Julia Ann Long

Trap of passion

Hidden awkwardly between a birdbath and shrubbery in the garden of a Sussex manor house, Ian Eversey watched the mysterious silhouette of a woman appear three times, thank God, in an upstairs window.

The light turned off. It looks like the lamp has been extinguished.

This is a signal for him.

Ian rose to his feet. His knees crunched loudly. He froze in place. Yes, he was completely alone, there was only the starry sky above his head, and not a single soul would see him stealthily making his way to the tree.

The trips to the tree and the last three sensual, but not devoid of feigned modesty, nights of love play in her bedroom - all this began a week ago in this very house during a conversation at the ball in honor of the engagement of Lady Abigail and the Duke of Fauconbridge.

They were introduced to each other, a spark instantly ran between them, the conversation was very short: every word was like a secret indiscreet hint. From the very beginning, Ian was delighted: her lush, sleek beauty, feigned innocence hiding a delicious debauchery, and a pleasantly chilling sense of danger, because she was the bride of Alexander Moncrieff, Duke of Fauconbridge, who was rumored to have poisoned his first wife ten years ago ( Of course, nothing was proven, no official charges were brought forward, but the world could not allow such juicy gossip to fade away). The Duke took part in many duels. At least that's what they said. He was a cool, elegant, extraordinarily wealthy man. He played cards, invested money in various businesses and never lost. Only a madman could cross his path.

That's what the gossips said.

Before leaving the ballroom, Lady Abigail lightly struck Ian on the arm with her fan and pointedly noted that there was an oak tree right in front of her bedroom window.

Ian noticed this oak when the brothers arrived at the ball. He immediately managed to appreciate it with the enterprise characteristic of the entire male half of the Eversi family: the powerful trunk leaned conspiratorially against the red brick wall at home, and the strong branches growing low above the ground allowed an adult man to easily climb up without damaging vital parts of the body. But the most beautiful thing was the branch stretched towards the desired window, as if on purpose, Ian would say “persistently”.

Then he also wondered who this bedroom belonged to.

It is not surprising that Lady Abigail and Ian understood each other perfectly.

“Perhaps I will see you tomorrow after midnight,” she said.

It wasn't necessary to add the word "maybe."

For three nights in a row, Ian made the journey from his refuge by the fountain to her bed. During these three nights, which began with a kiss, he almost managed to undress Abigail. Today she promised to wait for him in the bedroom completely naked and wanted him to immediately follow her example.

Ian's heart was beating wildly as he jumped and grabbed the lowest branch, climbed up the trunk to the one that led straight to the window, and hung. Abigail opened the window a couple of inches. Ian hooked his fingers and carefully lifted old frame, because the day before, having grabbed onto it too quickly, he stuck a splinter in himself. Then he swung his legs over the window sill and slid down.

Ian tore off his clothes as quickly as if he were being attacked by ants.

Leaning his hand on the table by the window, he kicked off his shoes and then carefully placed them on the carpet. His fingers flew over the buttons, getting rid of his coat, shirt, and trousers. Ian folded the clothes and placed them next to the bed.

Good God! How wonderfully everything went, starting from the painful wait on his haunches in an ambush and ending with the tree and the splinter. Every sound, every sensation inflamed his desire. It all became so familiar and sensual now, turned into part of the game: the rustling of the sheets when he slid under the covers to Abigail, the sweet touch of her silky and cool skin, the faint scent of lavender that she exuded, the first light touch of his fingertips to the warm, waiting him in the bed of a woman who now looks like a shadow, but into whose fragrant and soft flesh he will plunge very soon, as she promised him, her exclamation of approval... and the easily recognizable ominous click of a cocked gun...

Can't be!

This is already something new.

Ian and Abigail quickly moved away from each other and now sat upright. Ian’s heart was jumping out of his chest, and he tried to find his revolver, but in vain, because he was undressed and put the weapon in his shoe. He carefully placed his bare foot on the floor, preparing to throw himself out the window or at the owner of the revolver. His eyes tried to see something in the darkness.

Julia Ann Long

Trap of passion

Hidden awkwardly between a birdbath and shrubbery in the garden of a Sussex manor house, Ian Eversey watched the mysterious silhouette of a woman appear three times, thank God, in an upstairs window.

The light turned off. It looks like the lamp has been extinguished.

This is a signal for him.

Ian rose to his feet. His knees crunched loudly. He froze in place. Yes, he was completely alone, there was only the starry sky above his head, and not a single soul would see him stealthily making his way to the tree.

The trips to the tree and the last three sensual, but not devoid of feigned modesty, nights of love play in her bedroom - all this began a week ago in this very house during a conversation at the ball in honor of the engagement of Lady Abigail and the Duke of Fauconbridge.

They were introduced to each other, a spark instantly ran between them, the conversation was very short: every word was like a secret indiscreet hint. From the very beginning, Ian was delighted: her lush, sleek beauty, feigned innocence hiding a delicious debauchery, and a pleasantly chilling sense of danger, because she was the bride of Alexander Moncrieff, Duke of Fauconbridge, who was rumored to have poisoned his first wife ten years ago ( Of course, nothing was proven, no official charges were brought forward, but the world could not allow such juicy gossip to fade away). The Duke took part in many duels. At least that's what they said. He was a cool, elegant, extraordinarily wealthy man. He played cards, invested money in various businesses and never lost. Only a madman could cross his path.

That's what the gossips said.

Before leaving the ballroom, Lady Abigail lightly struck Ian on the arm with her fan and pointedly noted that there was an oak tree right in front of her bedroom window.

Ian noticed this oak when the brothers arrived at the ball. He immediately managed to appreciate it with the enterprise characteristic of the entire male half of the Eversi family: a powerful trunk leaned conspiratorially against the red brick wall of the house, and strong branches growing low above the ground allowed an adult man to easily climb up without damaging vital parts of the body. But the most beautiful thing was the branch stretched towards the desired window, as if on purpose, Ian would say “persistently”.

Then he also wondered who this bedroom belonged to.

It is not surprising that Lady Abigail and Ian understood each other perfectly.

“Perhaps I will see you tomorrow after midnight,” she said.

It wasn't necessary to add the word "maybe."

For three nights in a row, Ian made the journey from his refuge by the fountain to her bed. During these three nights, which began with a kiss, he almost managed to undress Abigail. Today she promised to wait for him in the bedroom completely naked and wanted him to immediately follow her example.

