DUKE OF DESIRE
by Elizabeth Hoyt
(October 17, 2017; Grand Central Publishing Mass Market; The Maiden Lane Series #12)
A LADY OF LIGHT
Refined, kind, and intelligent, Lady Iris Jordan finds
herself the unlikely target of a diabolical
kidnapping. Her captors are the notoriously evil Lords of Chaos. When
one of the masked-and-nude!-Lords spirits her away to his carriage, she
shoots him…only to find she may have been a
trifle hasty.
A DUKE IN DEEPEST DARKNESS
Cynical, scarred, and brooding, Raphael de Chartres, the
Duke of Dyemore, has made it his personal
mission to infiltrate the Lords of Chaos and destroy them. Rescuing
Lady Jordan was never in his plans. But now with the Lords out to kill
them both, he has but one choice: marry the lady in order to keep her
safe.
CAUGHT IN A WEB OF DANGER…AND DESIRE
Much
to Raphael’s irritation, Iris insists on being the sort of duchess who
involes herself in
his life—and bed. Soon he’s drawn to both to her quick wit and her
fiery passion. But when Iris discovers that Raphael’s past may be even
more dangerous than the present, she falters. Is their love strong
enough to withstand not only the Lords of Chaos
but also Raphael’s own demons?
Iris tasted of red
wine—the red wine she must have drunk at dinner—and all the
reasons he shouldn’t do this fled his mind. A vital chain broke in
his psyche and everything he’d held back, everything he’d
restrained with all his might, was suddenly set free. He surged into
her mouth, desperate for the feel, for the taste
of her, his wife, his duchess, his Iris.
She was soft and sweet and warm and he wanted to devour her. To seize
her and hold her and never let her go. The deep unfathomable well of
his urges toward her frightened him, and he knew that if she became
aware of them, they would frighten her as well.
But that was the thing—she wasn’t
aware of them. She thought she was simply consummating their marriage
or some such rot, God help them both.
She gripped his naked arms and the beast within him shuddered and
stretched, claws scraping against the ground.
Dear God, he wanted this woman.
But he had to remember—to keep that human part of his mind awake
and alive—that he mustn’t seed her.
Must never do as his cursed father had done.
He broke from her mouth, feeling the pulse of his cock against his
breeches, and trailed his lips across her cheek to her ear. “Come
with me, sweet girl.”
She blinked up at him, wide blue-gray eyes a little dazed.
He covered her mouth again before she could speak—either to consent
or decline—and drew her slowly backward, step by step, toward the
bed, until he hit it with the backs of his legs. He broke the kiss,
looking down at her, her wet ruby lips parted, her cheeks flushed
pink.
She looked edible.
“Raphael,” she whispered, his name on her lips like a plea, and
something within him broke.
This wasn’t what he wanted. This wasn’t right. But it was the
only thing possible and it would have to suffice because it was all
he could do.
And trying to resist was killing him.
He traced a hand up her arm, over her shoulder, to her neck, and from
there touched her bound golden hair. “Will you take down your hair
for me?”
She gasped—a small, quick inhalation—and nodded.
He watched as she raised her arms, her stormy eyes locked on his, and
withdrew the pins from her hair one by one until the heavy mass fell
like a curtain around her shoulders. He bent then and gathered the
locks in his hands, burying his face in her neck, inhaling her.
His woman.
He felt her tremble against him and then her fingers speared through
his hair. “Raphael.”
He lifted his head.
Her hands fell away and she began undressing, her head bent down as
she unhooked her bodice. He saw that her fingers fumbled and he knew
that a better man would turn aside. Would give her privacy to collect
herself and disrobe with modesty.
But he wasn’t such a man. He wanted all
of her—her mistakes and her private moments, her shame and her
worries—everything she held back from the rest of the world. As he
wanted this.
This moment of fumbling.
This moment of intimacy.
She pulled the bodice from her arms. Untied her skirts and let them
pool around her feet before kicking them aside. Glanced up at him and
then worked at the laces to her stays.
Her unbound hair fell over her shoulders, nearly to her waist, thick
and swaying gently as she moved.
Beautiful.
She was beautiful.
She pulled her loosened stays off over her head and stood in chemise,
stockings, and shoes. The tips of her breasts peeked out from beneath
the thin cloth.
She began to bend for her shoes, but he stopped her. “No. Let me.”
He grasped her by the waist and lifted her to the bed.
Carefully he drew off her slippers, letting them drop to the hardwood
floor before running his hand up her left calf. The room was so quiet
he could hear each breath she drew. She watched him as he reached
under her chemise, into that warm spot behind her knee, tugging at
the ribbon of her garter.
Her breath hitched.
He glanced up at her as he found bare skin. Hot, so hot under her
skirt. He could almost imagine he smelled her, standing between her
bent legs. He pulled the first stocking off and moved to her other
foot, smoothing his thumb over her arch, over that high instep, that
sweet, delicate ankle. The curve of her calf—one of the loveliest
curves in nature—elegant and perfect. Someday he’d like to draw
her nude.
The faint, almost inaudible whisper as he pulled the ribbon off
raised the hairs on the back of his neck. His nostrils flared and he
couldn’t wait any longer. He lifted her bodily, moving her farther
up on the bed, placing her head and shoulders against the pillows,
and then pushed up her chemise, crawling between her spread thighs
and settling to enjoy what he’d found.
There.
There she was, her pretty, pretty pink cunny, all coral lips and
wispy dark-blond curls. He hiked her trembling legs over his arms,
ignoring her gasp of shocked surprise. He glanced up once and saw
wide, wondering eyes gazing back at him. Her gentlemanly first
husband had evidently never done this to her.
More fool he.
Elizabeth Hoyt is the
New York Times bestselling author of over seventeen lush historical romances including the Maiden Lane series.
Publishers Weekly has called her writing "mesmerizing." She also
pens deliciously fun contemporary romances under the name Julia Harper.
Elizabeth lives in Minneapolis, Minnesota, with three untrained dogs, a
garden in constant need of weeding, and the
long-suffering Mr. Hoyt.
