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Something to savor, a secret only they shared. A mistake, surely, but a glorious one, a memory to relive slowly in her bed at night.
“That was quite a kiss,” he whispered, his lips nuzzling at her ear.
Blast. He remembered the kiss. Did that mean he remembered who she was?
“Were you dreaming about a kiss, Your Grace?” she asked innocently.
“Yes. And so were you.”
“Your Grace,” she said firmly, “kindly refrain from talking. It’s taxing your strength. You need a b—to rest.” Better not to mention beds again.
“Good idea. I’ll conserve my strength for later. In bed.” His head lolled to the side and he stopped talking.
Conducting the prodigiously heavy and woozy-headed duke up a narrow flight of stairs was a tricky task. If she and the servant weren’t careful, their charge would fall backward and drag them down with him.
“I’ve escorted many a drunken lord to his bed in this very manner,” said Crankshaw, breathing heavily as they made slow progress up the stairs. “Oh, the stories these walls could tell, madam. But you won’t hear them from me. The wanton orgies. The pleasure chamber with its shameful secrets. You won’t hear about the women, either. Three of them to a bed, sometimes. The wife of the Lord Mayor once. Ah... she was a rare one...”
As they slowly conquered the stairs he regaled her with lurid stories, interspersed with protestations of his utter discretion in all things.
One should never tell Crankshaw a secret. That much was clear.
Propositioning Rafe had seemed a simple matter when she was making her plans. He wouldn’t have to reform entirely. A spy had to use all weapons, including seduction.
However, she never could have imagined the details of his debauched life. Three women in one night? Had he taken precautions against contracting diseases or conceiving unwanted offspring?
For that matter, were there failsafe precautions against such things? It seemed she had more research to do. She hadn’t been fully aware of the sordid realities of rake-hood.
“And you know,” said Crankshaw, his breath coming in gasps. “It’s not only Lord Rafe these walls would speak of. His Grace was quite the rakehell as well.”
As if to prove the point, the duke rolled her nipple between his fingers, making it go as hard as a marble.
“Wait,” said Mina. “Are you telling me that His Grace used to be a rake?”
Her uncle’s Duke Dossier hadn’t mentioned anything of the kind.
“One of the most infamous in all of London,” said Crankshaw proudly.
“Interesting.”
“Here we are, madam,” said Crankshaw as they entered a large bedchamber. “About-face.” He helped her turn the duke so that he faced away from the bed. “And... heave-ho.”
Mina and Crankshaw half lifted, half pushed the duke onto the side of the bed. He lurched backward and grabbed Mina on the way down. She landed flat against his chest.
This was beginning to be a habit with him.
He wrapped his arms around her possessively. “At last we’ve achieved the bed.”
“Kindly release me.” She attempted to squirm out from under his arms.
He settled her more firmly against his long length and stroked a lock of hair away from her cheek. “You have soft, shiny hair.”
“I see nothing, madam,” said Crankshaw, staring into space. “I hear nothing.”
“While you’re seeing nothing, could you please fetch a basin of cold water and some ice from the ice house, if you have one?” she asked. “The duke requires a rude awakening.”
“An excellent idea, madam.” Crankshaw bowed and left the room.
“I’m so glad I still have it,” said the duke with an alarming grin.