Ian's heart was beating wildly as he jumped and grabbed the lowest branch, climbed up the trunk to the one that led straight to the window, and hung. Abigail opened the window a couple of inches. Ian put his fingers under it and carefully lifted the old frame, because the day before, he had grabbed it too quickly and gotten himself a splinter. Then he swung his legs over the window sill and slid down.

Ian tore off his clothes as quickly as if he were being attacked by ants.

Leaning his hand on the table by the window, he kicked off his shoes and then carefully placed them on the carpet. His fingers flew over the buttons, getting rid of his coat, shirt, and trousers. Ian folded the clothes and placed them next to the bed.

Good God! How wonderfully everything went, starting from the painful wait on his haunches in an ambush and ending with the tree and the splinter. Every sound, every sensation inflamed his desire. It all became so familiar and sensual now, turned into part of the game: the rustling of the sheets when he slid under the covers to Abigail, the sweet touch of her silky and cool skin, the faint scent of lavender that she exuded, the first light touch of his fingertips to the warm, waiting him in the bed of a woman who now looks like a shadow, but into whose fragrant and soft flesh he will plunge very soon, as she promised him, her exclamation of approval... and the easily recognizable ominous click of a cocked gun...

Can't be!

This is already something new.

Ian and Abigail quickly moved away from each other and now sat upright. Ian’s heart was jumping out of his chest, and he tried to find his revolver, but in vain, because he was undressed and put the weapon in his shoe. He carefully placed his bare foot on the floor, preparing to throw himself out the window or at the owner of the revolver. His eyes tried to see something in the darkness.

Holy Virgin! It was as if the night itself spoke to him.

Ian was no coward, but the tiny hairs on the back of his neck and on his arms stood on end as a previously invisible shadow rose from a chair in the corner, growing taller and taller, and came straight towards them.

Of course, it was not a ghost, but a man who had specially dressed himself in dark clothes. This way it’s more convenient to hide, attack, lure into a trap.

Frightened, Abigail breathed noisily.

The man approached the bed with the light gait of a stalking leopard. Reflections of moonlight from the window fell on the barrel of his revolver and on something metal in his other hand - on the lamp...

He carefully placed it on small table at the window, and then lit it for an unbearably long time, although, perhaps, time passed slowly from fear. The flame flickered intermittently and burned steadily. Finally, among the play of light and shadows, a man’s face appeared. They looked as if they were Lucifer sitting by the fire.

If this nightmare had happened to someone else, one would have laughed.

The Duke of Fauconbridge looked at them thoughtfully. He was unusually tall, and the light from the lamp made his shadow on the wall look simply gigantic. There seemed to be two ghostly dukes hanging over the bed, and both had revolvers.

Ian didn't know whether to look at Moncrieff's face or his weapon. The revolver was aimed squarely at Ian's chest, which was now covered in cold sweat. Both revolvers gleamed equally indifferently and mercilessly.

Ian had no doubt that Moncrieff was capable of shooting. His reputation spoke for itself.

The Duke bowed his head ironically, as if greeting Ian.

There was not a drop of surprise in his gesture. It was as if he was expecting to see him.

Perhaps he even followed him, watched, sat in ambush... God, how many nights did this last?

How are you?.. - Ian muttered.

Probably not the best the right time for idle questions, but he was simply eager to find out.

Now his palms were sweating too.

Since I never go to bed before midnight, Eversi, and here I am a guest and am forced to walk, I have noticed your horse tied by the road for three nights in a row. To tell the truth, knowing you, it was not difficult to guess everything. By the way, I let the horse go today.

God! Ian loved this horse.

They were in Sussex, and the horse would find its way home to Eversey House, of that Ian could be sure. Or it will fall directly into the hands of the gypsies, who have set up their camps in the county, but it is unlikely that the gypsies will dare to sell an animal belonging to the Eversi family.

But will Ian ever get home...

Abigail squeezed his hand. You'd think he could comfort her!

Perhaps he should try to appease the Duke.

I don’t... - Ian began, - we have never...

The Duke raised his eyebrows, looking at Ian challengingly, daring him to finish his thought.

Ian immediately regretted his decision.

That's what it seems.

An incredulous silence followed. Even Abigail turned to Ian, her mouth open in amazement, his words were so similar to a line from a bad play.

But damn, Ian, unfortunately, said the honest truth. More precisely, what one might have thought about has not yet happened.

I could have been touched by your words, Eversi, if not for this note of regret.

However, there was nothing funny about the relentlessly aimed revolver.

Abigail and Ian flinched as the Duke left the circle of light and slowly walked over to the side of the bed where his bride was sitting. His sneaking steps were maddening, because usually the Duke walked as if gravity did not exist for him - with large, impatient steps he walked straight towards his goal. He wasn't the type to just stroll around.

The Duke leaned over Abigail.

She swallowed loudly.

Lower, even lower... The Duke lowered the muzzle of his revolver. Both lovers kept looking at him, like a cobra ready to strike. Maybe he just wanted to put it on safety? Put it in your belt? Or…

Finally the barrel touched Abigail's throat.

She closed her eyes tightly, and hoarse words of prayer escaped her lips.

Ian felt like his chest was being squeezed and he couldn't breathe. Abigail's hand was as cold as ice, and for an undignified moment he wanted to throw it away, reject their mutual stupidity, ask her how she could think that he could console her or change her circumstances. They were connected only by pleasure. Ian thought about rushing at the Duke and knocking him to the floor before he could shoot. After all, he was still naked and covered in horror with a slippery film of sweat, so it would be difficult to grab hold of him. The Duke was tall, but wiry, and could well have fallen if Eversi had attacked him.

But Ian was forced to abandon his plan. He saw the Duke shoot Manton.

He had no choice. He got into this and now he has to come out victorious.

Strictly speaking, this was not true, since it was Abigail who started everything, but perhaps Ian had never said anything more noble in his life. Moreover, it is difficult to forget in an instant the excellent upbringing and fighting spirit absorbed with mother’s milk. In moments of terrible danger, they seem to manifest themselves on their own.

Come on, for God's sake, do what you set out to do.

There was silence while the Duke pondered, or pretended to ponder, this proposal.

“Very good,” he finally answered calmly. “You put it perfectly, Eversi, and so I will do exactly what I intended to do.” And I intend... - Ian looked at the gun so intently that he did not notice how the Duke began to unbutton his trousers, - to share her with you. Move over, Eversy.

