Her Mystery Duke

Her Mystery Duke

Text Copyright 2013 Natasha
Blackthorne

Cover Art by Emmy Ellis
Copyright March 2013

Edited by Ales C. DiIorio

All rights reserved. No part
of this e-book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or
electronic form, including email or IM, without prior written permission from
the author, Natasha Blackthorne, at [email protected], or within the
sharing guidelines at a legitimate library or bookseller.

WARNING: The unauthorized
reproduction, sharing, or distribution of this copyrighted work is illegal.
Criminal copyright infringement, including infringement without monetary gain,
is investigated by the FBI and is punishable by up to five years in federal
prison and a fine of $250,000.

All characters appearing in
this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead,
business establishments, events or locales is purely coincidental.

DISCLAIMER: This e-book
contains explicit erotic scenes and graphic sexual language. Some readers may
consider such content offensive. It is for sale to adults ONLY, as defined by
the laws of the country and/or state where this e-book was purchased. Please
store your files where minors cannot access them.

This is a work of fiction for
entertainment purposes only. Please do not attempt to use this book as a
“how-to” book for any topic. It is not meant to be a guide or a representation
of modern BDSM practices or lifestyles. Please seek the guidance of an
experienced practitioner and/or your personal physician before trying any new
sexual practice. The author, Natasha Blackthorne, will not be responsible for
any loss, harm, injury or death resulting from use of the information contained
in any of her titles.

Dedication

Thank
you to my talented cover artist for making the perfect cover for Her Mystery
Duke. Thank you to my editor, Ales C. DiIorio, for all her hard work and for
helping to make my first venture into self-publishing less daunting. Thank you
to my two beta readers Kristy and Stacey.

Thank
you to Tammy, Carol, Sam, Juanita, Tarah, Patricia, Wendi, Gabrielle, Arbana,
Dana, Elaine, Kristine, Martha, Deborah, and all the authors and readers who
have become my friends on Facebook. Your support and encouragement means so
much.

An
extra special thank you to Alvania Scarborough for being there from the start
of this story idea right down to the very last moments.

Thank
you to my readers for all your support during my first two years of being a
published author. You make it all worthwhile.

Important Note.

HER
MYSTERY DUKE is a work of historical erotic romance. Though it contains
elements of light BDSM, it is not meant to be a guide to or an accurate
portrayal of modern BDSM lifestyles or practices. This story contains graphic descriptions
of sexual acts and frank sexual language. It also contains light bondage, anal
play, sexual toys, cunnilingus, fellatio, masturbation, voyeurism and spanking.

Chapter One

London,
England

January
1813

Indecent. The tall gentleman’s stare was the most blatantly
indecent assault Jeanne had ever encountered. Deeper than intense. Intimate, as
though he knew everything thing about her.

That penetrating gaze set her palms sweating and made her
mouth dry. It was a direct threat. No one could possibly know her. She kept
herself too well protected, hidden beneath layers of aloof disinterest. Yet she
found herself unable to look away. She just sat there and let that gaze burn
her. Burn through the wall she kept between herself and the world. It even seeped
under her skin and melted her blood into warmed honey.

A single pane of rain-splattered glass separated them. The
thudding of her heart in her ears blocked out the sounds from the common room
of the coffee shop and created a sense of isolation.

He wore no hat and his hair lay plastered like spilt black
ink streaked across his high, broad forehead. Rain dripped over hard, chiseled
cheekbones, down an aquiline nose and square jaw, over shoulders that were made
even more impossibly broad by a dark blue greatcoat.

He was like something from a dream. A harlot’s very naughty
dream.

Oh, really. A handsome, mysterious stranger, one who was
intensely interested in her and seemed to know all about her? Her imagination
was running away with her, taking on a life of its own. She closed her eyes and
shook her head slightly. The wine hadn’t been that strong as to make her
conjure carnal fantasies in mid-afternoon. In public. She dared to look again.

The tall gentleman was gone.

There, see? An author of fairy stories couldn’t be fooled by
a waking dream. And yet cold, heaviness sank through her insides, a feeling of
loss. How utterly ridiculous. Irritated with herself, Jeanne bent over her mug,
inhaling the fruity, spicy scent of mulled wine, and listened to the low rumble
of conversations around her. Mrs. Roberts had a new blue bonnet and she was
preening like a peacock. Mr. Taylor announced to his friends that he’d just
become engaged to Miss Smith and his companions were alternately ribbing and
toasting him.

Once a week, she ventured from her garret to this coffee
shop to be among people, as an observer. A customer, keeping a protective
distance.

“Miss Darling.” The slightly nervous, boyish voice broke
into her peace. “You usually come here on Saturday.”

She forced the irritation from her expression and looked up
to meet his freckled face. “Yes, Paul, this week I decided on a change.”

She kept her tone cool and polite, as always.

Mr. Ratherford, her publisher, had sent a note, informing
her that she should present herself at his offices in two weeks and bring the
fairy tales he’d requested. As an author of children’s stories, she’d been
working for months on the stories but she still had one more story to write,
the grand finale in what she hoped would be a published leather-bound volume of
the stories. However, she’d been unable to write for several weeks. The harder
she tried to create a story, the less she liked anything she wrote. Today, that
note had put her into a state of desperation. She’d come here to try and stimulate
her mind. It had worked a little too well judging from the daydream of the
handsome, mysterious stranger.

