she writhed into his ministrations.

“Apollo,” her voice didn’t sound like hers, hoarse and reedy. Like she’d been screaming for hours.

“How you move.” His voice sounded almost admiring. He palmed her hip, cupping his hand around it as she rocked in a rhythm that sank his fingers deeper inside her. “You love this. What idiot made you think you should keep all this leashed?”

“Don’t speak about that,” she pleaded, not wanting any memories of Philip Carlyle tainting this.

“Shh,” he soothed. “It’s just you and me here, Fiera.” Soon his mouth was back, right where she needed it. His tongue stroking her sensitive flesh until she thought her heart would explode.

“Oh.” She could not keep quiet, her back arching as the orgasm tore through her. She moaned, cupping the back of his head as he ate at her. His fingers and tongue relentless.

After he’d managed to pull out another orgasm from her, she slumped against the sofa, eyes closed and her legs as limp as wet noodles.

“I will not ask for an assessment of my skills,” he finally said, while she struggled to regain her faculties. “Your tongue is much too sharp, but I’ll take your near-comatose state as a stamp of approval.” She merely shook her head and threw her other arm across the one already over her eyes.

Blindly she reached for her chemise and slid it over her head. When she opened her eyes, he was still kneeling in front of her. Impulsively she brushed an errant curl at the center of his forehead.

“I should reciprocate,” she told him, her gaze fluttering down to his crotch. But before she could reach for him, he took her hand and kissed the roughened palm again.

“You should be more selfish, Fiera.” She didn’t like the way her heart pounded when he called her that. It tempted her to ask for things she never wanted to need. “I was desiring a distraction this evening and this was a most welcome one,” he told her, lifting to his feet. The dismissal smarted, but she’d told herself a hundred times tonight this was precisely why he’d been the ideal man to do this with.

By the morning, he wouldn’t even remember she’d been here.

“I should go,” she told him, in as airy a tone as she could manage when she was still fairly out of breath. But his attention was no longer on her. He was serving himself a drink.

“Rum?” he asked, as he went to the decanter.

She shook her head. “I’m not much for spirits.”

The last thing she needed was alcohol in the mix. Her body thrummed decadently, aches and sore spots that should’ve made that familiar shame erupt in her, but somehow did not. She thought this would quelch the disquiet in her, but now she was confronted with the fact that once did not feel like enough.

When he didn’t answer, she decided she’d probably outworn her welcome and reached for her skirt. She slid her shirt on next, grateful for her sensible clothes that did not require a lady’s maid’s assistance.

“Are you one of those ladies who march for the temperance movement?” She sent him a cutting glance and focused on buttoning up.

She took no offense to the assumption. She knew women who advocated for the prohibition of spirits. Having worked in the care of women, she’d seen firsthand what happened when violent men vented their drunken frustrations on their wives.

“No,” she told him, reaching for her boots. “I just don’t drink on an empty stomach, and I assume you still don’t have anything to eat in this den of iniquity.” For some reason, her taunt seemed to deflate the tension from the air. When she turned to Apollo, he didn’t seem quite as aloof.

“I’m afraid the only things on offer here are sin and vice.” That sardonic smile was back in place. She was looking around for her jacket when he pulled open a drawer on the sideboard and lifted out a wooden box. “Chocolates count as vice, do they not?” He lifted the lid, and the aroma of cacao filled the room. “It’s Ecuadorian cacao, made in Switzerland.”

“If it were an éclair or a canelé, perhaps I’d be tempted,” she prevaricated. In truth, she was more than tempted, mostly by him, but lingering here was not a good idea. “I should head home, I have surgeries tomorrow.”

“I’ll have the porter call you a carriage,” he offered, but once again, she shook her head. This gentlemanly side of him distressed her. Did the man think she would launch herself at him, if he came too close?

“That’s all right,” she said, moving toward the door. For a long moment, he just stared at her, and once again, she got the feeling that he was attempting to extract her thoughts from her mind.