They lacked air in the room from the terrible shock. Satisfied that he managed to take several years of life from his lovers, Alexander Moncrieff, the sixth Duke of Fauconbridge, holding his hand on the clasp of his trousers, glanced at the bare white shoulders of the bride and the white sheet, chastely stretched to her chin.

Of course, the Duke knew Eversey and his brothers and father from meetings at the White's Club, but nothing meaningful conversations over a cigar and a glass of cognac in libraries after balls. They were very close, enjoyed charm and possessed enormous wealth.

The Duke wanted to play with the couple a little more, but thought it was pointless, rather even boring.

Perhaps because, as they whispered behind his back, he was getting old. He was almost forty.

Instead, he quickly crossed the room, raised the window frame high, leaned down, took the shoes from the door - earlier he had barely restrained himself from shooting the villain, seeing how he carefully took them off and placed them on the carpet - and threw them through the window, as if spears. The boots were followed by a pile of clothes. There was one amazing moment when the wind caught his coat and it flew as if bat before disappearing into the night.

However, the shirt did not fly far. She hung from the branches of an oak tree, caught by her cufflinks, and swayed merrily in the wind, as if an invisible circus performer had suddenly appeared inside her.

Everyone was hypnotized by what was happening.

Then Moncrieff turned sharply and aimed the muzzle of his revolver directly at Ian's white, sweaty forehead.

Leave the same way you came, Eversi. Alive! - he said threateningly.

The Duke felt that Ian was preparing to repel an attack or attack. He was younger, but Moncrieff was sure that the fight would be equal, although the opponent did not have a revolver. For years, the Duke honed all the elements and methods of fighting, including dishonest ones. Perhaps he will need them now.

Would you like me to explain to you the meaning of the words “alive” and “honor”. Eversi? Do you want to test me?

Duke did small step forward.

This step decided everything. Ian flew off the bed, trying to grab the sheet with him, but a sharp jerk stopped him. He looked over his shoulder: Abigail had no intention of parting with the sheet.

Ian pulled desperately, looking pleadingly at his former lover.

Abigail grabbed the fabric with a death grip, frowned and shook her head sharply.

No, not this!

The Duke snatched the sheet from Eversi's hands.

Ian Eversey stood completely naked in the lamplight, his long pale legs, hairy shins and all on display. We must give him his due: although he did not proudly rest his hands on his hips, he did not shyly cover his manhood. In any case, everyone in the room knew that he had it.

Moncrieff, we can solve this problem as men with the weapon of your choice. I would be happy with this outcome. I fully deserve it. You are right about everything. Choose your weapon.

Touching speech. Eversi have always been distinguished by excellent politeness. Each of them was a scoundrel and a libertine, but they were not short of politeness.

Several sarcastic responses came to Moncrieff's mind: "You seem to consider yourself a skilled swordsman, Eversi." However, he did not tolerate fools and scoundrels. He was almost forty years old and his patience was running out. IN Lately prickly thoughts did not leave him.

Your punishment will fit the crime.

The Duke stepped aside and allowed Eversi to go to the window.

Ian walked like a condemned prisoner to the guillotine.

The Duke and Abigail watched in silence as Ian climbed out of the window. It was not a pretty sight, as he had to contort himself and show off parts of his body that Moncrieff would rather not see in the light of the dump. Then they saw something like a sunset as Ian's pale bottom disappeared through the window and he once again climbed onto the branch that had once been so attractive but now had become treacherous.

They heard quacking and the sound of tearing material as Ian pulled his shirt off the branch, only half of which remained. Moncrieff pointedly closed the window, muffling Ian's colorful remarks, and drew the curtains.

Abigail shuddered slightly and turned to the Duke with a look full of regret and surprise, as if he had ended a puppet show prematurely.

The Duke's anger subsided slightly. Somewhere in the depths of his icy rage, an echo of the feelings he once felt for Abigail awakened. Her hair was scattered over her shoulders, and the Duke could hardly restrain himself from touching the long strands. Abigail could lie on her back and squirm in pleasure. He knew perfectly well how to seduce a woman, to convince her that she wanted him, even if she herself was not entirely sure of this. Most women wanted him.

Well, he should have known:

Why? - he finally asked.

Why do you want to know? - Abigail answered the question with a question.

Perfect. Perhaps he will regret it.

Answer me,” he repeated insistently.

Behind the quiet words lay a threat that would have made even a strong man retreat.

Abigail swallowed and licked her fear-dry lips. He watched as the pink tongue touched the beautiful lips, and anger washed over him again, like a surf.

“He’s amazing,” she answered barely audibly, restlessly fingering the folds of the sheet clenched in her fist. Her voice was still weak, but she shrugged as if expressing contempt. - Beautiful. Young. And he enjoys universal success. - Abigail was silent. “But no one loves you,” she added capriciously and angrily.

Well, it’s quite clear and understandable.

Women often desired him. Men would like to be in his place. But no one loved him, and that was the truth.

At least no one that Abigail Beasley could turn her gaze to. And this meant almost all of high society.

The Duke laughed briefly:

Do you think my armor can't be penetrated, Abigail? Do you think it's impossible to hurt me? Not all rumors about me are true.

However, in the most decent of them there was some truth, and yet...

Of course, Abigail knew what she was getting into when she agreed to marry him, but she didn't mind.

Your armor, Moncrieff, is that no one loves you. I'm sure you're just reveling in it.

Of course. However, the remark was so insightful, in fact the first honest, such a sincere and reasonable remark from Abigail's mouth, that the Duke began to hate her - her beautiful bare shoulders, her breasts covered by the sheet, and the smell of Ian Eversey still hanging in the bedroom.

He must shoot her on principle.

He shouldn't care and he will do it.

The Duke tried not to be indifferent. He was going to do anything for it once he and Abigail got married, which is why he proposed to her. It had been a long time since any other woman had ignited his imagination like this. He liked her carefree laugh, her low velvety voice, the curve of her lips, the color of her hair, her curvaceous body, her simplicity. Abigail wasn't stupid, but she wasn't very thoughtful either. Her company was as pleasant to him as spring days or tasty food. She flirted tirelessly, was sometimes provocative, but never rude. The Duke was smart. He decided to make Abigail his wife, knowing full well how his courtship would end: he is a rich duke, she is the daughter of a noble but impoverished baron.

