Page 19 of The Duke Decides

But he’d not gotten a full look at her face, with the mask and the oil lamps and the shadow of the porch, and Gabe simply stared, pole-axed, at the woman who rose from her chair in the simple parlor and stared back at him.

An oval face with every delicate feature in proportion. A sleek, pert nose. Lips red as rubies. High cheekbones, giving her a look of distinction, and dark brown eyebrows that rose over an intelligent brow.

That smooth, lovely throat with its elegant lines sloping to her breastbone, and below that her magnificent breasts. And lower down—divinity. He was still reliving every moment of how it felt to be inside of her.

His cock was eager to relive those moments, too. Down, he commanded himself, glad for the full skirts of his riding coat.

“You,” she said simply, and her voice was a caress, the brush of velvet against his skin. Though her tone held nothing of welcome.

“Madame.” He gave her a brief bow, then turned to her companion, a woman he’d seen in the usual places where highborn, important women showed themselves. “Milady.”

“Barkham,” the other said primly, drawing her reticule toward her stomach.

“You know one another?” his siren said.

“After a fashion,” said the highborn one. “Louisa, may I present to you…” She didn’t know his name.

“Gabriel Declan,” Gabe said.

“The new Duke of Barkham,” her ladyship said.

His siren tilted and leaned a hand on her desk. “A duke?”

“I currently have that honor, yes.” Until Fenton finished the job he intended and made himself Barkham the Sixth. He’d tried again just two nights ago, one reason Gabe had been delayed in seeking out his masked beauty. He blessed the maker of the sturdy boots that lent support to his ankle, after he’d been tripped in the street, snared, and dragged a good way behind the thug’s horse.

His siren blinked at him, at a loss for words. He adored the lovely part to her mouth. He could slip his tongue inside and kiss her again, thoroughly, endlessly.

“If I may ask, Louisa,” said the Marchioness. “What business do you have with the Duke of Barkham?”

His siren shook her head briefly, as if she were clearing out cobwebs. He’d given her a shock, no doubt, but he had to admire the way she took command of herself.

“He has an interest in our property,” his siren said, at the same time Gabe said, “Personal business.”

She scowled at him. “Not personal. We are not acquainted.”

He lifted his brows at her. He’d been inside of this woman and made her cry out with ecstasy. With her he’d experienced the keenest pleasure he’d ever known in his life, a release that had seared his eyeballs and left him panting for breath.

He wanted to repeat the experience as soon as possible. Not acquainted?

The Marchioness stroked her reticule. “Louisa—Matron—you must realize that any association the Duchess of Clarence makes must be a credit to her. I am sorry to say that His Grace has rather an unsavory reputation. I hope you know…”

Gabe narrowed his eyes at her. In another circumstance, he’d let loose the full force of his temper on anyone who tried to cut him down. He’d made a career of it.

But he was Barkham now. A duke. His Grace. He had to behave himself, at least to a fault, and curry the favor of the other highborn who could either cement his position or make his social life a living hell.

Also, he couldn’t let any damage from his past life—or his present one—touch his siren. Louisa. A strong name, befitting a fierce woman.

“I assure you, we at the Benevolence Hospital are above reproach,” Louisa said to her ladyship, not looking at Gabe. “We make every effort to be so.”

She delivered this assurance with a rosy blush rising above the modest neckline of her gown. Gabe smirked at her.

Above reproach, aye? She’d been the one to kiss him. She’d unbuttoned his antique breeches and tugged out his cock. He’d feared he would explode in her hand, such sharp pleasure he’d felt at her touch. The flame in her cheeks said she was remembering that moment, too.

“I’ve a notion to reform my lifestyle,” Gabe said. It wasn’t entirely a lie; he harbored that notion every time he woke up with a thick head from drink or sore knuckles from a fight. “That is why I am here. To become a…benefactor.”

“Benefactor. Is that what you would call it?”

Louisa’s glare stabbed him, her eyes narrowed in accusation. Glorious eyes she had, a deep brown with streaks of gold in them. He wanted to see those eyes fogged with passion, delirious with lust, as he brought her to climax again.