Chapter 1 #2
The duchess touched herself in a particularly favorable spot. He knew that one. She’d let him stroke her a number of times.
“Did you fuck him?”
Her eyes glittered. “Jealous?”
She actually believed he could care in any way for any woman, particularly her? Given his wild, dissipated ways, very few things amused him anymore.
With a chuckle, Argyll fetched his glass. “Madam, if you believe I’m a man to become jealous over a woman, then you aren’t clever enough to do business with.” Toasting her foolishness, he took a sip.
As it was, he’d tired of his time with her—and her performance.
Argyll’s grin curled into cold impassivity.
“Madam,” he whispered. “Do you take me for a fool? You attempted to join with my rivals. Only when Latimer tossed you over for his new wife did you come crawling to me.” He paused. Now there was a thought.
One she read. “I’ll crawl for all three of you.”
The slick sounds of her stroking herself filled the room. The uptick in the breaths she drew. The raging fire crackled the Devil’s appreciation for the debauchery.
“I assure you they want that even less than I.” For reasons he couldn’t understand, his friend and business partners were monogamous.
Now, there was a thought.
Before he sent the duchess on her way, there was one bit of information to obtain. He may as well enjoy himself while doing so.
The duchess swept regally to her feet.
He gave her a frosty once-over. “I do not remember giving you leave to stand, madam.”
She resumed her pose of compliance.
“What grounds do I have to trust you aren’t now here at Dynevor and Latimer’s behest, Duchess?”
“They—”
“I don’t recall allowing you to stop.” Argyll flicked four fingers her way. “Carry on.”
The lust blazing from the duchess’s eyes leant her an air of madness.
Only when she’d resumed petting herself did Argyll allow her to speak.
“They made a fool of me, Argyll.” She rolled her hips. “I suffered that fate, first at your father’s hands, then my sire’s.” Her explanation came in soft pants. “The man I loved and the woman he chose.” Her composure cracked.
“You, capable of love?” He snorted. “That’s as fantastical as me abstaining from sex.”
The crow’s feet at the corners of her eyes spread.
“I have my pride, and that is all, Argyll.”
He scoffed. “Let us not pretend you and I want for anything, madam. You have the title duchess. A sizeable allowance. Property.” He scraped a stare along her gainly frame. “Given you are standing naked, prepared to crawl for the same man you toyed with for years, pride is the one thing you lack.”
Splotchy color flared across her cheeks. “You bastard!” She pumped her hips angrily at her hand.
Argyll tipped his head. “In everything but name.”
“Do you know what it is to be without any real control, Argyll?” The duchess came as near as ever to expressing real emotion—desperation.
“No,” she spat. “Naturally, you do not. You are a man, a duke. I am a woman.” She drove her fingers harder.
“I’m always at some man’s mercy. And I am tired of being thrown over. ”
“Tell me what it is you really want, madam. Why a gaming hell?”
She opened her mouth.
“Keep that hand of yours busy.”
His naughty reminder drew a moan from the lusty widow’s lips.
“My former love is tied by marriage to The Devil’s Den. The Devil’s Den is joined with the Hell and Sin Club.”
“Ah, revenge on ole Connor Steele?” London’s lead investigator and married to Ophelia Killoran-Steele, a part owner of The Devil’s Den.
“No!”
He gave her a pointed look.
“Fine, some.”
She had options. “Why not go to Craven?” Argyll’s wasn’t the only hell. “Why come to me instead of the first man I ousted from ownership?”
Telling color splotched her cheeks.
“Ah. You already sought Craven out.” He finished off his drink and set the glass down. “Did he even let you through the door?” Not allowing her time to answer, Argyll chuckled. “But of course he did not. Craven is appallingly obsessed with his wife. He’d never let a shrew like you near him.”
“He knows he won’t be able to contain himself around me.”
“Probably.”
Biting her lower lip, she pushed her fingers deep inside herself. “His mealy-mouthed wife is nothing compared to me.” There came an increased frenzy to her thrusting.
Argyll knew the moment he’d become a spectator in her imaginings of seducing a loyal husband—something she’d never had, and never would.
“How would he have taken you?” he asked softly, to not disrupt her. “Hard and fast against the door?”
She gasped and humped her hand harder, faster. “Mmm.”
“Or maybe he’d take you on his desk,” he murmured, keeping her in her fantasy. “His ledgers forgotten while he plowed you.”
Her body jerked.
“His devoted wife would have been listening at the door, weeping, while he plowed you.”
That sent her over.
“If he’d granted me one meeting, one meeting,” the duchess screamed. She ground herself wildly into her fingers. “He’d have taken me right then and there, and we together would rule over Latimer, Dynevor, and you.”
Ah, there it was.
He watched disinterestedly as the duchess rode out her climax.
That’d proven useful.
Panting, the duchess sagged. She shot a hand forward, collapsing a slick palm onto his desk. Her spine stiffened, and her body tautened, marking her return to earth.
“Put your clothes on.” His icy command penetrated her lust-filled haze.
With regal bearing, she gathered her gown. Ensuring his eyes were on her, the duchess proceeded to slither her lush frame into the article.
He’d hand it to the temptress—she was committed to her goal.
He stopped the lady before her approach.
“Dominion over me, madam?”
“Yes,” she cried. “You take your pleasure without apologies. There are no consequences for you. You play god in your little world. Stupid, stupid man, you are all the same!”
“At the same time, you sought out one of us to expand your power and influence? You wanted to rule with us, not over us. And given your lack of restraint, madam,” he said icily, “your dominion over Craven, Latimer, Dynevor, and most definitely me, was never an actuality.”
He stood.
“We are not done talking, Argyll.”
“Ah, my devoted stepmother. What would you like? To dole out a good spanking?”
Interest stirred in her eyes.
“Not even remotely interested.” Argyll tugged the pull.
“George.”
Confusion peeked through the thick layer of desire in the duchess’s eyes.
She whipped her gaze back at the impressive figure framed in the entrance.
No one would call the gentleman overly tall, nor would he be called short, but what he didn’t possess in height, he more than made up for in breadth of muscle.
His feature’s heavy. His thick Roman nose hooked at an angle from several past fights.
“See the duchess out. Now.” He turned to his late father’s wife. “If you’ll excuse me, I’m off to begin the courtship of my future wife.” Argyll grinned. “Dowager duchess will suit you.”
With the affronted lady’s angry shrieks following, Argyll headed above stairs to make himself presentable as a gentleman.
At least, on the outside.
On the inside, he was rotten to the core.