COTILLION

Summary: For Cenric Wellesley, the Duke of Leicester, pleasure is the only feeling he cares to know. So when he attends his friend's annual summer cotillion, he has only one thing in mind: Miss Winnifred Hale. Little does he know that whisking her away onto a balcony in the middle of the night would result in waking, hungover, to her younger, and far more beautiful sister, Cassandra, and she is furious. Now put in a predicament he next anticipated, Cenric must learn to be the man he has avoided becoming, or he will have to live with the consequences.

Genre: Historical Romance

Rating:  R/MATURE

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Cotillion

COTILLION

I

London, England 1787

Cenric Wellesley's eyes were glued to Winnifred Hale the moment she stepped foot from her chaise.

He had caught only a glimpse of her through the window of the Manor, but right then, it was decided that she would be his.

It wasn't her beauty, which admittedly was a notch below some of the other regal women he had encountered in his lifetime, but her insecurity that caught his eye. She was dressed well, an innocent little peach in white, and her hair tucked with a string of pearls, but as lovely as she appeared, it was as if she were afraid of her shadow.

Each step she took was analyzed, each reaction stiff and unsure, and the moment the Duke caught whiff of her fear he simply had to break her.

As the night grew darker and the guests more intoxicated, he kept his eyes upon her.

Now, as they stood diagonal from each other, in two parallel rows before the band, she was practically begging to be touched. He had offered her two glasses of red wine and half-heartedly recited a few Shakespearean sonnets, and only three verses in, she looked as if she would rip off her corset in the middle of the ballroom.

Which, of course, intensified Cenric's desire to see her naked. He could not pry away his gaze as she stood just a yard from him, her white breasts heaving beneath the constriction of her dress.

Each time he would meet with her wide, green eyes, she would turn away to hide the blush quickly consuming her cheeks. Though she did not return his smiles or stares, Cenric could sense the curiosity she struggled to hide. He had witnessed the same behavior in the other young women he'd encountered, whether it was their first Cotillion or their twentieth.

No matter what age or size or height, all a woman ever wanted was to feel as if someone loved her, and the Duke of Leicester was the perfect man to do so, even if the satisfaction he provided was only for a night.

One long note from a single violin triggered the start of the dance. The women curtsied, the men bowed, and both raised their right arms together, into a ninety-degree angle.

The Duke kept his eye on the space between Winnie's raised palm and her partner's, a long-haired gentleman in an officer's waistcoat, surprisingly anxious to see if they would touch.

His eyes narrowed when her arm touched his. The only touch he desired to see was her lips wrapped around his cock.

"Your Grace, I'm sure you are well acquainted with the rules of dancing, but I think you may have forgotten the most important one," said the Duke's partner and cousin, as she twirled under the curve of his arm.

"What is that?" said he, his brows furrowed as he waited for Miss Harrington to finish circling him.

"Conversing," she said, dipping back into her original position, "but I shall forgive you. You seem rather preoccupied."

Miss Harrington tilted her chin in the direction of the blonde, who was politely laughing at the charms of her partner.

"Pray tell, who she is," he whispered as they glided around the ballroom, his eyes trailing down the slight glimpse of Winnie's curves through the thin muslin of her dress.

"Winnifred Hale?" Miss Harrington scoffed, "I'm surprised you do not know. Her father owns half of Kent."

"Her father is Augustus Hale?"

"The very one."

Cenric placed his hands upon Miss Harrington, lifting her into a full spin. "I had inquired about her family in previous conversation, but she did not comply."

Miss Harington smiled, "Yes, Miss Hale is quite a mystery. She does not speak unless spoken to, does not dance unless asked, and certainly does not know a Duke from an Earl or Lord."

"How peculiar, has she no schooling?"

"She did," said she once her feet were upon the ground. "I would suggest not bothering with the young girl, but it appears you've already placed interest in her."

"You know me too well."

Miss Harrington smiled coyly as she stepped backwards. Each set of partners shifted, the women stepping back to dance a few counts with the men behind them.

"Hello, Miss Hale," said The Duke, doing his best to keep calm as Winnifred gently placed her hands in his.

