Page 10 of A Tale of Two Dukes

I long to step back, to disrupt this spell weaving around us, but I know the darkness harbors someone else who longs to break me. This way, since there is an audience, perhaps the duke will stop before damaging me completely. There’s certainly a better chance of walking away from this alive.

With an indulgent smile, he puts down the rope and slides his fingers across a small wooden table. Several items gleam up from the surface, but the one that catches my attention instantly is the small knife in the center. Did he already plan to use this on me? Or is it a matter of convenience?

A gasp hovers at my lips as he brings it up, letting the lamplight gleam against the sharp surface. Is this what Madame Douler was trying to rescue me from? Is it too late to ask him to stop? To reveal who and what I really am?

Before even a word can slip out, he’s there. His broad shoulders block out some of the light, but even his massive size can’t drown out everything else. It’s as if clarity drips down onto me, alerting me to everything in this room—things I cannot even see.

Somehow, I know there is a group of musicians in the corner, their fingers plucking away at strings. It’s all in an attempt to give this room a more civilized air, but all it does is highlight the depraved darkness straining against the confines of the wooden structure. I can even hear the soft whispers that flit about the room behind me.

Granted, I cannot discern even one word of it, but the sound is still there, like an incessant ringing that grates on my nerves, flaying them alive. And then, there is the man himself, larger than life as he looms above me.

Drowning out everything else, I focus on Birchleigh, drinking in every detail I can. His reddish hair shines in the candlelight, as if they lend him his flame. A light beard covers his chin and cheeks, granting him a more somber air than his twinkling green eyes convey.

I long to reach up and touch his face, to feel the hair abrading my palm. Something to ground me in this moment. Instead, I wrap my arms around my waist, clenching tight as to keep myself from shattering.

Leaning down, he runs his nose along the column of my neck, bringing back that relentless pulsing between my thighs. Though it had stopped while fear wrapped me in its icy fingers, it seems to be back with vengeance.

He’s the first man to ever touch me so intimately. Even my betrothed barely took my hand. And only if it was necessary. This man, this stranger, touches me like he’s known me for years and not just a handful of moments.

I sway beneath his touch. His hands have a curious way of transporting me to another world, one where I’m carefree and wanton. Despite my fear and misgivings, my body wants him. I want nothing more than to curl up inside the haven of his arms.

But then, like magic, as if he knows the thoughts of my mind, he brings up the knife, resting it between the swell of my breasts. Each breath forces my skin to scrape against the edges, showing me just how sharp it is.

It doesn’t hurt. Not yet, at least. But I can feel the violence as it lays there, tightly wound, desperate to spring. My brain fragments a touch as the dichotomy of my situation pounds into my skull.

I cannot move or flee, lest it cut me. I must keep my breathing shallow, controlled, for fear of it slicing through. And yet, all my body wants to do is move away from the threat, to yank myself out of his grasp. All the while, I know full well the consequences of those actions.

Even more agonizing is the fact that my body seems to enjoy this, crave it, even if on some buried level. The pulsing between my thighs only gets worse until I ache, desperate for relief.

But what relief can I have? It’s not as if he can bring the knife lower and cut away the part of me that yearns to be touched. It’s a shameful discovery to know that part of me wants this ruthless treatment.

I don’t understand any of it, and yet, it’s the only thing that makes sense. My mother never shared with me the secret of being a woman. Only that it makes men do crazy, awful things. And yet, as I’m standing here, I want Birchleigh to do his worst, to make me understand what it means to be at his mercy.

It’s insanity, a thought that would land me in Bedlam, or worse. My lips tremble, falling open as I stare into those fathomless eyes. The ones that hold all the secrets of the universe. And then, as he watches me, he smiles.

CHAPTER 5

William

Bloody hell, what this morsel does to me. She’s green, that much is certain, at least to pain, that is. Though she answered my questions with a skill that only comes from working in a place such as this, her reactions to my knife tell me a different story.

It could be that she simply worked at brothels where pain wasn’t part of the equation. But still, that brings up more questions than answers. The only saving grace, the reason I’m playing with her at all, is because I know Madame Douler. She would never employ someone who couldn’t handle our brand of affection.

Still though… Glancing out into the gathering crowd, I seek out the owner of this house and find her curiously absent. I know she was trying to tell me something. Perhaps it was about this girl’s inexperience?

As I do one final sweep, my gaze collides with Hugh’s frosty glare. How, in all of this, did I forget he was still here? That she was to be a lure to hold him in place. Casting all thoughts about the girl’s potential lack of experience to the side, I sneer down at him.

He obviously still wants the girl. Even now, in the dim, flickering light, I can see the swell from behind his breeches. Well then, time to put on a show and fuck this girl until she’s a puddle of satisfaction at my feet. This way, this second son can see for himself the results of being fucked by a duke as opposed to his impotent yearnings.

It doesn’t matter that I’m not technically raised to hold such an esteemed position. It doesn’t matter that I’m an adopted son that just happened upon this title. The fact that any of that cursed lineage lives calls to me to put them back in their place. Any who threatens the crown deserves the depths of hell. Especially when I already sent his look-alike, so similar in everything save eye color and minor details, to his final reward.

Lifting the knife from Kitty’s breasts, I note the intake of air as she takes in a full breath. Such a silly little girl to think I would damage something so beautiful, so precious.

“Turn.” Without a word or hint of protest, she does as I command.

Even if she’s new to the game of pleasure and pain, she’s certainly not new to obedience. Just the simple, graceful way she does my bidding is unlike any other in Madame Douler’s house. To be sure, they certainly do as I say, but not with such elegant submission.

Not like her. Possessiveness roars through my ears as I watch Hugh’s breathing shift. Lust swirls about in his eyes as I loom behind her, wrapping my fingers around the smooth column of her neck. He wants her, and by God, he will watch me have my way with her.