Duke of Desire (Maiden Lane #12)

Duke of Desire (Maiden Lane #12)

Elizabeth Hoyt




Acknowledgments


Publishing a book is a group project. It’s true that the ideas, the characters, and the first draft are all mine, but after that I have a lot of help. Thank you, then, to my editor Amy Pierpont, who has never flinched at one of my proposals—not even the one about the psychotic duke—and has been patient, kind, and perceptive all at the right times. Thank you to my beta reader, Susannah Taylor, who has both cheered me on and, perhaps more important, told me what really bugged her in the first draft. Thank you to my agent, Robin Rue, who sends me little emails when she hasn’t heard from me in a while just to see how I’m doing. Thank you to my assistant, Mel Jolly, who keeps me from going insane, OMG. Thank you to my copy editor S. B. Kleinman, for keeping me from embarrassment. Thank you to the art department team, who work hard on the covers of my books (particularly this one): Alan Ayers and Elizabeth Turner. Thank you to the editorial department and the sales department and all the people who work at Grand Central Publishing who I never see except at rushed cocktail parties in New York.

You’ve all made this book not only readable but also far, far better than I could make it by myself.

And a very special thanks to my Facebook friend Galia B., who helped me name Tansy!





This book is for you.

If you have read the eleven other books in the Maiden Lane series: Thank you for your faithfulness and for accompanying me on this odyssey through Georgian London. I hope you enjoyed the people, the sights and sounds, and above all, the passion.

If you have never read one of my books:

Oh, my dear. Sit back, have a cup of tea, and let me tell you a story.…





Chapter One




Once upon a time there lived a poor stonecutter.…

—From The Rock King





APRIL 1742

Considering how extremely dull her life had been up until this point, Iris Daniels, Lady Jordan had discovered a quite colorful way to die.

Torches flamed on tall stakes driven into the ground. Their flickering light in the moonless night made shadows jump and waver over the masked men grouped in a circle around her.

The naked masked men.

Their masks weren’t staid black half masks, either. No. They wore bizarre animal or bird shapes. She saw a crow, a badger, a mouse, and a bear with a hairy belly and a crooked red manhood.

She knelt next to a great stone slab, a primitive fallen monolith brought here centuries ago by people long forgotten. Her trembling hands were bound in front of her, her hair was coming down about her face, her dress was in a shocking state, and she very much suspected that she might smell—a result of having been kidnapped over four days before.

In front of her stood three men, the masters of this horrific farce.

The first wore a fox mask. He was slim, pale, and, judging by his body hair, a redhead. His inner forearm was tattooed with a small dolphin.

The second wore a mask in the likeness of a young man’s face with grapes in its hair—the god Dionysus if she wasn’t mistaken—which, oddly, was far more terrifying than any of the animal masks. He bore a dolphin tattoo on his upper right arm.

The last wore a wolf mask and was taller by a head then the other two. His body hair was black, he stood with a calm air of power, and he, too, bore a dolphin tattoo—directly on the jut of his left hip bone. The placement rather drew the eye to the man’s … erm … masculine attributes.

The man in the wolf mask had nothing to be ashamed of.

Iris shuddered in disgust and glanced away, accidentally meeting the Wolf’s mocking gaze.

She lifted her chin in defiance. She knew what this group of men was. This was the Lords of Chaos, an odious secret society composed of aristocrats who enjoyed two things: power and the rape and destruction of women and children.

Iris swallowed hard and reminded herself that she was a lady—her family could trace its line nearly to the time of the Conqueror—and as such she had her name and honor to uphold.

These … creatures might kill her—and worse—but they would not take her dignity.

“My Lords!” the Dionysus called, raising his arms above his head in a theatrical gesture that showed very little taste—but then he was addressing an audience of nude, masked men. “My Lords, I welcome you to our spring revels. Tonight we make a special sacrifice—the new Duchess of Kyle!”

The crowd roared like slavering beasts.

Iris blinked. The Duchess of …

She glanced quickly around.

As far as she could see in the macabre flickering torchlight, she was the only sacrifice in evidence, and she was most certainly not the Duchess of Kyle.

The commotion began to die down.

Iris cleared her throat. “No, I’m not.”

“Silence,” the Fox hissed.

She narrowed her eyes at him. In the last four days she’d been kidnapped on her way home from the wedding of the true Duchess of Kyle, she’d been bound, hooded, and thrown on the floor of a carriage, where she’d remained as the carriage bumped over road after rutted road, and then, on arrival at this place, she’d been shoved into a tiny stone hut without any sort of fire. She had been starved and had only a few cups of water to drink. Last, but most definitely not least, she’d been forced to relieve herself in a bucket.