She only nodded, locking her elbows to his as they repetitiously looped around each other.

"Do you enjoy these country dances?"

"Indeed, and you?"

"Yes," Cenric chuckled, "I find them to be rather...stimulating."

Her eyes flickered across his for but a moment. The motion was strong enough to cause her cheeks to heat.

He gripped her waist firmly to pull her inward, only to whisper before lifting her into a airborne twirl, "What do you find stimulating, Miss Hale?"

He didn't need her to speak to gain his answer. It was written in her very reaction. It was in the way her breath hitched at his question, how her lashes fluttered at his heavy accent, or the way her skin warmed beneath his touch. She wanted him just as much as he wanted her. The only difference was her will to hide it.

Cenric wanted to make her say it. Make her beg for it.

Nothing would give him more pleasure than to see her cry out his name as she writhed beneath him.

The moment her feet planted upon the ground, Winnifred shifted north with the rest of women, including his original partner.

"My, what have you done to poor Miss Hale?" said Miss Harrington through another spin.

"I believe the proper question is what will I do to her."

His cousin giggled as they separated, only to end the dance as it began—with a curtsy and a bow.

Cenric kept his eyes upon Miss Hale, watching intently as she curtsied to her partner, only to rush through the applauding crowd. He followed the trail of flowing muslin towards the back of the ballroom, catching the tail-end of her pink ribbon disappearing through the door to the balcony.

He took a moment to smooth over his jacket, to collect himself from the dance, but mostly, it was to allow himself time to gather his game. This was his moment to strike, and if he were to miss it now, it would forever be lost. Lightning does not strike the same place twice.

II

Winnifred swallowed the cold air as if she'd never needed anything so desperately in her life.

The night sky was clear, a thousand stars shining brightly upon her, but not even their beauty could distract her from her surprisingly sinful thoughts.

The Duke of Leicester was the most beautiful man she had ever seen, and each time he touched her, it was as if the very stars above simultaneously shot from the sky. As dangerous as she knew the contact, she hadn't wanted him to stop.

The way he danced was just as beautiful. So refined, so elegant, that Winnie felt inferior as a partner. At least her partner, Mr. Langford, had been drunk, therefore making a greater fool of himself than she ever could sober.

When she first received the invitation to the ball, Winnie's first instinct was to decline. She hated the very idea of a Cotillion, even though she had technically never been to a ball. What possible entertainment could she glean from watching suitors, too wealthy for their own good, drink away their dignity and dance with women twenty years their junior?

The idea was less than desirable to her. In fact, the only reason a woman was ever to attend a ball was to fetch a husband, and frankly, if Winnie required a husband, she would have accepted John Lassiter two summers ago.

It was her best friend, and younger sister, Katherine, that had convinced her to accept the invitation to Evansby.

Surveying her current position, she was certainly glad she had.

"Miss Hale?" A voice, like silk and honey, called into the night, and Winnie was only half surprised to see the Duke step onto the balcony.

Winnie peeled her back from stone wall and curtsied at his arrival.

When she looked up at him, his dark eyes scoured her, piercing through to her very core.

"You departed rather quickly," he said, taking a step away from the light.

He was but a few feet from her now, nearly as close as they had been when dancing. The strange fluttering of her nerves seemed to freeze every other part of her body, including her tongue.

"Are you alright?"

She cleared her throat after a swift nod, "Forgive me, Your Grace, I needed fresh air."

His dark brows twitched, "I see that you know who I am."

"Of course I do, I'm not daft," she blurted, immediately regretting the remark. "I mean, it is hard to miss who you are when each room you step into parts like the red sea."

His laugh surprised her, "And here I thought I was under the guise of your unknowing."

"Would you rather me lie?"

He stepped further into the darkness, closing in even more of the space between them. He was so close that she could now feel the heat radiating off his body.

"Your Grace, what is it you are doing out here? Should you not be inside, listening to the compliments and desires of your prospects?"

The Duke took another stride, backing Winnifred into gate around the balcony. She gasped when her back hit the cold stone.

"I would rather learn of your desires."