“A special occasion?” Paul’s words cut into her thoughts
again.

Oh bother!
She
took a deep breath and struggled to find more patience. Once Paul Cook started,
he never let up. But he was just a boy, and a kind one at that. She bit back an
impatient response.

Her concentration, her peace, however: they were gone. Never
mind. The wind was howling with more intensity outside, and the winter’s day
was growing dark far too early. It was time to leave.

As she reached down to retrieve her reticule, the odor of
wet wool intruded on her senses, mingled with the citrus-soapy scent of a
gentleman’s shaving lotion. A body close to hers. Too close. She jerked her
head up and faced her waking dream.

His greatcoat was opened to reveal a fine, silk, embroidered
waistcoat that encompassed a broad chest, which narrowed into a flat-as-boards
stomach. Water dripped from his hair, leaving wet spots on his hopelessly crushed
cravat. He didn’t seem to be aware of his dishevelment.

She met his eyes. His gaze intensified, turning to
brilliant, intimidating greenish fire, like an emerald catching the sunlight.
Thick, dark lashes and heavy black brows made the color appear even richer.

“Thérèse.”

His voice was deep yet hushed and utterly masculine. It sent
another curl of heat through her, stronger, penetrating all the way down from
her chest to her navel and into her womb. However, it was the note of despair
that made her catch her breath.

Pressure swelled in her throat, a pang of sympathy. Sympathy
for others was the most dangerous emotion of all. It could lead one to make
painful, unwise sacrifices.

She’d never had such an immediate reaction like this to any
man. Tingles raced from her midsection to her toes, not arousal this time but
an urge to run. He was dangerous.

And Thérèse? Clearly he was grossly mistaken. Or foxed.

She stood, then took a deep breath, released it, and raised her
brows in a haughty mask. “Pardon me, sir?”

His expression sharpened. He took her arm, harshly. “Don’t
toy with me.”

She pulled back and he tightened his grip. His hand was
large. His hold stronger than any gentleman she’d known.

He leaned so close she could have brushed her lips against
his. “Don’t pretend that you don’t know me!”

His deep, hushed voice sent pleasurable shivers through her
but Jeanne pushed the sensation aside. As his hot breath wafted over her, she
inhaled deeply but couldn’t detect any odor of spirits. Nor were the pupils of
his eyes dilated, as they might be if he were under the influence of some
strong drug. Prickles raced over her scalp like a thousand needles.

Perhaps the gentleman wasn’t in full control over his mental
faculties.
Dear God.
Just like Papa.
She’d spent her youth caring for her father in his varying stages of insanity.
Life with him had become a prison. Since his death, she had lived in fear of
the unbalanced. Another series of prickles raced over her scalp.

She met the stranger’s gaze levelly. “What’s your game?”

“Thérèse, don‘t be this way.” His whisper, laced with steel,
was so low, that she unwittingly leaned closer. “We needn’t make any dramatics
here. We’re going home.”

This near to him, Jeanne noted the glassiness of his eyes.
Again, she sniffed. No hint of alcohol. But then again, having experienced all
of Papa’s variances of sanity, she had an instinct for spotting others who were
likewise afflicted. This man was definitely afflicted in his mind.

This was the exact situation she always dreaded. Since her
girlhood, she always watched others, seeking any sign of madness. She’d had to
cope with Papa, that had been her duty, but she was always careful to keep
others who showed any inkling of mental instability at a safe distance. How
stupid of her to have let herself be distracted by this man’s masculine beauty.

Angry at herself, she jerked her arm, trying once again to
free herself. His grip remained relentless.

“Thérèse!” Again, the low steely whisper. “Behave yourself.”

How unwise of her. An insane person could react
unpredictably. She ought not to provoke him. Yet she knew it was important to
present a strong, confident front.

“Sir, I am not your
Thérèse
and have no wish to be. So please unhand me.” Her heart was hammering at her
chest wall so violently, she had trouble keeping her voice even. She lifted her
chin and stared at him steadily. “Now.”

“You are deliberately pushing me, Thérèse. I don’t
appreciate it.”

Boots sounded on the floorboards. The sound drew her
attention to how quiet the public room had become. She glanced around. The
other patrons were staring.

“Miss Darling, is everything all right?”

The tall gentleman turned to Paul and regarded him with an
icy, haughty stare. “The lady is a friend. Please go back to your counter and
mind your business.”

At the velvet over iron tone, the young man’s eyes grew
round. He took one step backward and then another, then stood looking uneasy.

“Are you having a spot of trouble here, Miss Darling?”

Jeanne turned to face the shop owner, a large,
barrel-chested man.

The stranger exhaled long and loud. A sound of complete
exasperation. “As I told the boy, the lady is a rather close friend. I would
appreciate a little privacy.”

The shop owner turned to her. “Miss Darling?”

Her heart froze and her chest constricted. She placed a hand
to her throat. She didn’t know what to say.

“The gent don’t look right to me.” The owner’s wife squinted
at the stranger.

Jeanne glanced at the gentleman’s handsome profile and the
proud jut of his jaw. He gazed at her sideways and she caught her breath. There
was something about that brief gaze. A lost, disorientated air. Just like Papa
when he had been in one of his worst spells and he was trying to hide it by
acting arrogantly assertive.

But she had seen. The stranger was truly not in his right
mind.

He swayed then braced his large hands on the back of the
chair and caught himself. Arrogance fell over his face like a mask.