And yet he courted Abigail like a true gentleman, amazing everyone. However, he did not want to know how accessible his future wife, so he only kissed her once. But this kiss was worth it. And the Duke realized that the touch of her lips could make him glow, he wanted to make her his beloved, and besides, Abigail did not resist the kiss at all. At all times, marriages were concluded for less compelling reasons.

But love is nothing more than a close relationship that can develop over the years life together. Is it not the properties of the soul that fire your imagination, as if you looked at the sky at night and saw not just a galaxy of brilliant stars, but a huge meadow of stars? Is not it?

The Duke was sure: he once knew what love was. But now he has lost this knowledge.

However, he still wanted to try.

And now the loss of such an opportunity made him furious. And not only this. What an absurd word - “cuckold”! No more, no less. Now the Duke still could not understand what feeling had truly taken possession of him.

Current page: 1 (book has 18 pages total) [available reading passage: 10 pages]

Julia Ann Long
Trap of passion

Chapter 1

Hidden awkwardly between a birdbath and shrubbery in the garden of a Sussex manor house, Ian Eversey watched the mysterious silhouette of a woman appear three times, thank God, in an upstairs window.

The light turned off. It looks like the lamp has been extinguished.

This is a signal for him.

Ian rose to his feet. His knees crunched loudly. He froze in place. Yes, he was completely alone, there was only the starry sky above his head, and not a single soul would see him stealthily making his way to the tree.

The trips to the tree and the last three sensual, but not devoid of feigned modesty, nights of lovemaking in her bedroom - all this began a week ago in this very house during a conversation at the ball in honor of the engagement of Lady Abigail and the Duke of Fauconbridge.

They were introduced to each other, a spark instantly ran between them, the conversation was very short: every word was like a secret indiscreet hint. From the very beginning, Ian was delighted: her lush, sleek beauty, feigned innocence hiding a delicious debauchery, and a pleasantly chilling sense of danger, because she was the bride of Alexander Moncrieff, Duke of Fauconbridge, who was rumored to have poisoned his first wife ten years ago ( Of course, nothing was proven, no official charges were brought forward, but the world could not allow such juicy gossip to fade away). The Duke took part in many duels. At least that's what they said. He was a cool, elegant, extraordinarily wealthy man. He played cards, invested money in various businesses and never lost. Only a madman could cross his path.

That's what the gossips said.

Before leaving the ballroom, Lady Abigail lightly struck Ian on the arm with her fan and pointedly noted that there was an oak tree right in front of her bedroom window.

Ian noticed this oak when the brothers arrived at the ball. He immediately managed to appreciate it with the enterprise characteristic of the entire male half of the Eversi family: a powerful trunk leaned conspiratorially against the red brick wall of the house, and strong branches growing low above the ground allowed an adult man to easily climb up without damaging vital parts of the body. But the most beautiful thing was the branch stretched towards the desired window, as if on purpose, Ian would say “persistently”.

Then he also wondered who this bedroom belonged to.

It is not surprising that Lady Abigail and Ian understood each other perfectly.

“I’ll probably see you after midnight tomorrow,” she said.

It wasn't necessary to add the word "maybe."

For three nights in a row, Ian made the journey from his refuge by the fountain to her bed. During these three nights, which began with a kiss, he almost managed to undress Abigail. Today she promised to wait for him in the bedroom completely naked and wanted him to immediately follow her example.

Ian's heart was beating wildly as he jumped and grabbed the lowest branch, climbed up the trunk to the one that led straight to the window, and hung. Abigail opened the window a couple of inches. Ian put his fingers under it and carefully lifted the old frame, because the day before, he had grabbed it too quickly and gotten himself a splinter. Then he swung his legs over the window sill and slid down.

Ian tore off his clothes as quickly as if he were being attacked by ants.

Leaning his hand on the table by the window, he kicked off his shoes and then carefully placed them on the carpet. His fingers flew over the buttons, getting rid of his coat, shirt, and trousers. Ian folded the clothes and placed them next to the bed.

Good God! How wonderfully everything went, starting from the painful wait on his haunches in an ambush and ending with the tree and the splinter. Every sound, every sensation inflamed his desire. It all became so familiar and sensual now, turned into part of the game: the rustling of the sheets when he slid under the covers to Abigail, the sweet touch of her silky and cool skin, the faint scent of lavender that she exuded, the first light touch of his fingertips to the warm, waiting him in the bed of a woman who now looks like a shadow, but into whose fragrant and soft flesh he will plunge very soon, as she promised him, her exclamation of approval... and the easily recognizable ominous click of a cocked gun...

Can't be!

This is already something new.

Ian and Abigail quickly moved away from each other and now sat upright. Ian’s heart was jumping out of his chest, and he tried to find his revolver, but in vain, because he was undressed and put the weapon in his shoe. He carefully placed his bare foot on the floor, preparing to throw himself out the window or at the owner of the revolver. His eyes tried to see something in the darkness.

Holy Virgin! It was as if the night itself spoke to him.

Ian was no coward, but the tiny hairs on the back of his neck and on his arms stood on end as a previously invisible shadow rose from a chair in the corner, growing taller and taller, and came straight towards them.

Of course, it was not a ghost, but a man who had specially dressed himself in dark clothes. This way it’s more convenient to hide, attack, lure into a trap.

Frightened, Abigail breathed noisily.

The man approached the bed with the light gait of a stalking leopard. Reflections of moonlight from the window fell on the barrel of his revolver and on something metal in his other hand - on a lamp...

He carefully placed it on the small window table, and then lit it for an unbearably long time, although perhaps the time passed slowly from fear. The flame flickered intermittently and burned steadily. Finally, among the play of light and shadows, a man’s face appeared. They looked as if they were Lucifer sitting by the fire.

If this nightmare had happened to someone else, one would have laughed.

The Duke of Fauconbridge looked at them thoughtfully. He was unusually tall, and the light from the lamp made his shadow on the wall look simply gigantic. There seemed to be two ghostly dukes hanging over the bed, and both had revolvers.

Ian didn't know whether to look at Moncrieff's face or his weapon. The revolver was aimed squarely at Ian's chest, which was now covered in cold sweat. Both revolvers gleamed equally indifferently and mercilessly.

Ian had no doubt that Moncrieff was capable of shooting. His reputation spoke for itself.

- Eversi.

The Duke bowed his head ironically, as if greeting Ian.

There was not a drop of surprise in his gesture. It was as if he was expecting to see him.

Perhaps he even followed him, watched, sat in ambush... God, how many nights did this last?

