The Dukes' Christmas Abductions Read online

  Kit counted three minutes in his head before the door opened and his wife returned. He looked her up and down, as ever admiring her racehorse sleek body. She glowered.

  “Stop that. I know it’s all a sham. I’m not well endowed and I look like a boy.”

  What? “If you think that, you need to be put over my knee. Does this,” he ran his hand over his cock from base to tip, collected the juices that had already gathered and held it toward her, “give you that impression? I’m not interested in boys. I never was, not even at Eton. Taste,” he commanded. “Come here and taste what just looking at you does to me.”

  Would she? Kit had no illusions that if she chose not to, he wouldn’t chastise her. Any spanking or flogging was consensual and within the remit of their dynamique. As young men, one stormy night, he and his cousin had emptied several bottles of his Papa’s best—and smuggled—brandy, and swapped sexual encounters and preferences. To both their pleasure and amazement, they’d discovered they each had a penchant for things not usually discussed between the gentlemen of the ton, and certainly not admitted to being part of a man’s usual proclivities. Partly, he assumed because few women would let such things happen. To indulge in bondage or flogging one had to employ the services of a courtesan or demi-monde. To discover that when, by accident he flicked his riding crop over his wife’s rear she’d moaned in ecstasy, had been an eye opener. To hear her admission that she liked it, and was ready to try other things he enjoyed, had set the seal on their successful marriage.

  He would do nothing to lose that rapport.

  “Ma petite.” His hope, that by using her name for their play, she’d obey, was realized. Victoria swallowed deeply and walked toward him, dipped her head, and sucked his finger deep into her mouth. She looked up at him from under lowered lashes. “You taste magnificent, but…”

  He seized the advantage. “Oh your knees over me, and suck me until my juices fill your mouth.”

  She moved and climbed over him. Her pert breasts were at eye level and he took hold of her nipples and squeezed. Her hiss of indrawn breath was all he could ask for.

  “Down on me.” He understood how his terse uttered commands made her wet. With a bare cunt he could see her skin glisten with her juices and watch as her nether lips became red and engorged. Next he knew she’d try to rub herself over him, make enticing little erotic mewls and do her best to gain her release. Not yet.

  “Do not touch yourself in any way. Make me spill, then we’ll see.” He tweaked her nipples one last time and leaned back once more. “Eat me, ma petite.”

  She stroked his cock from tip to base with her tongue and circled his girth, before she tightened her mouth round him and began to suck and release. Up and down, slowly and faster. Her fingers found his bollocks and fondled and squeezed them, just as he liked.

  Kit’s breath grew labored and harsh. “Hell, yes, more faster, oh sweet lord. Yes…” He saw stars as she thrust the tip of her tongue into the slit of his cock and nipped the sensitive head with her teeth.

  His seed spurted out of him as she swallowed and sucked him ever faster. Kit shook, gripped her head and surrendered to the sweetest sensation ever.

  Several minutes later, Kit stared at the woman, who stirred by his side, rolled onto her front, knelt up, stretched her arms high in the air and smiled down at him.

  “Mm…mmmm.” She grinned. “Got to say I enjoyed that.”

  My wife, my love, my life. Six words to fill him with satisfaction.

  “Your turn, ma petite. Now what first, I wonder? Do I tie you, flog you and fuck your darkness? Or fill you with my seed and wonder if we create our first child.”

  “You er ... what?” Her eyes widened, she blinked and gasped. “Oh shit what have I done?”

  Why was she talking about bodily functions in such a manner? And she seemed perturbed, not at all as she normally would when he made such suggestions.

  Kit opened his mouth to ask what she meant when she scrambled over him, nearly de-balling him in her haste. His cock must have seen near disaster because it deflated the fastest he had ever known. If it could, Kit would swear it wouldn’t have stopped at slinking between his legs but snuck behind his ass instead.

  He let his breath out in one long whoosh when she stood next to the bed and frantically looked around.

  “Definitely both. On your knees, head on the pillow.”