“As you wish,” he finally said, reaching for her jacket, which he’d apparently settled on the back of the armchair. He held it up for her.

“Thank you.” Awkwardly, she lifted her arms for him to slide it on. When he didn’t back away from her, she almost leaned against him. Wondered if he’d wrap his arms around her if she did. But that was not what she wanted. She didn’t need a man to rely on, she could stand on her own two feet.

She turned to face him and let herself admire him for a moment. He was beautiful, a man who turned heads in whichever room he entered. A peacock when she, even on her best day, was barely an above-average crow.

“This was an invigorating evening, my lord.”

“It’s ‘Your Grace.’” She was so consumed by her own conflicting feelings it took her a moment to understand what he’d said.

“I’m sorry, what?” she asked, dumbly.

“The manner in which you addressed me is no longer appropriate.” He said the words very quietly, but something about his expression made the hairs on her arms stand on end. “You were not the only one in a volatile mood this evening, Doctora.” His mouth lifted into a self-mocking grin. “It appears that as of this morning, I am to be referred to as ‘Your Grace.’”

“Tu padre—” she began, turning to Spanish for some reason.

“Is dead,” he confirmed, then exhaled. “It seems I’ve finally gotten what I wanted.”

In the darkness of the room, she could not see his face clearly, but the words descended like a heavy cloak. She couldn’t imagine what he was feeling. She had a complicated relationship with her own father, but what his own had done was unforgivable. The man had abandoned him after his mother died in childbirth, then absconded with her fortune back to Scotland. And now he got to carry that man’s legacy.

“How do you feel?” She didn’t quite know what exactly she referred to. The fact that his revenge was now final, the dark legacy he was now stepping into, that he was now an orphan.

“The funny thing about revenge is that one never thinks about what happens after.” He didn’t seem like the kind of man who failed to think ten steps ahead, but she supposed even the Apollos of the world might contemplate failure when the adversary was the British aristocracy. Then again, he probably thought he’d have more time. “For now, I’m quite content with the knowledge that my mere existence will forever be cause for gnashing of teeth the empire over.”

“I’m surprised their opinions would matter to you.” It was one of the things she admired about him. Not that she would ever tell him.

“Their discomfort matters greatly to me.”

That might be true. She could certainly see Apollo taking great pleasure in driving all the society snobs absolutely mad. But she also knew what it was like to not be wanted in a place you should belong. He wanted justice for his mother, but perhaps he also wanted to be recognized by his peers, such as they were.

“You could set an example,” she heard herself say, and immediately regretted it. This man didn’t need her advice and he certainly hadn’t asked for it, but she was who she was and opened her mouth again. “You could be better, show them that they’re the problem, that the rot is in them.”

“I’d have to be a better man for that, Doctora,” he told her with a shrug. “We can’t all be martyrs for our cause.” She’d expected a cynical answer, but she’d been there that night when Apollo confronted his father and exposed him for what he was. She’d heard his voice shake with fury when he’d said his mother’s name in front of all those people and sworn to the Duke of Annan he’d make him pay for what he’d done to her.

“Violeta.” The name had an instant effect on him. That lan guid body, stiffening with alertness. “I remember you saying it on that night in Edinburgh.” His face crumpled, and for a fleeting instant, he looked as lost as the child he must’ve been.

“Yes,” he croaked, then took a long drink of rum. “That is my mother’s name,” he told her, in a voice which seemed to come from very far away.

“Her legacy’s the one that matters,” she told him. If she was expecting a reaction to this, she did not receive one. Apollo’s mask of indifference was solidly back in place. He probably didn’t want to hear her opinions, she certainly wouldn’t have wanted to if she were in his shoes.

“Good evening, Doctora,” he told her, clearly wanting her gone.

And what did she think she was doing here? Coming to an aristocrat for this? She thought she’d learned her lesson, but perhaps not as well as she would’ve liked to.

“Congratulations, Your Grace,” she said, before opening the door and walking out of the apartment.

It was only after she was in a fiacre on her way home that she noticed the key was back in her jacket pocket.