By Sophie Jordan
She works to stay . . . One could imagine the final position a attractiveness like Fallon O'Rourke may possibly maintain her advantage was once within the Mayfair mansion of London's such a lot licentious duke, the infamous Dominic Hale. but Fallon—who's continued not anything yet lecherous advances considering the fact that her father's tragic death—is completely secure there . . . disguised as a footman! underneath the attention of the dark-haired satan along with his smoldering blue eyes and sinful smile, Fallon by no means imagines her mystery may be came across. yet how lengthy can her deception final whilst she starts to want she is likely one of the many girls traipsing out and in of the sinful rogue's bedchamber? He lives to sin . . . so much males envy the duke, by no means suspecting his pleasure-loving methods are a determined try to get away, although in brief, the soreness of a earlier that is left him with a center of stone. just one girl can holiday down his defenses. just one girl can win his love . . . if she finds her mystery and succumbs to the sins of the depraved duke.
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Extra resources for Sins of a Wicked Duke (Historical Romance)
Mr. Adams broke out in an easy grin. “Well, lad, I think you might be just the thing we’re looking for. You even appear the size of our last footman. ” The butler puffed out his chest. “Might be a bit antiquated to some, but this is a ducal household. ” Fallon nodded, smiling, but strangely, she felt no relief. A properly enthusiastic response failed to slip past her lips. She had achieved precisely what she sought. Why did she suddenly feel as though a noose had settled about her neck? A flash of the duke’s dark head bent over the woman’s bare breast flashed through her mind, and she knew why.
Ironically, the discerning one-eyed butler. “Mrs. ” Unnecessary to volunteer—as he held the letter from her in his hands—but she did so anyway, feeling the need to fill the silence. She held her breath, waiting. After a long moment, Mr. Adams leaned forward in his chair and selected a biscuit from the plate. “Excellent biscuits,” he called over his shoulder to the cook, a thin woman who stood at the stove stirring a pot with a sinewy arm. Great stains of sweat marked the armpits of her dress. The woman grunted in response.
She shot a pointed look to the woman’s hand on his crotch. He merely stared at her, arching a brow. She blinked and forced her gaze away from his lap, staring at the carriage wall as if a fresco of vast interest were painted there. He scowled. A prig. He had hoped that an unaccompanied woman who felt free to prowl the streets alone at this hour of night might be a little more receptive. Unfortunate. He had little use for good women. The hand on his cock grew bolder. Insistent. Annoying, as she sought to free him from his 34 SOPHIE JORDAN trousers.