Dukes Are Forever (London Steampunk: The Blue Blood Conspiracy Book 5) Read online

  Dukes Are Forever

  Bec McMaster

  Copyright © 2019 by Bec McMaster

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Editing by Liv Ventura at Hot Tree Editing

  Cover © Damonza.com

  Created with Vellum

  Contents

  What readers are saying about Bec’s thrilling steampunk romances…

  Dukes Are Forever

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  PROMISE OF DARKNESS

  Also by Bec McMaster

  About the Author

  What readers are saying about Bec’s thrilling steampunk romances…

  “Ohhhhmmygosh THIS WAS AMAZING. I literally could not breathe for that last 10%. This book got me so tensed and emotional.” - Sharon on Amazon, The Mech Who Loved Me

  “The chemistry between Caleb and Ingrid jumps off the page. Sexy does not do justice to the explosion of love between them.” - Nikkia, Mission: Improper

  “Bec McMaster has such an intensity to her writing softened with the beauty she instills within the intimacy between her characters; I was hooked from the start and eagerly anticipate the continuation of this series…” - Theresa, My Lady Quicksilver

  Forged By Desire—RITA Finalist Paranormal Romance 2015

  Of Silk And Steam—RT Reviews Best Steampunk Romance 2016

  Hexbound—Historical Fantasy PRISM winner 2017

  Soulbound—Historical Fantasy PRISM winner 2018 and overall PRISM Best of the Best

  The Last True Hero—Dark Paranormal PRISM winner

  A compromising situation forced him into marriage. But has his wife been working for the enemy all along?

  In a steam-fuelled world where vampires once ruled the aristocracy, a dangerous conspiracy threatens to topple the queen, and the Duke of Malloryn knows his nemesis has finally returned to enact his plans of revenge.

  Malloryn can trust no one, and when incriminating photographs surface—of an enemy agent stealing a kiss from his wife—he is forced to question just why his wife, Adele, trapped him into marriage.

  Is she an innocent pawn caught up in a madman's games, or is she a double agent working against him?

  The only way to discover the truth is to seduce her himself...

  Adele Hamilton may have agreed to a loveless marriage in order to protect herself, but that doesn't stop her heart from yearning for more.

  Her husband promised her a cold marriage bed. He swore he'd never touch her. But suddenly he's engaged in a campaign of seduction—and the only way to keep her wits about her is to fight fire with fire.

  The ruthless beauty has locked her heart away, but can she deny the passion that flares between them? And when the truth emerges, will she be the only thing that can save Malloryn's life?

  Or the weapon his enemy will wield against him?

  Chapter 1

  It was a kiss like no other.

  The touch of his lips burned her, his hand sliding over her nape and bending her body into his embrace.

  Adele Cavill, the Duchess of Malloryn, drew back a hand and slapped the man, though her heart was suddenly racing and she knew for one desperate second, she hadn't fought him as hard as she should have. "Sir, you take too many liberties."

  "I should like to take more," Lord Devoncourt whispered.

  For a moment, she was almost tempted. Her lips still tingled. The sounds of the ball washed over her. "I'm no whore," she said firmly, "to cuckold my husband."

  "No?" Devoncourt smiled, tracing her cheek with the back of her hand. "Then where is your fine husband? If you're such a loyal wife, why aren't you in his bed right now?"

  Because I've never been in his bed. Adele bit her lip. Never been kissed. Never been held. Barely even glanced at as I sit at our dining table each morning and stare at Malloryn over the baked kippers and extravagant repast.

  All her fault, of course.

  She'd been the one to use the Duke of Malloryn's opposition to a recent trend amongst young blue bloods ruining girls for a single night of blood sharing to trap him into marriage. And she couldn't for one second deny she would do it all over again, if she had the chance. For the first time in years she was safe and protected from the blue bloods that'd mercilessly stalked the Echelon, hunting for those young debutantes that strayed from the glittering lights of the ballrooms.

  With her reputation in tatters from one such incident, the only lord willing to take her as his thrall had been Lord Abagnale, a man who'd buried three of his previous thralls, and—it was rumored—had placed them in the grave himself.

  Malloryn was her blessing, but he'd made it eminently clear that whilst she would bear his name, she would never bear his children or share his life. Indeed, she'd heard rumors of a mistress.

  His bed, at least, wasn't as cold as hers.

  He'd damned well told her to "make her own arrangements."

  Those tempting fingertips cupped her cheeks. Adele looked up helplessly as Devoncourt stroked his thumb over her mouth.

  "I think," he murmured, "your silence is answer enough."

