Fans of Sabrina York’s steamy Regency series have been eagerly awaiting the release of Dark Duke, the third book (following award winning Folly and Dark Fancy) in which Edward Wyeth, the Dark Duke of Moncrieff, finally meets his match in the form of a flame-haired Scottish spitfire.
Noble Passions: Follow the decadent exploits of friends and enemies as they find love and passion in the glittering world of the Regency—and its dark underbelly. Each book is a stand-alone read.
If you’re new to the series, download Sabrina’s free teaser book at http://sabrinayork.com/home-2/sabrina-yorks-teaser-book/ to read blurbs and excerpts for this popular series. Each book in the series is a stand-alone story.
Enter to win a signed print copy of Dark Fancy (Helena and James’ story—Book 2 in the Noble Passions Series) on Goodreads! https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/17409083-dark-fancy
Dark DukeNoble Passions, Book Three
Edward Wyeth, the Dark Duke of Moncrieff’s life has been turned on its end. His well-ordered home has been invaded. By destitute relatives. From Scotland. How on earth can he write Lord Hedon’s salacious novels with hellions battling in the garden and starting fires in the library? But with the onslaught has come a delicious diversion. His cousin’s companion, the surprisingly intriguing Kaitlin MacAllister. He is determined to seduce her. Using her desperate need for funds and her talents as an artist, he convinces her to draw naughty pictures for his naughtier books…and he draws her into his decadent web.
But Kaitlin has a secret. She’s fled Scotland—and a very determined betrothed. When Edward’s cousin is kidnapped and held in her stead, Kaitlin is honor bound to return to her homeland and rescue her—much to Edward’s chagrin.
Because suddenly he can’t bear the thought of Kaitlin marrying another man. He can’t bear the thought of losing her at all.
A Romantica® Regency historical erotic romance from Ellora’s Cave
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An Excerpt From: DARK DUKE
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Edward
skirted the mêlée in the garden and made his way to the far end of the estate,
where there was nothing but flowers and trees and a placid little pond. Nothing
to attract diminutive fiends bent on mischief. He would sit in the folly until
his temperature returned to normal.
Perhaps
until spring.
Dear God.
He’d had no idea having the Wyeths of Perth take over his house would be such a
nightmare. If he had suspected as much, he would have turned them away at the
start. They would probably have crawled in under the door. Through the cracks
in the flue. Vermin had a way of finding entrance.
But now.
Now they were here.
Entrenched.
He had to
get rid of them.
Perhaps he
could send them back to Scotland.
Scotland
would revile him for it, but he had little use for rocky tors, lochs and sheep.
Then he
thought of Violet and his heart lurched. It would crush her to be trundled back
to what she referred to as “the bleak wilderness.” She was looking forward to a
glittering season in London. She was seventeen. She needed a husband. A husband
of quality. That might be difficult to find in the wilds of Scotland.
And Ned.
Ned was twenty. He was just starting to find his way with the ton. He’d made
some friends—decent fellows. He’d even been receiving invitations to game at
White’s.
The two of
them—the normal two—deserved better than being lumped in with the rest.
He whacked
at a rosebud as he passed. It exploded into a flutter of petals. He refused to
feel any sympathy.
He
couldn’t send them packing.
Then what?
Hell. He
was a duke of the realm. He had six houses spread throughout the empire. Why
hadn’t he thought to purchase a spare in London?
Aha!
That was
brilliant.
He would.
He’d buy them their own house. Move them all, lock stock and—well, maybe not
the barrels, as the older boys did like to drink. He’d move them all into their
own domicile.
With Aunt
Hortense. Let her manage them.
His life
would once again be orderly. He would be the master of his own abode. Free to
pursue the life of a wealthy dilettante.
Perfect.
He rounded
the bend with a satisfied smile on his face. The trickle of the fountain in the
pond was a balm to his tormented soul. Birds sang in the trees. The sun—well,
it almost shone. It was a beautiful day.
Soon, the
world would be right again.
Soon, they
would all be gone.
He skipped
up the steps of the folly with a lightness of heart he hadn’t felt in ages. A
book on the bench snagged his attention and his mood dipped, but only a bit.
Someone had been here. But they were gone.
He picked
it up and flipped through it and stilled.
Good God.
It was a
sketch book.
The first
page was an attempt at this scene. The flowers and trees, the pond and the
little fountain. Not very good. But the second arrested his attention. It was a
simple line drawing of Violet. And it was stunning. The artist had managed to
depict her beauty, but also captured that glint in her eye, the particular
quirk of her lips. Her soul.
The next
sketch was one of Ned, showing a brash young man, standing insouciantly with
his hands shoved into his pockets, whistling a silent tune. The next was of the
twins—whatever their names were—dark heads together plotting some manner of
mayhem.
It was so
realistic Edward expected them to leap from the page and whack him with a
cricket bat.
But it was
the last sketch in the book that stole his breath. It was a portrait, in
profile. His own face. But not an Edward he would ever recognize. This man was
heroic, tragic, a solitary soldier. It was only a few lines drawn in charcoal,
but it revealed so much about him. Things he didn’t want anyone to ever know.
It was
horrifying. And remarkable.
“Your
Grace.”
He snapped
the book shut and spun around.
Of course.
What’s her name. The girl. The owl. From last night.
“Oh, you
found it.” She stepped into the folly and took the book from his hands. He did
not know why he let it go.
“You left
it here.” An accusation. Really? He hadn’t intended for it to come out like
that.
She
chuckled. “I had to go rescue Hamish. I was coming back.”