Without further warning, the Duke leaned in, letting his lips gently sweep against Winnifred's.

When she did not pull away, His Grace pressed his mouth, chest, and hips fully against hers. Every part of her came alive. The fire escalated as his fingers brushed through her hair, his thumb gliding along her jaw.

Winnie was panting by the time he released her.

"You are quite extraordinary," he whispered. The smirk on his face was coated with delight, even pride, as his heavy lids skimmed over her shivering body.

"Are you cold, Miss Hale?"

She shook her head, unable to cease her light trembling. "You make me nervous, Your Grace."

This stretched his smile from ear to ear, "Then, allow me to help you relax."

Winnie nodded, not quite comprehending the intent behind his suggestion—not until his hands firmly took hold her hips.

"Duke—"she started, but he already moved a finger to her lips.

"Turn around, Miss Hale." His voice was rich as butter, smooth and thickly laced with his city accent.

She nodded, allowing him to rotate her hips until her belly hit the stone balcony. His body was immediately pressed to hers once more, so close, that she could feel him begin to harden against her backside.

"Have you ever let your hands wander, Miss Hale?" said the Duke, his breath growing hotter with each exhale against the back of her neck.

When Winnifred first arrived at the Evansby Manor, she hardly imagined meeting a suitor, let alone sneaking off into the dark with one.

Yet, she was now with the Duke of Leicester, hiding in the corner of the balcony just outside of the dance hall, with his body pressed so tightly to hers that the heat made her want to combust.

Was he really going to take her right here—right outside the room where her father drank and her sister flirted with young officers?

"Your Grace," she whimpered when his hand firmly gripped her breast.

His lips brushed the bottom of her ear, teeth playfully nipping and grazing the lobe, "You've not answered my question."

The chilling night air licked her legs as the Duke gathered her skirt into his hand, lifting the white muslin each time he kissed along her neck.

The blood in her legs pumped faster as his fingertips filled the space between her thighs.

Everything inside her screamed how this was wrong. If anyone were to catch them, she would be ruined. Her family name, her father's reputation, and any future her younger sister could dream of would be obliterated.

A shiver of fear passed through her each time a shadow paused in the glow of candlelight from the doorway. Her heart would race and her breath hitched with each scare, but then the Duke would pull her back by his husky voice.

The higher his fingers dared to rise, the more his teeth nicked her skin, the more fleeting her worries became.

Pianos and violins and cellos radiated from the dance hall, drunken laughter burst through the open doorway, muting her moans as he ran his hand along the blonde mound that grew between her legs.

She shuddered when his hand glided across the place no man had yet to touch.

"Speak to me," he hummed into her neck, beginning to slowly stir his fingers in little circles against her hardening bud.

A sharp cry filled the air before the Duke could capture it with his free hand.

He shushed against her cheek, pausing to listen for any disturbance that could come from the ballroom, but the band had been far louder than her exclamation.

The Duke backed them further into the shaded corner, hiding them behind the wall of overgrown vines and branches.

Miss Hale lightly nudged her hips against his hand, and the Duke responded with more rigorous strokes.

A ripple surged through her, igniting every nerve, every cell. Winnie grasped the edge of the balcony to keep her knees from buckling.

She was too concentrated on catching her breath to properly answer.

"Miss Hale," he reprimanded, removing his hands and letting her bunched skirt fall to the floor.

"Your Grace?" said Winnie, breathless as he stepped from behind her.

"I always expect an answer to follow an inquiry," his dark eyes flickered down her body, almost proud as he surveyed the flush boiling beneath her skin, "There is no reward without effort."

Winnie exhaled, her fingers squeezing tightly against the stone in frustration.

No part of her was relieved that he had stopped, like she should have been. Instead, she was relishing in the warmth he stirred inside her.

She felt cold, disconnected without it.

And that was more frightening than the prospect of being caught.

"Miss Hale, I am a man of very selective desires, and I cannot—will not stop until such desires are satisfied."

Winnie turned toward the Duke and instantly her heart palpitated. His gaze was shadowed, glistening with such intensity that she had to chase her breath.

