The Naked Duke. Sally MacKenzie
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A NEW SENSATION
Sarah was caught up in the most amazing dream she had ever had. She was in a large, soft bed and somehow her warm flannel nightgown had vanished. But she wasn’t cold. No, she was actually warm. Very warm. There was something large and hot next to her. She was pressed up against it. It felt sinfully wonderful. She breathed in the warm scent of brandy and linen.
She felt a delicious pressure on her lips. Firm yet soft. Like velvet. Seductive. Her mouth moved to explore the new sensation and was rewarded with a moist heat.
Wake up, a small voice said. Something this good cannot be right.
Sarah silenced the voice.
The Naked Duke
Sally MacKenzie
To Mom and Dad
who share my addiction to Regency romances,
and to Kevin, Dan, Matt, David, and Mike
who are a trifle disconcerted
to have a romance writer in the family.
Also with thanks to Nancy and Robert
for reviewing some of the many drafts of this book—
You helped me find my way.
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
About the Author
Chapter 1
The devil was still asleep.
Sarah Hamilton squeezed closer to the stagecoach window. The farmer next to her grunted, shifting his considerable weight to take over the small space she’d made between them. The movement sent yet another fetid blast of yesterday’s fish and sweat her way.
She glanced again at the man seated across from her. Even in sleep, his long, pale face and high-bridged nose were arrogant. She shivered, remembering his icy blue eyes when he’d climbed aboard the stagecoach in London. He looked just like the picture of Satan in her father’s copy of Paradise Lost. This, she felt certain, was her first specimen of the British ton—a lazy, useless, drunken, conceited, womanizing, degenerate product of years of inbreeding.
She swallowed. Her uncle was an earl, for God’s sake. What if he were as cold as this fellow?
The coach lurched around a corner and clattered into an inn yard. Sarah bounced off her neighbor’s ample thigh and cracked her elbow sharply on the wooden panel beneath the stagecoach window.
“Ow-mmmp!” She shut her lips tightly, but it was too late. She’d woken the sleeping man.
Anger flickered in his cold blue eyes. He glared at her, his hard gaze traveling slowly from the wisp of red hair she felt straggling across her forehead down to her dowdy, colorless dress. His upper lip crooked into a sneer. She wanted to vanish into the upholstery. Even the fat farmer held his breath.
Fortunately, the coach door swung open at that moment.
“Green Man!” the coachman shouted. “Best get out and stretch yer legs.”
The man gave Sarah one last glare, then shrugged and turned to push past the coachman. Sarah’s seatmate exhaled a long breath that echoed her own. They watched the man saunter across the inn yard and disappear inside the building.
“Thank Gawd,” the farmer muttered. He squeezed his bulk through the coach door.
Sarah inched across the bench after him. She’d been sitting all the way from Liverpool, and her hips and knees felt as if they would never straighten again. When the coachman offered his hand, she took it gladly. She staggered as her feet touched the cobblestones.
“Ye all right, miss?” Small brown eyes, warm with concern, peered at her from under thick graying brows.
“Yes, thank you. I’m fine.” She released her grip on his hand and reached into her reticule, bringing out two coins. They vanished between his beefy fingers.
“I ’spect someone’s coming to meet ye?” he asked, pocketing the money.
Sarah looked down and fiddled with the strings on her reticule. “I have relatives nearby.”
“That’s good.” He touched the brim of his hat. “Well then, good night, miss.” He leaned closer, saying in a low voice, “I’d steer clear of that cove ye was riding with—the swell, that is.”
Sarah nodded. “I certainly intend to.”
“The fat bloke, he stinks of fish. But the swell…” The man shook his head. “He stinks of…”
“Evil. I quite agree. I do hope I never see the man again.”
She smiled at the coachman and turned toward the inn. It was a sturdy, welcoming building. Light and sound spilled out from its windows. She heard the clatter of mugs and silverware, the raucous laughter of men in the common room. The scent of ale and roasting meat drifted past her, but her stomach rebelled. She was too tired to eat. All she wanted was a room with a bed.
The innkeeper pushed back his greasy hair as she approached the front desk. His lips squeezed together as he examined her wrinkled dress and crushed bonnet. He could not have looked sourer if he had chewed a barrelful of lemons.
Sarah sighed and straightened her shoulders. “I need a room for the night, please.”
“Got no rooms.”
“You must have something!” She swallowed and took a deep breath. She could not appear on her uncle’s doorstep at night, exhausted and filthy. “I’ll be gone in the morning. I’m visiting my uncle, the Earl of Westbrooke.”
The man snorted. “Yer uncle’s the earl? And mine’s Prinny hisself. Get on, girl. I know what yer trade is and ye’ll ply it somewhere else.”
Sarah blinked. “You can’t think I’m…” she squeaked. She swallowed and tried again. “That I’m…” No, she couldn’t say it.
The innkeeper could. “A whore, a doxy, a tart,” he sneered. “I’ll thank ye to get out of my inn.”
Just as he spat out his last words, a tall man with reddish hair stepped into the hall.
The troll behind the desk bowed immediately. “Yes, my lord? Did ye be needing something?”
“Sounds like you’re needing a little milk of human kindness, Jakes,” the man said, his words slurring slightly. He barely glanced at the innkeeper; his attention was all on Sarah. “You wouldn’t really throw this poor damsel in distress out into the night, would you, old man?”
“Ye know this woman, my lord?” The innkeeper shot Sarah a worried glance. She smiled vaguely. She certainly didn’t know her potential savior.
“Well, we haven’t met, but I’ve been expecting