“How are you?” Ian muttered.

This was probably not the best time for idle questions, but he was simply eager to find out.

Now his palms were sweating too.

“Since I never go to bed before midnight, Eversi, and here I am a guest and am forced to walk, I noticed your horse tied by the road for three nights in a row. To tell the truth, knowing you, it was not difficult to guess everything. By the way, I let the horse go today.

God! Ian loved this horse.

They were in Sussex, and the horse would find its way home to Eversey House, of that Ian could be sure. Or it will fall directly into the hands of the gypsies, who have set up their camps in the county, but it is unlikely that the gypsies will dare to sell an animal belonging to the Eversi family.

But will Ian ever get home...

Abigail squeezed his hand. You'd think he could comfort her!

Perhaps he should try to appease the Duke.

“I don’t...” Ian began, “we have never...”

The Duke raised his eyebrows, looking at Ian challengingly, daring him to finish his thought.

Ian immediately regretted his decision.

- That's what it seems.

An incredulous silence followed. Even Abigail turned to Ian, her mouth open in amazement, his words were so similar to a line from a bad play.

But damn it, Ian, unfortunately, was telling the honest truth. More precisely, what one might have thought about has not yet happened.

“I could have been touched by your words, Eversi, if not for this note of regret.”

However, there was nothing funny about the relentlessly aimed revolver.

Abigail and Ian flinched as the Duke left the circle of light and slowly walked over to the side of the bed where his bride was sitting. His sneaking steps were maddening, because usually the Duke walked as if gravity did not exist for him - with large, impatient steps he walked straight towards his goal. He wasn't the type to just stroll around.

The Duke leaned over Abigail.

She swallowed loudly.

Lower, even lower... The Duke lowered the muzzle of his revolver. Both lovers kept looking at him, like a cobra ready to strike. Maybe he just wanted to put it on safety? Put it in your belt? Or…

Finally the barrel touched Abigail's throat.

She closed her eyes tightly, and hoarse words of prayer escaped her lips.

Ian felt like his chest was being squeezed and he couldn't breathe. Abigail's hand was as cold as ice, and for an undignified moment he wanted to throw it away, reject their mutual stupidity, ask her how she could think that he could console her or change her circumstances. They were connected only by pleasure. Ian thought about rushing at the Duke and knocking him to the floor before he could shoot. After all, he was still naked and covered in horror with a slippery film of sweat, so it would be difficult to grab hold of him. The Duke was tall, but wiry, and could well have fallen if Eversi had attacked him.

But Ian was forced to abandon his plan. He saw the Duke shoot Manton.

He had no choice. He got into this and now he has to come out victorious.

Strictly speaking, this was not true, since it was Abigail who started everything, but perhaps Ian had never said anything more noble in his life. Moreover, it is difficult to forget in an instant the excellent upbringing and fighting spirit absorbed with mother’s milk. In moments of terrible danger, they seem to manifest themselves on their own.

“Come on, for God’s sake, do what you set out to do.”

There was silence while the Duke pondered, or pretended to ponder, this proposal.

“Very good,” he finally answered calmly. “You put it perfectly, Eversi, and so I will do exactly what I intended to do.” And I intend...” Ian looked at the gun so intently that he did not notice how the Duke began to unbutton his trousers, “to share her with you.” Move over, Eversy.

They lacked air in the room from the terrible shock. Satisfied that he managed to take several years of life from his lovers, Alexander Moncrieff, the sixth Duke of Fauconbridge, holding his hand on the clasp of his trousers, glanced at the bare white shoulders of the bride and the white sheet, chastely stretched to her chin.

Of course, the Duke knew Eversey, his brothers and father from meetings at the White's Club, from meaningless conversations over a cigar and a glass of cognac in libraries after balls. They were very close, enjoyed charm and possessed enormous wealth.

The Duke wanted to play with the couple a little more, but thought it was pointless, rather even boring.

Perhaps because, as they whispered behind his back, he was getting old. He was almost forty.

Instead, he quickly crossed the room, raised the window frame high, leaned down, took the shoes from the door - earlier he had barely restrained himself from shooting the villain, seeing how he carefully took them off and placed them on the carpet - and threw them through the window, as if spears. The boots were followed by a pile of clothes. There was one amazing moment when the wind caught his coat and it flew like a bat before disappearing into the night.

However, the shirt did not fly far. She hung from the branches of an oak tree, caught by her cufflinks, and swayed merrily in the wind, as if an invisible circus performer had suddenly appeared inside her.

Everyone was hypnotized by what was happening.

Then Moncrieff turned sharply and aimed the muzzle of his revolver directly at Ian's white, sweaty forehead.

– Leave the same way you came, Eversi. Alive! – he said threateningly.

The Duke felt that Ian was preparing to repel an attack or attack. He was younger, but Moncrieff was sure that the fight would be equal, although the opponent did not have a revolver. For years, the Duke honed all the elements and methods of fighting, including dishonest ones. Perhaps he will need them now.

– Would you like me to explain to you the meaning of the words “alive” and “honor”. Eversi? Do you want to test me?

The Duke took a small step forward.

This step decided everything. Ian flew off the bed, trying to grab the sheet with him, but a sharp jerk stopped him. He looked over his shoulder: Abigail had no intention of parting with the sheet.

Ian pulled desperately, looking pleadingly at his former lover.

Abigail grabbed the fabric with a death grip, frowned and shook her head sharply.

- No, not that!

The Duke snatched the sheet from Eversi's hands.

Ian Eversey stood completely naked in the lamplight, his long pale legs, hairy shins and all on display. We must give him his due: although he did not proudly rest his hands on his hips, he did not shyly cover his manhood either. In any case, everyone in the room knew that he had it.

“Moncrieff, we can solve this problem as men with the weapon of your choice.” I would be happy with this outcome. I fully deserve it. You are right about everything. Choose your weapon.

Touching speech. Eversi have always been distinguished by excellent politeness. Each of them was a scoundrel and a libertine, but they were not short of politeness.

Several sarcastic responses came to Moncrieff's mind: "You seem to consider yourself a skilled swordsman, Eversi." However, he did not tolerate fools and scoundrels. He was almost forty years old and his patience was running out. Lately he had been haunted by sharp thoughts.

“Your punishment will fit the crime.”

The Duke stepped aside and allowed Eversi to go to the window.

Ian walked like a condemned prisoner to the guillotine.

