Page 9 of A Tale of Two Dukes

I’m making such a mess of things. Tossing my head back, I roll my shoulders, thrusting my breasts outward. Clumsy as I am, I mimic what I’ve seen the other women do, posing and strutting. I must be performing adequately, because soon, Birchleigh’s gaze drops to stare at the swell of my breasts as I take in a breath.

This is easier than I thought. Perhaps I should stop trying to talk and just allow my body to drive the conversation. Eyes hooded, he splays his fingers around my waist and pushes me back against a wall.

Warmth surrounds me as he engulfs me with his solid frame, driving out all other sights, sounds, and scents. It’s as if we are alone, just him and I. It’s comforting, in a way, safe.

Catching his eyes, I watch, unable to breathe, as he lowers his head, his lips pausing just above my own. Again, my pulse speeds up, pounding so hard against my breastbone, there’s no way he cannot either feel or hear it. His fingers ease over my flushed skin, burning me in their wake.

My insides quiver, drawing a soft moan to my lips as I sway forward, wishing, hoping, needing this first kiss. With a dark chuckle, the duke pulls back, his eyes twinkling as if laughing at some joke.

“Ahhh. That’s the look I like to see. Desperation.” He grazes my bottom lip with his thumb for a moment before pinching it softly.

That small bite of pain zips through my body, causing such curious sensations. Part of me between my thighs begins to throb and ache. Though I’m no bluestocking or given to academics, I do not feel such a correlation is normal. What is there between the two to cause such a reaction?

I tuck that question away in a far-off place in my mind as he threads his fingers through mine and drags me back through the throng of people. At once, the sounds crash in around me again, setting my head to aching and throbbing. I resist the urge to rub my temple, desperately needing to act as if all of this is normal for me.

Soon, Birchleigh drags me into a room far quieter than this one. However, it’s far from empty. The tidbits I’ve heard from the other girls led me to believe they were taken in private for their first time. Far away from prying eyes and wagging tongues. Perhaps he’s changed his mind?

Leading me forward, we stop at a dais, a wooden platform housing all manner of odd things. Just looking at the polished wood furniture, leather, and rope makes me tremble. I have no words for any of this, but, as if by instinct, my body knows no good can come of it.

The moment the duke drops my hand, I turn to run, needing out of this confining space filled with devilish furniture. However, I don’t even manage a step before the masked fiend swims before me. He must have followed us in here.

Pausing, I glance between the current duke as he runs his fingers over lengths of rope and back to the former duke as he glares at me from behind his mask. No, I chide myself. Not former. He is merely a brother, a twin.

But that doesn’t mean he’s not just as deadly. It doesn’t mean he’s not the one to take quill to paper to threaten me and my family. In fact, of all the people who could possibly wish me ill, he’s the most likely.

Unable to move, I simply wait for the duke to grab ahold of my arm, leading me up to my doom. Tears prick my eyes as I look out at the sea of faces, strangers to me, as they take their seats. So it seems as if I am to have a crowd bear witness to my defiling then.

I want to cry out, to beg the duke not to let this happen. But to do so would be to give up any protection I currently have. What’s more important? My virtue or my family? Besides, if I am to be employed by Madame Pain, then it stands to reason at some point this would happen.

Not once did I think it would occur in quite this way. However, given the events that followed since the former Birchleigh had been executed, it makes sense. It’s just one more humiliation to add to the growing list that haunts me.

“Now then, my little adventuress,” the duke breathes behind me, his warmth circling my body once more. “Let us have a frank conversation.”

I turn, blinking up at the man. Now? He wishes to converse now? “Your wish is my command, Your Grace,” I murmur, doing my absolute best to keep my voice calm.

“You are new here, are you not?”

“New to this establishment, but not to the art of pleasure.” Even as I say the lie, my insides cringe.

My words don’t flow as naturally as the other girls. I do not possess the flirty coquettishness they seem to exude. However, if he notices my fumbling, he makes no mention.

“And you have much experience then? Tell me, what is it you excel at?”

I blank for a moment. All the bits and pieces I picked up from the other women disappear from my brain. What is it I excel at? No doubt he will not wish to hear of my skill with the needlepoint or my passable mastery of the pianoforte.

“I- Ummm. I-”

“No need to be coy or play the prim, my delectable little kitty cat. I wish to know which of the painful arts you employ most beautifully. Or is this to be a game where I find out?”

Feigning a confidence I do not feel, I toss my head back, letting the few loose ringlets brush against my shoulders. “Why, Your Grace, if anyone can figure it out, I’m sure you can.”

His lips split into a wide grin as he circles me, looking me up and down. “You possess a paleness to your skin that simply begs for my touch. But shall I mar you with my hands, the lash, or my knife? Preference?”

I giggle, the hysterical sound somehow bubbling from my lips just as daintily as any of these practiced courtesans. “Surely your skill at delivering your… affection… would far surpass my ability to take it.” Inside, however, panic claws at me as I contemplate the idea of a knife against my skin.

“Ah, so you’re telling me you break easily?”

“I break at your command, Your Grace.” At my words, his eyes darken and his breathing deepens. Dear God in Heaven, what exactly have I just agreed to?