  His face lowered to hers, his warm breath brushing against her sensitive lips, bringing a sudden yearning to life within her breast. Not for the hidden meaning behind his words, but this.... She didn't think she could fight this, the careful tenderness of his touch. It ached in her chest, a longing to turn her cheek into his palm, to press it there and feel, just for one moment, what it was like to be cared for.

  To be touched.

  "I cannot," she whispered, because she'd made a promise in her heart to be true to her husband, a means of repaying him for the lie she'd told that had seen them married.

  Devoncourt stepped away, his gloved hand falling from her face. "When you have thrown off the shackles of your morals, you know where to find me. I shall love you, Adele."

  Love. What a mockery.

  "I shall show you things that will make your heart beat forever with the sound of my name. I shall worship at your feet. All you have to do is say yes."

  Auvry Cavill, the Duke of Malloryn, stalked inside the study he kept at 45 Hardcastle Lane, instantly soothed by the scent of leather and cognac. The headquarters for what he—and several of his compatriots—jokingly referred to as the Company of Rogues was becoming more of a home these days than his own.

  Part of the reason for that had thick, golden ringlets, a figure more rightly suited to a Botticelli, and a clear adoration of extr
avagant silk gowns and feathered hats.

  His wife.

  With her devious green eyes and a streak of cunning that almost matched his own, Adele was the only person of his acquaintance who roused any sort of emotion within him these days. Malloryn rarely enjoyed being outplayed, and Adele had manipulated him into marriage with all the gall of a seasoned enemy general. He could almost have admired her determination, if he hadn't been the fox caught in her snare.

  The woman was downright ruthless; all his friends had told him that.

  But by then it had been too late.

  How could one champion a cause, then protest otherwise when he'd been caught in the gardens of Lord Dalrymple's party with her? She'd practically thrown herself at him, making it clear they were in the prelude of something—whether a kiss or a bloodletting, he wasn't certain.

  Sometimes he thought he hated her the most for that. He'd done his duty, by God, and if she expected anything more, then their frosty silences over the dining room table had swiftly taught her otherwise.

  There was a swift rap at his study door, and for a second he flinched, taken unawares. His nerves were still recovering from Russia, though he'd be damned if he'd allow anyone to know that.

  Malloryn shrugged out of his coat and glanced at the ormolu clock on the mantle. His nine o'clock appointment. "Come in."

  Caleb Byrnes, one of his most experienced agents, pushed inside.

  "We've finally found the operative we suspected had been placed within the Echelon." Byrnes slid a folder toward him, and then his cold blue eyes unexpectedly flitted over Malloryn, a hint of smothered humor within them. "He's an ex-Falcon who's been masquerading as the long-lost Earl of Devoncourt. Gemma recognized him from her days as a Falcon-in-training."

  Devoncourt?

  Malloryn had vague memories of the man from somewhere, though the acquaintance was fleeting at best. As part of the ruling Council that served the queen, he was far too busy to attend every ball and function. Besides, his wife was always in attendance and Malloryn wasn't that good an actor, to pretend theirs was any sort of marriage. "And this amuses you?"

  Byrnes laughed. "Oh no, it's not Devoncourt that amuses me. Keep reading."

  It could be anything. Byrnes had the worst sort of humor Malloryn had ever encountered.

  Sliding the file open, he examined the grainy sepia photograph of the man. Handsome, dressed somewhat foppishly, with the kind of smile ladies would swoon over.... He didn't look like an assassin, but perhaps that was the point. Malloryn let the photo rest. "What's his purpose?"

  "We don't know."

  Again that sensation that Byrnes hesitated.

  "If you wish to say something to me, I'd advise you to simply throw it on the table."

  "Look at the rest of the photos, Your Grace. Gemma took them. It was an unexpected lead."

  "I thought she was keeping an eye on my wife after that incident at the wedding?" Someone had tried to murder Adele the day they were supposed to be married, and with Lord Balfour at large again, it made sense to protect those he'd targeted in the past. It was one thing to dislike Adele, quite another to allow someone to outplay him that way.

  "She was."

  A familiar sense of foreboding curled through Malloryn's innards.

  Malloryn flipped the tumble of photographs into his hands and sorted through them swiftly. Devoncourt at his club. At a garden party. At the park. Kissing Malloryn's wife.

  Malloryn stilled, his senses locking down. Thumbnail tracing the shadowy image of Adele, he simply couldn't believe his eyes.

  A dozen emotions swirled.

  But most importantly, he couldn't help noticing the way Adele wilted against Devoncourt's hard body, a hint of longing on her expressive face as she stared at the earl. It softened her features—those devilish eyes with their wicked tilt looked almost innocent, and that indecent mouth was parted with longing. It made her seem younger. Desirable. A woman destined for a tumble into bed.