  “Yeah, yeah, hold on a sec.” It was obvious she hadn’t listened to him. “Where’s that sodding bag? Ha, thank the lord.” She ignored Kit as she lifted the reticule she had grabbed and upended the contents on the covers next to him.

  Kit stared. What on earth had she got in there? Nothing was familiar to him. Except, he saw with relief, a fan. He watched carefully as she scrabbled between strange shapes and boxes and pulled out a package, and waved it high in triumph.

  “Yes! I knew I’d got some with me. We do nothing unless you jacket up.” She paused and looked at him closely. “Hey, just because I carry condoms doesn’t mean I’m easy or a slut, okay? I’m open and honest and don’t agree to a double standard. If a guy can say he wants to shag, why shouldn’t a woman? Likewise I carry condoms, tampons—cos lord I’m about as regular as a London bus—along with a spare pair of contacts, wet wipes, and make sure my safety buddy knows where I am. Which reminds me, where am I exactly?” She picked up a small shiny oblong box and looked at him expectantly. “Then, once I’ve let Clo know where you’ve got me, we can…” She blushed. His confusion must have shown on his face. Lord, his wife did talk in riddles some times. Had she always been as bad?

  Yes.

  “Oh hell, you hate it don’t you?” She sighed dramatically. “You want a simpering milksop, not an in-your-face stroppy cow. If you show me where my dress is, I’ll leave you to it.”

  He stopped her rapid shuffle by the simple expedient of grabbing her by the elbow and holding tight. “You, ma petite,” Kit said evenly, “are talking in riddles. Why would I suddenly take an aversion to my wife? The wife I married, knowing full well how assertive she could be, as well as how submissive. The wife I want and love with every fiber of my being. The wife whom I worship. The wife who completes me and makes me whole.” He twitched her over his knee before he hoped she had a chance to assimilate what he intended. “The wife who infuriates me, fucks me senseless, and tells me how much she loves me as often as I tell her I love her. All the time. The wife to whom this is a much longed for caress.” He swatted each round globe of her arse several times and rejoiced in her long drawn out “ohhh, yesss.”

  “The wife whose ideas mesh with mine and loves the sweet sting of my hand on her rear as much as I love giving it to her.” He rubbed the redness he had inflicted. “More?”

  “Oh yes … oh shit, please, please make me… Argh what the hell am I saying?” She began to struggle. “Bloody hell on wheels, let me up, now.” She bucked and as her elbow hit him squarely in the bollocks he wheezed and let her flip off his lap to stand in front of him, arms akimbo.

  “You’ve addled my brains. What a load of tripe you’re spouting. I’m single. I’m Lady Victoria Hopewell. I live in St John’s Wood, I’m twenty-five, and I write Regency novels for a living.”

  “No.” He spoke slowly and kept a wary eye on her hands and how close she was to anything throwable. If she got her dander up and became roiled, he needed to know there was nothing valuable or heavy within her reach. “You were Lady Victoria Hopewell but upon our marriage you became my duchess.”

  “So you say. When, pray, were we married?” Skeptical was an understatement. Mistrust oozed out of her.

  “Almost twelve months ago.” Kit kept his voice flat and unemotional. He daren’t show how much this interchange affected him. “On Christmas Eve.”

  “Hmm.” She began to pace fast, striding from one side of the room to the other. “Tell me more and fast.”

  Lord, he’d soon be dizzy if he watched her for long. Dare he ask her to stop pacing and calm down? One swift glance at her st
ormy countenance decided that. Not if he valued his bollocks.

  “What do you want to know?” How on earth could he convince his wife she was his wife? That they did live in Regency times and as yet were not blessed with a child but he intended to remedy that soon?

  “That would be what year?” Victoria demanded. “When you say we tied the knot.”

  “1814.”

  “No shit, Sherlock. It can’t have been.”

  “As today is December 1815, so it follows that this time last year was December 1814.”

  “Oh hell in a hand basket.” She sat down heavily and began to turn that strange oblong box over and over in her hands. Once she did something to it, held it to her ear and then dropped it onto the bed beside her with a grunt of disgust. “Dead as a dodo. Figures. Look, are you sure?”