The Duke leaned in, his full lips but a few inches from hers, and she secretly delighted in the thought of them pressing into hers. What would it feel like to touch her tongue to his?

"Tell me what you desire," he whispered, his voice deep and wanting.

Touch me.

Winnie moved to speak, but all that came out was air. She could not say it, as strong as her heart fluttered at the thought; she could not let the words escape her.

The Duke pulled away, smoothing out his waistcoat before he stepped back and bowed. "Very well, Miss Hale, I shall bother you no longer."

Before he could step into the candlelight, Winnie took grasp of his arm without a second thought.

"Wait, Your Grace."

The corner of his mouth pulled into a devilish grin as his fingers brushed away a blonde strand from her cheek.

"Tell me what you want," he repeated.

She gulped, "Touch me."

III

"Touch me," the plea in her voice was enough to ignite the carnal desire stirring inside the Duke.

His body lurched forward, pressing her deep into the safety of the overgrown vines.

This time, he let his hands wander without caution or care, assaulting every inch of exposed skin with his tongue and lips.

Cenric gripped her buttocks greedily, lifting her against the wall and guiding her legs to wrap around his waist. His hand slid against alongside her thigh once more, refusing to cease until his fingers brushed against her wet mound.

"Your Grace—"

His mouth caught the moan that escaped her when Cenric stroked his thumb along her nub. She trembled against his touch, gasping for breath, but the Duke continued to expertly dart his tongue around hers.

God, he needed this. It had been far too long since his last conquest, and even then, it hadn't been as remotely satisfying as it was to sink his fingers into the girl's flesh. She was so uptight, so unmarked by the world, so pure--- Cenric was more than thrilled to be the first to help her shed her skin, to corrupt her innocence.

Winnie was an angel, her heart rapidly pounding beneath his palm as he pulled at her neckline, desperately seeking to expose her breasts.

She was eager to help him once she realized his desire, for she quickly pulled her arms from the sleeves and ripped apart the top of her corset. This had loosened it just enough for her to shimmy out of it, freeing her breasts to the chilled autumn air.

One look at her creamy skin, her pale, pink nipples erect in the moonlight, had Cenric nearly bursting. He wanted her—no, he needed to take her.

He pulled his fingers from inside her, and shoved her skirt around her waist, fully revealing her bare sex to his hungry eyes.

"Miss Hale," he groaned, "May I take you?"

"Yes." It was the first definitive answer she had given him all evening.

Cenric reluctantly pulled away from her welcoming heat, only to drop his beige trousers to the floor. The rush of cold air that suddenly caressed his cock only acted as a stimulant, growing it harder against his palm.

It ached to be touched, to be squeezed, to feel the tight warmth of Winnifred's sheath. Previously, he had planned to coax her into sucking it, but in no way could he last long enough to take her if her tongue licked his shaft.

"Your Grace," said Winnie, and when his eyes met hers, they were wide, almost bewildered at the foreign appendage he gripped.

"This will hurt, Miss Hale," he whispered, "Only at first, but it will hurt."

Cautiously, Winnifred reached between her legs to touch his stiff cock. Cenric closed his eyes when her fingers wrapped around the shaft. It was throbbing, pulsing against the pads of her fingers.

Part of him feared that she would begin to stroke. If she did that, he was unsure he could take the pressure without cumming.

Cenric cleared his throat, forcing himself to articulate, "Do you wish to proceed?"

If she said no, then he would not leave the balcony, at least, not without her lips sucking his cock.

"Winnifred," he rasped, biding time while she looked upon him.

"Yes, Your Grace," she said, and pressed her lips firmly against his.

IV

Winnie had never touched a man before, but the sight of the Duke's large member was enough to strike her curiosity. She hadn't expected it to be so heavy or thick, let alone harder than the stone of the balcony.

This will hurt. The words ricocheted between her ears, but oddly, it didn't instill any fear in her.

Her body yearned for his in ways she had never expected to. His touch was tantalizing, delicious, and she wished him to never stop.

"Winnifred," He repeated her name, his voice raspy against her skin as he closed in the space between their hips.

