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The Devil's Own Duke (Wallflowers vs. Rogues #2)(6)
Author: Lenora Bell

She’d been so busy developing the vineyards. Taking care of everything, managing the estate and her father, solely responsible for the welfare of the tenants and the servants.

Tomorrow she’d return to that life. The thought should have been calming. Her life wasn’t lacking in excitement. Tomorrow everything would go back to normal.

“How do you know what’s in my nature?” He was so sure he had her classified. The buttoned-up spinster. The rule follower. “I could do something outrageous. Something . . . wicked.”

And that’s when the idea took hold. She could have her very first kiss. Her one and only kiss. See what she’d been missing. Just a small, manageable thrill. A test to determine whether kissing was something she’d been missing out on, or something that she could file away in the not-worth-the-ruination category.

“Very wicked, indeed,” she whispered. “I could . . . kiss you, Mr. Ellis.”

He raised his dark brows. “My dear Lady Henrietta, I’m shocked.” The smolder was back in his eyes. He stepped toward her. “What gave you such a scandalous idea?”

Was she really going to do this?

It was like those dreams she had sometimes where everything was so much more vivid than ordinary life and the laws of reality didn’t apply. Where she took a few steps on the lawn and then bounced high into the air, soaring up to meet a flock of starlings and looking down at her vineyards from a bird’s eye view.

The world spread before her.

Endless possibilities.

“You.” She swallowed. “Dancing with you. I feel that I must take this opportunity to prove to myself that my life is not lacking for want of kisses.”

“Kisses are against the rules for proper, unmarried ladies like you.” He advanced closer, setting his empty wineglass on the balcony floor. “Kisses can be dangerous.”

Maybe this wasn’t the brightest idea. He was suddenly much larger and less manageable than he’d appeared only a moment ago. Silvery moonlight in his eyes. His lips curved into that mysterious half-smile, hinting at sensual secrets, promising unknown pleasures.

A small sampling of pleasure. Like the first sip of a new wine from an oak barrel. That moment of tension, of anxiety, and then the flavor, tart and new. Something never before tasted.

Before she could talk herself out of it, she lifted onto her toes and brushed her lips against his.

“There,” she said, when she was finished. “It’s done. My one and only kiss.” She’d felt nothing except a fluttering nervous feeling in her belly and then the firmness of his lips against hers. “I can cross it off my list and never wonder about it again.”

He backed her against the wall, covering her with his powerful body, cupping her face in his warm, strong hands. He gazed into her eyes. “That, my lady, was only the precursor to a kiss. You can’t cross anything off your list yet. This is a kiss.”

As a girl on the brink of womanhood, Hetty had spent far too much time imagining what it would be like to be kissed. Wondering if there were rules to follow, and whether it would be awkward, or if she would magically know what to do.

Would there be a question of what to do with one’s hands? Would the gentleman’s breath smell of something objectionable, such as onions, or would his lips taste as sweet as honey from clover fields? Seventeen-year-old Hetty had heard rumors of tongues.

Twenty-four-year-old Hetty could confirm that rumor.

Mr. Ellis tasted of citrus and vanilla, from her wine, and his tongue . . . well, she was becoming intimately acquainted with it.

He explored her mouth gently, with light kisses and teasing tongue strokes, while his large hands framed her waist, holding her captive against his solid frame.

Her hands spread against his chest, not to push him away, but to be closer, to feel his muscles bunching and the warmth of him permeating her body.

When he gave her pause to breathe, her good sense came rushing back, telling her that this was more than a small taste of danger, and highly improper.

And then the naughty, reckless part of her that wanted to be spontaneous and wicked returned with a vengeance.

The fizz of the wine still buzzed on his lips. His kiss was headier still, bringing her body to life in a new way.

Giddy and breathless.

He kissed a sensitive place behind her ear, his hands stroking her back. Her breasts felt heavy and swollen against his chest.

Kissing was most definitely dangerous. The thrill chasing up and down her spine, the heat flooding her body, pooling in her belly and between her legs.

A restless feeling, a desire to be closer, to have more, more than just a little taste.

Pleasure bubbling inside her mind, a feeling as though she was about to shatter . . . explode.

A sonorous bell sounded in the distance, a rhythmic chiming to match the pounding of her heart. Nine. Ten. Eleven . . .

Midnight!

She pushed Mr. Ellis away, her breathing ragged. “It’s midnight. I must go.” But before she could leave him, a large shape pounded across the balcony, hurtling toward them.

Mr. Ellis pushed her behind him, to protect her from view.

Hetty peered around his shoulder to see who was running down the balcony stairs.

“Oh no,” she moaned. “It’s my father.” Had he seen them kissing? This was a disaster. No time to wonder about that. “I have to catch him!”

She sprinted after him, with Mr. Ellis thundering behind. The duke was halfway across the gardens and heading for the archway when Mr. Ellis managed to catch him by the coattails.

“Let me go!” said the duke, attempting to twist free.

“Papa, stop struggling,” Hetty scolded. “You have to go back inside. It’s midnight and time to choose a bride.”

“I only want a little whisky. I must fortify myself for the task.”

“Is it whisky you want, Your Grace?” Mr. Ellis released his hold on the duke and pulled a flask from somewhere inside his coat.

“Don’t give him—” But it was too late. Her father already had the flask and was drinking thirstily.

“That does take the edge off, I must say,” said the duke. “You have an admirable taste in whisky, sir.”

“Thank you, Your Grace,” Mr. Ellis replied.

“Say.” The duke cocked his head. “Don’t I know you?”

Mr. Ellis cleared his throat. “I believe we’ve met on occasion.”

“The Devil’s Staircase! That’s where I’ve seen you. You’re Ash Ellis.”

“Guilty as charged.”

“Had a capital time there last month. Those barmaids of yours . . .” The duke winked lasciviously. “Prettiest in London.”

“Glad you approved.”

Hetty’s mind was reeling. Mr. Ellis was not some mildly scandalous and rakish cousin attached to one of the guests she’d invited. Mr. Ellis owned a gaming house.

The garden path disappeared from beneath her feet and was replaced by the gaping maw of hell.

“Mr. Ellis. You own The Devil’s Staircase. Then you are . . .” This couldn’t be happening. Surely she was a better judge of character. She wouldn’t have launched herself into the arms of the notorious man the scandal sheets had dubbed . . .

“The Devil’s Own Scoundrel,” said the duke, returning the empty flask.

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