  In the next photograph, she slapped Devoncourt. But the look on her face.... Not entirely one of chagrin. Malloryn had never seen that particular expression cross her devious face.

  Almost as if she longed for something more.

  Byrnes was waiting, his arms crossed over his chest. His recent marriage had done little to soften the man, though Malloryn suspected Ingrid might actually be the more dangerous of the two.

  "I'll deal with it," he said quietly and closed the file.

  "Gemma's not certain what, precisely, she witnessed. It's evident this is not the first time they've met."

  "A conclusion I'd reached myself, thank you." He looked up. "You're dismissed."

  Byrnes took his leave. Malloryn leaned back in his chair and scratched at his jaw. He didn't throw the file or burn it. Which he was shockingly tempted to do. Instead, he steepled his fingers together and stared into the distance.

  Was Adele merely a means for Lord Balfour to get access to him?

  His old enemy had been thwarted by the Company of Rogues in Russia and would be out for blood. Malloryn had spent the past three months looking over his shoulder, just waiting for Balfour to finally reappear.

  Or had Balfour already succeeded?

  His blood ran cold. He'd never thought anything more of Adele's obviously desperate attempt to force him into marriage, and he'd never asked her why. They rarely spoke, if at all, and of frivolities only. If she was indeed a spy, then he had given her poor value indeed.

  But the idea rankled. She could be dangerous to him if her allegiance was indeed suspect. How the devil could he know precisely what her game was or if she was achieving it?

  Or was she waiting for some signal from her master?

  You're seeing Balfour in every corner. Malloryn rested his fingertips against his temples. Adele couldn't be one of his agents. She couldn't.

  But that little niggling feeling wouldn't go away.

  He could hardly question her about it, regardless of which methods he chose to use—and there were many available to him. Malloryn had long since given up on any squeamishness, but torturing one's wife?

  Flipping the file open again, he took a long, slow drink of his blooded scotch. None of the photographs interested him, particularly the one of her kissing Devoncourt. But the other.... That look upon her face. He stared at that for a long time.

  He'd told her to make her own arrangements.

  He'd given a callous shrug at the time and assured her he intended to make his own, though he'd been too busy, perhaps, to make good on his threat.

  But the sight of her in another man's arms had the same effect as someone dumping a bucket of iced water over his head.

  Why the hell did he care?

  Because there might be an enemy in your house.

  That had to be it.

  "So you want to play games, my dear?" He threw the rest of the scotch back, the blood igniting his darker, well-checked urges. Igniting something inside him he hadn't felt for a long time; a dangerous kind of fury, of need. "Then let us play."

  There were, after all, other means to find out precisely what his wife was up to.

  Chapter 2

  Alex Carver grabbed a fistful of Adele's pearls and tried to strangle her with them.

  "Goodness." Adele winced. "He has the grip of a sailor."

  "His father, rather," her dearest friend, Lena Carver, said wryly, reaching forward to rescue her. "Will's lack of manners too," she scolded, pressing a kiss to the baby's chubby cheek as she untangled his grip on Adele's pearls and tugged him into her arms. "Stop being such a beast to Adele."

  Despite her words, Lena was smiling as she turned and lifted the baby into the air. He gurgled and stared down at his mother as if she'd set the sun and the moon in the sky.

  "He's growing so swiftly," Adele noted, rubbing at her throat tentatively.

  "Verwulfen are like that." Lena brought him down into the curve of her softened body, tucking him against her shoulder. Her bronze eyes danced and Adele felt a faint s
tab of jealousy as she realized her closest—and perhaps only—friend was leaving her behind.

  Lena had a husband now, a man who adored her with almost embarrassing fervency, and her six-month-old son, who was burbling up at his mother as he stuffed Lena's gold chain in his mouth.

  The work they'd shared as part of the Society of Roses, to help protect young debutantes in need of a safety net from the blue bloods of the Echelon, had faded in recent times with the queen cracking down on certain activities. No longer were debutantes bearing the brunt of a blue blood lord's bloodlust. Several lords had been exiled from the Echelon for such behavior, one had even been executed, and the rest of them had very swiftly become the model of decorum.

  There was no longer the need for rings filled with hemlock—the only means of defense one had against a blue blood in the grip of the blood thirst.

  No longer a crop of frightened debutantes turning to Adele in the powder rooms of every ball and begging for help.

  Adele looked into her teacup.

  The Society had given her a sense of purpose in recent times. It helped ease the boredom of her days of constant tea parties, shopping expeditions, and wondering precisely what kind of woman her husband's new mistress was.