The Duke's hot breath swept across her breasts, and incited a throaty moan from her as he pressed himself into the slick opening of her sex.

Like a tree struck by lightning, Winnie's entire body splintered into a thousand shards of bark and branches. She had to press her face into the vines and draw her bottom lip tight between her teeth, to keep from screaming into the sky.

His body stilled at her silent cry.

"Miss Hale," the Duke growled impatiently, his eyes glued to hers.

"Get on with it," she snapped, too consumed by the ache pounding inside her to care about her tone.

Cenric nodded, squeezing the round globes of her buttocks firmly as he thrust inside her again.

Each stroke was rough, deep, almost too much for her to take, but the Duke kept his rhythm.

He surprised her by caressing her breast in his warm hand, his thumb flicking across her cold nipple. The sensation erased the pain of his cock, and the more he teased, twisted, the more rapidly the butterflies in her belly fluttered.

She gasped when he squeezed her nipple again, this time between his teeth.

His tongue laved her nipple, flicking it until it stood erect, sucking it into his mouth. He then grew attentive to the other, repeating the motions until Winnie whimpered. Every flicker of his tongue, every suck from his mouth shot straight down to her groin.

Something was happening. Her body was filling with a foreign heat, a spark, which she could barely comprehend.

The Duke shifted her higher against the wall, allowing her legs to part wider so he could thrust fully within her tight channel.

And with that shift, she began to unravel.

"Your Grace!" Winnie screamed against the sound of the piano from the hall. She was lost between her rippling body, unable to find where she ended and he began.

Without her command, her body naturally squeezed around his thick cock, only to suck it until the tip slammed against the edge her sheath. The spark inside of her ignited into full flame, consuming each nerve, each pore, each hair follicle until it obliterated her senses.

Her fingers took hold of anything they could—the vines, his shoulders, his hair—as the waves pulsed through her body.

"Winnifred," the Duke rasped, his body jerking as he, too, succumbed to the wildfire.

They spent the moment simply breathing. He was still inside her, shaking as he came down from his climax.

"Thank you, Miss Hale," said the Duke when he finally pulled from her, planting her feet upon the ground.

The small motion left her feeling cold, empty, and she watched as he tucked himself back into his trousers. Without another word, she scrambled to lace up her corset and loop her arms through each muslin sleeve.

The Duke dressed faster than she, leaving her with the awkward desire to hurry as he waited.

Winnifred exhaled deeply when she smoothed her skirt one final time.

"Good as new," said the Duke. "That was astounding, Miss Hale."

"Really?" For some reason, the compliment made her cheeks boil.

The Duke hummed in response before pressing his lips into hers once more.

This time, the kiss was less rushed, less carnal, and when he pulled away, the Duke bowed.

"Thank you, Miss Hale, truly," he said, giving her a wink before disappearing into the drunk crowd of the ballroom.

V

The clock struck a quarter after eleven when a confident pound rattled the door. Cenric groaned as his butler entered the room.

The man bowed briefly. "Pardon my interruption, Your Grace. You have a visitor."

"Bloody Hell!" Cenric grated before propping himself up to lean against his headboard. "Have we not gone over this, Mr. Thwaites? I am not to be disturbed until noon—at the very least—if I return home past midnight."

"Forgive me, Your Grace, but she is quite adamant that she take counsel with you," he said. "Her urgency is giving the other servants a scare."

Cenric's ears perked. "She? I suppose it's only right to learn the reason of why she has taken the liberty to arrive unannounced."

"Very well, Your Grace. I shall tell her you will be about in—"

"Where is my valet?"

The man paused briefly for a moment, as if unsure how to reply correctly until he finally decided on, "I have sent him into town early this morning as I fully expected you to remain bed-ridden far past his return."

"What is the use in having a valet if he's not here when I need him to be!" The Duke scoffed. Aggravated at the inconvenience, Cenric peeled back the covers and removed himself from bed.

The new butler nodded and bowed, presumably still unaccustomed to Cenric's bold ways, quickly sliding out of the room as the unsheathed Duke strut across the room toward his wardrobe.