  Why was she so insistent on him repeating the date to her? Surely she knew what day it was? “When we worried about our world and what would become of it? I’m sure. Even though Bonaparte was imprisoned, those in the know were concerned about his plans and his growing army of supporters. With good reason it turned out. Anyway, that apart, we chose the eve of Christ’s birth to, well, to start the birth of something new and good. Our marriage.”

  “Where? Where did we do it?”

  He jumped. That was a singularly stupid question. “Here, of course, in the chapel.” Where else would a duke wed? “We were going to go to our house in the woods to celebrate.”

  She looked at him blankly. Kit made haste to explain. “The one where we play whenever we can. My betrothal present to you, for us.” She still stared at him with no comprehension showing on her face. Kit sighed. “A small house near the west wood, equipped for us by us and where no servants are allowed. Mainly because what we get up to there might get me hanged, and you exiled. However, nature foiled our plans. There was a tremendous storm, similar to the one tonight and so we began our married life here, in this room.” He grinned. “We can both be very inventive when need be. You did say you’d never look upon the curtain ties in the same way ever again.” He paused and winked. “I offered to have them framed.”

  Chapter Five

  Faversham House, December 2015

  Clara blinked in the sudden light, and breathed a sigh of relief at the welcome return of electricity. The old-fashioned radiators, which she so admired, whirred into action with their usual clanking sounds. The half-naked man in front of her spun around as though he was expecting to find a masked intruder in his bedroom. Muscles bunched and released in his back when he bent down to pick up a wicked looking hunting knife off the oriental rug that covered the wooden flooring in front of the huge four poster bed she was sitting on… naked… Oh, god I’m naked in front of a complete stranger, who will see everything if he turns around. One I almost had sex with.

  Clara barely suppressed a shriek at her thought processes. Reality set in with a vengeance. None of this had been a dream. With the perfect replica of a Regency bed chamber bathed in light, this man—whose tight ass she couldn’t help but admire as the soft material of his breeches hugged his behind—this hunk, who would put Raven McAllan’s Jack Trevithan to shame—would be able to see every last one of her wobbly bits. Not that she was ashamed of her body, far from it, and at least in her favorite Regency erotica writer’s books, the men of those times always enjoyed their ladies’ soft curves, but this wasn’t a book on her Kindle. This was her life, and she had the throbbing pussy and smarting ass cheeks to remind her of that.

  “What sort of magic is this?” His deep voice took on that gravelly note of annoyance that seemed to be a livewire to her libido. Just like she had done when she’d been draped over his knees, her pussy muscles spasmed, and the top of her thighs grew wet with her arousal. She’d been on the verge of coming earlier, and it wouldn’t take much to send her over the edge now.

  “Kit, is that you? Enough, you had your fun. This stops now. I know you must be hiding somewhere.” He looked round the room as though searching for something, and when he turned back in her direction Clara made a hasty grab for the first thing she could find to cover her nakedness, which happened to be the shirt he’d been wearing. Once she had pushed her head through the opening, and fumbled with the strings she was somewhat covered, if you ignored her boobs playing peekaboo through the gap. His gaze snared on her assets briefly, and a secret thrill went through her system, when he groaned and adjusted his cock. The action made her look at his groin, and her throat went dry at the long, thick imprint lovingly outlined by his breeches. There was something to be said for men’s Regency wear when you looked as buff as this guy. What had he said his name was again? Daniel, something. Duke of Hockwell, that was it. That name rang a distant bell in her befuddled brain.

  How did you address a duke again? “Hockwell.”

  He frowned at her shout, yanked his gaze upward to her face, and her heart missed a beat at the confusion she read in his ice blue eyes.

  “That’s My Lord to you, chit. This whole façade ends now. You and my cousin had your fun at my expense. I bet your name isn’t even Clara, and you’re no lady’s maid. More an accomplished actress from Drury Lane. Damn you, Kit, where are you?”

  Ignoring Clara’s shake of her head, he stormed past the bed and opened the door on the other side of this chamber.