“What…why
did you have to rescue Hamish?” This was her work? She saw him like that? And
hell, she was a damn fine hand. How he would love to turn such talent to…darker
purposes. What a pity she was such a prude. The kind of work he could offer her
would make her rich—rich enough to quit serving as Violet’s companion.
But she
would never do it. No decent woman would.
He must be
crazed, truly crazed, to even think on it.
The
gripping sketch of his wounded countenance lingered in his brain. If she could
do that, if she could see through to his soul and bring it to life on paper—
“And then
he got stuck. In the tree. So I had to rescue him.”
Lord.
She’d been talking. He’d missed the entire explanation. No matter. The question
had been purely rhetorical.
“How long
have you been drawing?”
She
winced, clutched the book to her breast. He recalled what fine breasts they
were. “I… What?”
“How long
have you been drawing? You’re quite good.”
“You
looked at my book?” She squawked as though he’d just admitted to peering up her
skirts. The lemony face returned. A beetled brow and pursed lips. It was, upon
reflection, rather adorable.
“It was
lying here.”
“You
shouldn’t look at someone’s sketchbook.”
“You
shouldn’t leave it where it can be found.” He crossed his arms over his chest
and grinned at her. Damn, he loved her accent.
She
sputtered. “I told you. Hamish and Tay—”
“Tay?”
“Taylor.
Hamish and Taylor were building a fort in a tree—”
“Yes. Yes.
I know. You had to rescue him. Tell me, have they always been this much
trouble?”
She blew
out a breath. “You have no idea.”
They both
laughed. It was a nice moment, because it seemed, for that brief flash of time,
they were friends, bound in mutual misery.
And then
he went and ruined it by letting his lust intrude. “So tell me, what did you
think of that book?”
She tipped
her head. “What book?”
“The one I
gave you last night.”
She blinked
several times, as though she had to try very hard to remember. “Oh. That book. I didn’t read it.”
He stepped
closer. “Ah. You like to look at the pictures, then?” He knew the sort.
“Look at
the… What? No, your Grace—”
“Edward.”
He infused his voice with a low thrum.
“Your Grace. I didn’t have a chance to
open it.”
Why
petulance curled within him, he had no clue. “What do you mean you didn’t have
a chance to open it?” She was supposed to have read it. Or at least looked at
the pictures. She was supposed to be gazing at him, right now, with a dewy
look.
She
brushed an invisible speck from her skirt. “There was…a distraction.”
Well hell.
“What kind of distraction?”
Her lips
pursed. The look she shot him was not dewy in the slightest.
Still, he
wanted to kiss her.
He wasn’t
sure why. She was certainly not the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen. But
her face had character and charm—especially when she smiled. Her figure was
full—the way he liked them—but she didn’t show it off to its best effect. In
fact, if he hadn’t known what lay beneath the thick layers of crinoline and
bombazine, he would have been fooled. She was prickly as a hedgehog and smacked
him down at every turn.
So why did
he want to pull her into his arms and smother her mouth with his?
Perhaps
because of all those things.
Then
again, perhaps just because.
So he did.
He took
the girl—whose name he could not remember, whose face he could not forget—into
his arms and kissed her. It was a gentle buss, as kisses went, but extremely
sublime. Because he’d surprised her.
Her lips
were open, as though poised to speak. He took full advantage, sweeping in his
tongue to dab at hers, nibbling and licking and tasting her sweet breath.
The prick
at his side was not a surprise. He’d expected it.
He lifted
his head and stared down into her eyes. Her expression was dazed and determined
and perhaps a little dewy. “Not this time, darling,” he murmured. He took the
knife from her hand and tossed it aside and then pulled her more fully against
him.
And ah.
She was soft. Sweet. Her breasts pressed against his chest. Her hips molded the
cradle of his groin. Of course, he was the one doing the molding, but she
didn’t fight him.
No. She
sighed and tipped her head to the side so he could deepen the kiss. She tasted
like ambrosia. A tantalizing flavor of cinnamon and woman and surrender. His
ardor rose, and with it, his cock. He rubbed it against her belly.
She
stiffened and tried to push away, muttering something into his mouth that
sounded like “No.”
He changed
his tack, running his lips down her cheek and along the line of her jaw to
nestle in the crook of her neck. She shuddered. Some groan-like sound emanated
from her throat. She clutched at his hair.
Thusly
encouraged, he sucked at the tender skin of her neck. Nipped.
“Oh!
Saints preserve us,” she whispered.
“The
saints don’t care,” he responded, switching to the other side of her neck. He
found a spot that delighted her even more and feasted there. In her
distraction, she didn’t stop the palm skimming over her ribs to cup a breast.
He encased
her. Ah. Exquisite. Full and round and pliable. He thumbed a nipple, testing
its rigidity. She dipped as her knees gave way. He caught her. Swung her up in
his arms and carried her to the bench.
From long
experience, he knew better than to give a woman a moment to think. So as soon
as he had her settled across his lap and firmly braced against the wall of the
folly, he kissed her again. With one hand, he stroked her nipples while with
the other, he slowly drew up her skirts.
About Sabrina York
Her Royal Hotness, Sabrina York is the award winning author of over 20 hot, humorous stories for smart and sexy readers. Her titles range from sweet & sexy erotic romance to scorching BDSM. Connect with her on twitter @sabrina_york, on Facebook or on Pintrest. Check out Sabrina’s books and read an excerpt on Amazon or wherever e-books are sold. Visit her webpage at www.sabrinayork.com to check out her books, excerpts and contests. Free Teaser Book: http://sabrinayork.com/home-2/sabrina-yorks-teaser-book/ And don’t forget to enter to win the royal tiara!
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