Cenric spent his time slowly, prolonging the few minutes he had to dress, though he was far too lazy—and still a bit intoxicated from the previous night—to bother with more than a pair of breeches and a muslin shirt, purposefully left open halfway down his chest. It was only after he decided yes on the internal debate of sliding on his leather shoes that he tamed his hair with a quick comb of fingers and scratched at the short blonde stubble beginning to poke through his chin—not before pausing to wink at himself in the mirror on his way out of his bed chambers.

He could hear a woman's voice from the top of the stairs as she angrily exchanged words with the first footman of the house. She was angry, indeed, but there was a strain about her voice that informed Cenric she was not angry enough to cease all social propriety.

He paused at the bottom stair, watching intently as the footman listened patiently to the harsh criticisms of a petite woman in a yellow pelisse. Although her skin was more shaded and hair far lighter, Cenric instantly recognized the face that eerily resembled the woman he had recently spent a portion of a night with.

Cenric cleared his throat to announce his arrival.

"Miss Hale, may I introduce you to His Grace Cenric Wellesley, Duke of Leicester," said the footman, bowing once he realized his employer birthed the throaty noise.

"Your Grace, Miss—"

"Miss Cassandra Hale." Cenric tilted his head at the woman with a smile that she returned, though it was forced. Her curtsy was stiff. "Welcome to Evansby, Miss Hale."

"Thank you." She straightened herself from the curtsy.

The footman took a step back as silence fell upon the Great Hall. It was not until Cenric offered to have some tea made that her smooth exterior began to crack.

"What can I do for you, Miss Hale?"

She took a step toward the Drawing Room, glancing briefly at the immaculate furniture and marble surfaces visible through the half-open double doors.

"Miss Hale?"

"I know that my visitation is most improper, for we have not been publicly introduced by a common acquaintance," said she, "but, I do hope that my impropriety may be forgiven in light of the nature of this situation."

Cenric smiled coyly. "I believe that depends on how wicked your transgression."

"Tis not my transgression I'm seeking forgiveness for!"

His smile grew, for he knew that Miss Cassandra was the younger sister of Winnifred Hale, and he knew exactly the reason of her visitation. Even if he had not been made aware of Miss Hale's family, he would have been able to identify her features with those of Augustus Hale regardless. The sisters looked similar indeed—them being most prominent in their matching copper eyes and full pout. Cassandra, however, was far more noticeably handsome. Her face was wider, more heart-shaped than her sister's, which brought out the soft curves of her cheekbones—a particular feature that the Duke favored most.

"What may I do for you, Miss Hale? I assume it must be of true importance, for your unannounced visit prior to proper introduction could very well compromise your integrity, and I would never rid myself of the guilt of being attached to such a crime."

Cassandra dared to roll her eyes. "If I had not known better, I daresay I'd be inclined to believe you, or any lie performed as smoothly as the lines you've just delivered."

"You believe my hospitality a farce? Pray then, get on with your reasons for weaseling your way into my home." Cenric stepped closer towards Cassandra, eyes hungrily scouring over the way her muslin dress clung to her figure.

"Your Grace—" she attempted, but the longer their eyes remained connected, the more visibly flustered she grew. He was far more taken by her than he expected, and he reveled in the thought of it being her he took on the balcony, instead of Winnifred.

"What are you accusing me of, Miss Hale?" Again, he stepped closer. He wanted to hear the words come from her lips. "What is my crime?"

"Are you seriously pretending you do not know?" Cassandra's fists twitched into tight balls at her sides. Her lips parted and closed repetitively, still discombobulated by the Duke's unwavering claim of ignorance.

She replied slowly, as if choosing her words with utmost care. "I spent a majority of early Saturday's morning comforting my beloved sister from a most serious heartbreak—a heartbreak stemmed from a brief meeting at a private ball held at this very estate."

Cenric nodded, as if weighing this information like it were the first he had heard of it. "I see. Well, unfortunately, Evansby is the host of many private balls. I fear that I cannot keep personal record of them all."

"You know what you must do."

He frowned, "What I must do? For an offense I did not commit?"