  “Deuce, that’s…”

  More light flooded into the room, as the light in the ultra-modern wet room came on automatically, and the fan clicked on. Daniel sagged against the wall, and turned so white, Clara was half expecting him to pass out.

  He’d accused her of being an actress, yet he must be giving the performance of his life. Who would play such a prank on her though? Certainly not the stoic James, and Vicky… No, as outspoken and fun loving as her newfound friend was, she took her research into Regency times and in particular the missing heir far too seriously. No wonder her books were so popular. When Clara had been told that Lady Victoria Hopewell—one of her favorite Regency romance authors—was going to shadow her for a few weeks and learn all about the house, the family and the missing heir, she’d been over the moon.

  The missing heir… No, it can’t be.

  Not for the first time that evening Clara cursed the amount of drink she’d consumed. It still made her brain feel stuffed with wool, and no doubt was the main reason why she’d come close to losing her virginity in the dark to this man. She could almost imagine the pulse between her legs strum in tune to the reckless part of her brain wishing they hadn’t stopped when they did. Sadly, Daniel looked as far removed from being in the mood for a good fuck as it was possible to be. She noticed with grim amusement that his erection had deflated considerably.

  “Daniel, I’m not.” His head shot up and the flash of some undefined deep emotion she glimpsed in his gaze took her breath away, and made her heart miss a beat. Fleeting as that moment of connection was, she still felt it all the way to her toes.

  “What year do you think this is?” she asked abruptly.

  He blinked, and straightening, frowned into the wet room again.

  “1815, of course.” His eyes drew together and when the full force of his azure gaze settled on her, Clara didn’t dare move. Breathing proved difficult and her pussy muscles started up their take me, I’m yours dance again. It was beyond ridiculous the effect he had on her with just one glance, but she couldn’t deny the connection arching between them like a living entity. With it came the certain knowledge that this man was important to her, that he was the one man she had been subconsciously waiting for all this time. After all, her beloved grandmother had always said, she would know him.

  “One glance was all it took for me to know your grandfather was the one for me, and life would never be the same again.” Taking her words to heart, Clara had waited for that moment, and, in truth, had all but given up on it ever happening, which was fine. She had her work and her naughty books, after all. Until this Regency duke literally appeared in front of her.

  Oh god, the storm, him ap
pearing. Time travel, is that my reality now?

  “I suppose you are going to tell me the year is something ridiculous like 3003.” Daniel’s deep voice mocked her, and pulled her out of her internal thoughts. He seemed to have recovered some of his equilibrium, if the haughty way he looked down his aristocratic nose at her was anything to go by. And that should make him a complete and utter asshole, not hotter than hell, surely.

  “No that would be ridiculous. The year is 2015, My Lord.”

  His eyes flashed fire at her, and she swallowed hard when he pushed away from the wall and advanced toward her. Like the prey caught in the headlights of impending disaster, she couldn’t move, just sat there, all too aware of how little she wore, and the fact that her nipples were doing their best to stick out and wave at him like the checkered flag at the race course.

  “And that is not ridiculous, I suppose.” He stopped just in front of the bed, and towered over her. A tall, somewhat menacing presence.

  “Not to me, it isn’t.” Her voice came out somewhat wobbly, but there, she’d said it.

  “Then prove it to me.”

  Clara knew her mouth fell open at that imperious command, and the smirk that pulled his lips up sealed the deal.

  Ignoring her body’s almost overwhelming urge to sink to her knees in front of him, and to beg him to finish what they’d started, she squared her shoulders, and got off the bed on the other side with as much dignity as she could, which wasn’t much at all.

  “Fine, I will, let me just find my bag… ah here it is.” Clara spotted the tiny drawstring bag which had come with her costume. She didn’t need the sudden draft up her backside to know that she had just flashed her whereforalls to Daniel, when she picked the thing up off the floor. His sharp intake of breath confirmed he liked what he saw, and when she spun around, mobile phone in hand, she wasn’t entirely surprised to see him tenting his breeches again.