The Duke and Abigail watched in silence as Ian climbed out of the window. It was not a pretty sight, as he had to contort himself and show off parts of his body that Moncrieff would rather not see in the light of the dump. Then they saw something like a sunset as Ian's pale bottom disappeared through the window and he once again climbed onto the branch that had once been so attractive but now had become treacherous.

They heard quacking and the sound of tearing material as Ian pulled his shirt off the branch, only half of which remained. Moncrieff pointedly closed the window, muffling Ian's colorful remarks, and drew the curtains.

Abigail shuddered slightly and turned to the Duke with a look full of regret and surprise, as if he had ended a puppet show prematurely.

The Duke's anger subsided slightly. Somewhere in the depths of his icy rage, an echo of the feelings he once felt for Abigail awakened. Her hair was scattered over her shoulders, and the Duke could hardly restrain himself from touching the long strands. Abigail could lie on her back and squirm in pleasure. He knew perfectly well how to seduce a woman, to convince her that she wanted him, even if she herself was not entirely sure of this. Most women wanted him.

Well, he should have known:

- Why? – he finally asked.

- Why do you want to know? – Abigail answered the question with a question.

Perfect. Perhaps he will regret it.

“Answer me,” he repeated insistently.

Behind the quiet words lay a threat that would have made even a strong man retreat.

Abigail swallowed and licked her fear-dry lips. He watched as the pink tongue touched the beautiful lips, and anger washed over him again, like a surf.

“He’s amazing,” she answered barely audibly, restlessly fingering the folds of the sheet clenched in her fist. Her voice was still weak, but she shrugged as if expressing contempt. - Beautiful. Young. And he enjoys universal success. – Abigail was silent. “But no one loves you,” she added capriciously and angrily.

Well, it’s quite clear and understandable.

Women often desired him. Men would like to be in his place. But no one loved him, and that was the truth.

At least no one that Abigail Beasley could turn her gaze to. And this meant almost all of high society.

The Duke laughed briefly:

“Do you think my armor can’t be penetrated, Abigail?” Do you think it's impossible to hurt me? Not all rumors about me are true.

However, in the most decent of them there was some truth, and yet...

Of course, Abigail knew what she was getting into when she agreed to marry him, but she didn't mind.

“Your armor, Moncrieff, is that no one loves you.” I'm sure you're just reveling in it.

Of course. But the remark was so insightful, in fact the first honest, so sincere and reasonable remark from Abigail's mouth, that the Duke began to hate her - her beautiful bare shoulders, her breasts covered by the sheet, and the smell of Ian Eversey still hanging in the bedroom.

He must shoot her on principle.

He shouldn't care and he will do it.

The Duke tried not to be indifferent. He was going to do anything for it once he and Abigail got married, which is why he proposed to her. It had been a long time since any other woman had ignited his imagination like this. He liked her carefree laugh, her low velvety voice, the curve of her lips, the color of her hair, her curvaceous body, her simplicity. Abigail wasn't stupid, but she wasn't very thoughtful either. Her company was as pleasant to him as spring days or delicious food. She flirted tirelessly, was sometimes provocative, but never rude. The Duke was smart. He decided to make Abigail his wife, knowing full well how his courtship would end: he was a rich duke, she was the daughter of a noble but impoverished baron.

And yet he courted Abigail like a true gentleman, amazing everyone. However, he didn't want to know how available his future wife was, so he only kissed her once. But this kiss was worth it. And the Duke realized that the touch of her lips could make him glow, he wanted to make her his beloved, and besides, Abigail did not resist the kiss at all. At all times, marriages were concluded for less compelling reasons.

But love is nothing more than close relationships that can develop over the years of living together. Is it not the properties of the soul that fire your imagination, as if you looked at the sky at night and saw not just a galaxy of brilliant stars, but a huge meadow of stars? Is not it?

The Duke was sure: he once knew what love was. But now he has lost this knowledge.

However, he still wanted to try.

And now the loss of such an opportunity made him furious. And not only this. What an absurd word - “cuckold”! No more, no less. Now the Duke still could not understand what feeling had truly taken possession of him.

Abigail made him look like a fool. And Eversi helped her with this.

No one ever did it twice without suffering the full brunt of the punishment.

And now the Duke understood - he was overcome by the desire for revenge.

“Like Mr. Eversey, I leave your house the same way I entered, Abigail: through the front door, past your anxious footman, whose loyalty to your family was weaker than the Duke with a revolver. Considering your predilection for night visitors, you should hire a more durable servant. You and I will agree that the breaking of the engagement was by mutual consent. You will inform your father that he will have to find another way to pay off his debts. I don't want to have anything to do with you anymore. Perhaps the best option would be to travel to the continent until things calm down.

It was an order, not a suggestion, and Abigail knew it.

Most likely, in her absence, gossip about the reasons for her hasty departure will find fertile ground, and evil tongues will not spare her. Perhaps after this incident no one will want to marry her anymore. At least no one famous or rich.

She deserved it.

The Duke silently watched the impact his words made.

Even now, the Duke could not escape the sensual hoarseness in her voice, and he felt the same as a sleeping cat that suddenly began to be stroked.

“Men are made too simply,” he thought with bitter contempt for himself, for Eversi and for all the other men who took whatever they wanted. – We think we are so smart. And yet we are surprised every time when we are deceived or shown in a ridiculous light.”

Abigail was his last hope. If something else had happened, his loss would have been greater, and the Duke had plenty of them. The echo of loss did not cease in his soul.

Abigail must have seen the crack in his armor. Very slowly she lowered the sheet, and the Duke saw lovely breasts.

"God…"

He looked at them without stopping, because after all, he was a man. He could feel admiration and dislike at the same time. And at such a moment she is trying to sell herself? It's not that simple.

- I don't care. Cover yourself.

The Duke calmly clicked the safety on, put the revolver in his belt and only now felt enormous fatigue. His arms and shoulders grew heavy, and when the anger subsided, he felt only cold and empty, as after an attack of fever.

Abigail exhaled and her shoulders slumped. Did she really think he could kill her? Anyone else could have done it. And he could have done this ten years ago.

The Duke turned to the door. But then Abigail spoke again:

-What are you going to do with him?

Truly a brilliant question. The Duke killed more than one man who dared to stand in his way or betrayed him. He could destroy a man with cold determination and calculated cunning. He did things that he would not be proud of, but which he did not regret, and this was confirmed by his reputation, supported by rumors. The Duke was incredibly rich and everyone was afraid of him.