"So, you deny it then?"

"That your sister is heartbroken? I cannot deny nor confirm it, as I've only just learnt of it." He forced a sigh. "I am sorry to hear it though. Heartbreak is an unfortunate necessity."

"Are you not to confess?"

"I cannot confess to what I've not done. If I have misled your elder sister into believing we were in some sort of agreement, then I sincerely apologize, but I do not see how such a misunderstanding could have been generated. We were introduced, yet she made no attempt at a simple conversation. When asked a question, she retreated more deeply into herself that not even our acquaintance could retrieve her." Cenric took a backward step from his unexpected guest, adding more than a foot of space between them.

"Oh, that is hardly the story that I had been relayed," she scoffed. "If you had not aggressively pursued her, then we wouldn't...Your Grace, I am asking you to make this right. If not, I fear us both to be in ruin."

"Why must this burden always fall upon me?" The Duke laughed. "What is it you are asking of me exactly? Compensation for your sister's woes? A public confirmation of the rumor's falsehood?"

Cassandra's fingers were twitching, as if fighting the urge to curl into fists. "You must marry her!"

The Duke froze, shocked. The idea completely revolted him. His voice trembled with rage as he spoke through clenched teeth. "Absolutely not! Do you not realize who I am, Miss Hale? I am not one to be trifled by a woman of inferior birth with petty accusations of an attention-deprived spinster of a sister."

"You cannot be serious!" Cassandra seethed. "You would let an innocent be shamed for an act brought on by another's active pursuit? Are you so selfish as to disallow the atonement of a naïve woman's sins? You have ruined the futures of both Winnifred and myself. If not for your scandalous advances at Evansby's, my sister would still be engaged to Mr. Browland. But, in complete and utter selfishness, you acted to satiate an animalistic craving without regard for any other reputation or feelings than your own. Do you not feel, Your Grace? Can you not comprehend deep emotion? You may be content with living alone in a large, empty house, but those of inferior birth survive by advantageous marriages and hope. You've single-handedly destroyed both in just one night."

"You are too bold, Miss Hale!" Cenric growled. Though deep down he knew he was guilty of her accusations, he also believed in the truth of his words. He had not, in fact, followed any sort of courting ritual with Miss Hale prior to their transgression, and she had fully complied—if not nearly begged—with the situation he had presented her, he had made sure of it.

But, it wasn't Winnifred Hale's blatant disregard for secrecy that irked him. It was the ease with which her sister accused him of it, without regard for either of their reputations or his. Furthermore, in his twenty-seven years of secret trysts and disregarded transgressions, never had he met someone willing to act so pious towards his accomplished character. Not even the men he met were so bold as to speak their minds around him, let alone speak in truth, for they feared he would not take kindly to their sentiments and destroy whatever reputations they were using his connections to sustain.

But Miss Cassandra Hale was completely unrelenting in her accusations. Any rational male would be embarrassed by her correct assumptions, but being caught off guard like this was irritating a specific craving inside him—one that he always grew desperate to satiate.

The Duke growled. "I'll be damned if I am to allow myself to be browbeaten into the resolution of a problem that does not exist. I know not of what your dearest sister has confessed to you, but my participation in her indiscretions has been completely fabricated. Furthermore, it is decided that I will not, nor ever shall, take the hand of either daughters of Augustus Hale. A bit of advice, Miss Hale, in the future, I suggest you refrain from accusing any gentleman of imprudent conduct, especially those that work closely with your father, and are not afraid to rip from beneath him the very land he sleeps upon. You will destroy yourself."

"I cannot lose what's already been taken." Cassandra sighed and smoothed out the wrinkles in her jacket with her hands, her fingers shaking from the hot blood surging through them. "I shall not subject myself to your condescension and fabrications any longer."

"My fabrications?"

"Quite. I have spoken my peace, and you know your deeds," said she as she half-curtsied at the door. "Good day, Your Grace. Perhaps the devil will be good companion."

•••

About the Author:  is the author of Of Frost and Cinder, Thread, and many other stories. For more information about Imogen Isles check out her page