He was not kind person and did not know how to forgive.

And Abigail was right: no one loved him.

- Why did you decide that I was going to do something? – he answered calmly.

He closed the door and began to walk down the stairs, leaving Abigail at a loss.

Current page: 1 (book has 18 pages total) [available reading passage: 12 pages]

Julia Ann Long
Trap of passion

Chapter 1

Hidden awkwardly between a birdbath and shrubbery in the garden of a Sussex manor house, Ian Eversey watched the mysterious silhouette of a woman appear three times, thank God, in an upstairs window.

The light turned off. It looks like the lamp has been extinguished.

This is a signal for him.

Ian rose to his feet. His knees crunched loudly. He froze in place. Yes, he was completely alone, there was only the starry sky above his head, and not a single soul would see him stealthily making his way to the tree.

The trips to the tree and the last three sensual, but not devoid of feigned modesty, nights of lovemaking in her bedroom - all this began a week ago in this very house during a conversation at the ball in honor of the engagement of Lady Abigail and the Duke of Fauconbridge.

They were introduced to each other, a spark instantly ran between them, the conversation was very short: every word was like a secret indiscreet hint. From the very beginning, Ian was delighted: her lush, sleek beauty, feigned innocence hiding a delicious debauchery, and a pleasantly chilling sense of danger, because she was the bride of Alexander Moncrieff, Duke of Fauconbridge, who was rumored to have poisoned his first wife ten years ago ( Of course, nothing was proven, no official charges were brought forward, but the world could not allow such juicy gossip to fade away). The Duke took part in many duels. At least that's what they said. He was a cool, elegant, extraordinarily wealthy man. He played cards, invested money in various businesses and never lost. Only a madman could cross his path.

That's what the gossips said.

Before leaving the ballroom, Lady Abigail lightly struck Ian on the arm with her fan and pointedly noted that there was an oak tree right in front of her bedroom window.

Ian noticed this oak when the brothers arrived at the ball. He immediately managed to appreciate it with the enterprise characteristic of the entire male half of the Eversi family: a powerful trunk leaned conspiratorially against the red brick wall of the house, and strong branches growing low above the ground allowed an adult man to easily climb up without damaging vital parts of the body. But the most beautiful thing was the branch stretched towards the desired window, as if on purpose, Ian would say “persistently”.

Then he also wondered who this bedroom belonged to.

It is not surprising that Lady Abigail and Ian understood each other perfectly.

“I’ll probably see you after midnight tomorrow,” she said.

It wasn't necessary to add the word "maybe."

For three nights in a row, Ian made the journey from his refuge by the fountain to her bed. During these three nights, which began with a kiss, he almost managed to undress Abigail. Today she promised to wait for him in the bedroom completely naked and wanted him to immediately follow her example.

Ian's heart was beating wildly as he jumped and grabbed the lowest branch, climbed up the trunk to the one that led straight to the window, and hung. Abigail opened the window a couple of inches. Ian put his fingers under it and carefully lifted the old frame, because the day before, he had grabbed it too quickly and gotten himself a splinter. Then he swung his legs over the window sill and slid down.

Ian tore off his clothes as quickly as if he were being attacked by ants.

Leaning his hand on the table by the window, he kicked off his shoes and then carefully placed them on the carpet. His fingers flew over the buttons, getting rid of his coat, shirt, and trousers. Ian folded the clothes and placed them next to the bed.

Good God! How wonderfully everything went, starting from the painful wait on his haunches in an ambush and ending with the tree and the splinter. Every sound, every sensation inflamed his desire. It all became so familiar and sensual now, turned into part of the game: the rustling of the sheets when he slid under the covers to Abigail, the sweet touch of her silky and cool skin, the faint scent of lavender that she exuded, the first light touch of his fingertips to the warm, waiting him in the bed of a woman who now looks like a shadow, but into whose fragrant and soft flesh he will plunge very soon, as she promised him, her exclamation of approval... and the easily recognizable ominous click of a cocked gun...

Can't be!

This is already something new.

Ian and Abigail quickly moved away from each other and now sat upright. Ian’s heart was jumping out of his chest, and he tried to find his revolver, but in vain, because he was undressed and put the weapon in his shoe. He carefully placed his bare foot on the floor, preparing to throw himself out the window or at the owner of the revolver. His eyes tried to see something in the darkness.

Holy Virgin! It was as if the night itself spoke to him.

Ian was no coward, but the tiny hairs on the back of his neck and on his arms stood on end as a previously invisible shadow rose from a chair in the corner, growing taller and taller, and came straight towards them.

Of course, it was not a ghost, but a man who had specially dressed himself in dark clothes. This way it’s more convenient to hide, attack, lure into a trap.

Frightened, Abigail breathed noisily.

The man approached the bed with the light gait of a stalking leopard. Reflections of moonlight from the window fell on the barrel of his revolver and on something metal in his other hand - on a lamp...

He carefully placed it on a small table by the window, and then lit it for an unbearably long time, although perhaps the time passed slowly from fear. The flame flickered intermittently and burned steadily. Finally, among the play of light and shadows, a man’s face appeared. They looked as if they were Lucifer sitting by the fire.

If this nightmare had happened to someone else, one would have laughed.

The Duke of Fauconbridge looked at them thoughtfully. He was unusually tall, and the light from the lamp made his shadow on the wall look simply gigantic. There seemed to be two ghostly dukes hanging over the bed, and both had revolvers.

Ian didn't know whether to look at Moncrieff's face or his weapon. The revolver was aimed squarely at Ian's chest, which was now covered in cold sweat. Both revolvers gleamed equally indifferently and mercilessly.

Ian had no doubt that Moncrieff was capable of shooting. His reputation spoke for itself.

- Eversi. – The Duke bowed his head ironically, as if greeting Ian.

There was not a drop of surprise in his gesture. It was as if he was expecting to see him.

Perhaps he even followed him, watched, sat in ambush... God, how many nights did this last?

“How are you?” Ian muttered.

This was probably not the best time for idle questions, but he was simply eager to find out.

Now his palms were sweating too.

“Since I never go to bed before midnight, Eversi, and here I am a guest and am forced to walk, I noticed your horse tied by the road for three nights in a row. To tell the truth, knowing you, it was not difficult to guess everything. By the way, I let the horse go today.

God! Ian loved this horse.

They were in Sussex, and the horse would find its way home to Eversey House, of that Ian could be sure. Or it will fall directly into the hands of the gypsies, who have set up their camps in the county, but it is unlikely that the gypsies will dare to sell an animal belonging to the Eversi family.

But will Ian ever get home...

Abigail squeezed his hand. You'd think he could comfort her!

Perhaps he should try to appease the Duke.

“I don’t...” Ian began, “we have never...”

The Duke raised his eyebrows, looking at Ian challengingly, daring him to finish his thought.

Ian immediately regretted his decision.

- It's not what it seems.

An incredulous silence followed. Even Abigail turned to Ian, her mouth open in amazement, his words were so similar to a line from a bad play.

But damn it, Ian, unfortunately, was telling the honest truth. More precisely, what one might have thought about has not yet happened.

“I could have been touched by your words, Eversi, if not for this note of regret.”

However, there was nothing funny about the relentlessly aimed revolver.

Abigail and Ian flinched as the Duke left the circle of light and slowly walked over to the side of the bed where his bride was sitting. His sneaking steps were maddening, because usually the Duke walked as if gravity did not exist for him - with large, impatient steps he walked straight towards his goal. He wasn't the type to just stroll around.

The Duke leaned over Abigail.

She swallowed loudly.

Lower, even lower... The Duke lowered the muzzle of his revolver. Both lovers kept looking at him, like a cobra ready to strike. Maybe he just wanted to put it on safety? Put it in your belt? Or…

Finally the barrel touched Abigail's throat.

She closed her eyes tightly, and hoarse words of prayer escaped her lips.

Ian felt like his chest was being squeezed and he couldn't breathe. Abigail's hand was as cold as ice, and for an undignified moment he wanted to throw it away, reject their mutual stupidity, ask her how she could think that he could console her or change her circumstances. They were connected only by pleasure. Ian thought about rushing at the Duke and knocking him to the floor before he could shoot. After all, he was still naked and covered in horror with a slippery film of sweat, so it would be difficult to grab hold of him. The Duke was tall, but wiry, and could well have fallen if Eversi had attacked him.

But Ian was forced to abandon his plan. He saw the Duke shoot Manton.

He had no choice. He got into this and now he has to come out victorious.

Strictly speaking, this was not true, since Abigail was the one who started everything, but perhaps Ian had never said anything more noble in his life. Moreover, it is difficult to forget in an instant the excellent upbringing and fighting spirit absorbed with mother’s milk. In moments of terrible danger, they seem to manifest themselves on their own.

“Come on, for God’s sake, do what you set out to do.”

There was silence while the Duke pondered, or pretended to ponder, this proposal.

“Very good,” he finally answered calmly. “You put it perfectly, Eversi, and so I will do exactly what I intended to do.” And I intend...” Ian looked at the gun so intently that he did not notice how the Duke began to unbutton his trousers, “to share her with you.” Move over, Eversy.

* * *

They lacked air in the room from the terrible shock. Satisfied that he had managed to take several years of life from his lovers, Alexander Moncrieff, the sixth Duke of Fauconbridge, holding his hand on the button of his trousers, glanced at the bare white shoulders of the bride and the white sheet chastely stretched to her chin.

Of course, the Duke knew Eversey, his brothers and father from meetings at the White's Club, from meaningless conversations over a cigar and a glass of cognac in libraries after balls. They were very close, famous for their charm and possessed enormous wealth.

The Duke wanted to play with the couple a little more, but thought it was pointless, rather even boring.

Perhaps because, as they whispered behind his back, he was getting old. He was almost forty.

Instead, he quickly walked across the room, raised the window frame high, leaned down, took Eversi's boots - earlier he had barely restrained himself from shooting the villain, seeing how he carefully took them off and placed them on the carpet - and threw them at the window like spears . The boots were followed by a pile of clothes. There was one amazing moment when the wind caught his coat and it flew like a bat before disappearing into the night.

However, the shirt did not fly far. She hung from the branches of an oak tree, caught by her cufflinks, and swayed merrily in the wind, as if an invisible circus performer had suddenly appeared inside her.

Everyone was hypnotized by what was happening.

Then Moncrieff turned sharply and aimed the muzzle of his revolver directly at Ian's white, sweaty forehead.

– Leave the same way you came, Eversi. Alive! – he said threateningly.

The Duke felt that Ian was preparing to repel an attack or attack. He was younger, but Moncrieff was sure that the fight would be equal, although the opponent did not have a revolver. For years, the Duke honed all the elements and methods of fighting, including dishonest ones. Perhaps he will need them now.

– Do you want me to explain to you the meaning of the words “alive” and “honor”, ​​Eversi? Do you want to test me? – The Duke took a small step forward.

This step decided everything. Ian flew off the bed, trying to grab the sheet with him, but a sharp jerk stopped him. He looked over his shoulder: Abigail had no intention of parting with the sheet.

Ian pulled desperately, looking pleadingly at his former lover.

Abigail grabbed the fabric with a death grip, frowned and shook her head sharply.

- No, not that!

The Duke snatched the sheet from Eversi's hands.

Ian Eversey stood completely naked in the lamplight, his long pale legs, hairy shins and all on display. We must give him his due: although he did not proudly rest his hands on his hips, he did not shyly cover his manhood either. In any case, everyone in the room knew that he had it.

“Moncrieff, we can solve this problem as men with the weapon of your choice.” I would be happy with this outcome. I fully deserve it. You are right about everything. Choose your weapon.

Touching speech. Eversi have always been distinguished by excellent politeness. Each of them was a scoundrel and a libertine, but they were not short of politeness.

Several sarcastic responses came to Moncrieff's mind: "You seem to consider yourself a skilled swordsman, Eversi." However, he did not tolerate fools and scoundrels. He was almost forty years old and his patience was running out. Lately he had been haunted by sharp thoughts.

“Your punishment will fit the crime.” – The Duke stepped aside and allowed Eversi to go to the window.

Ian walked like a condemned prisoner to the guillotine.

The Duke and Abigail watched in silence as Ian climbed out of the window. It was not a pleasant sight, for he had to contort himself and show off parts of his body that Moncrieff would rather not see in the light of the lamp. Then they saw something like a sunset as Ian's pale bottom disappeared through the window and he once again climbed onto the branch that had once been so attractive but now had become treacherous.

They heard quacking and the sound of tearing material as Ian pulled his shirt off the branch, only half of which remained. Moncrieff pointedly closed the window, muffling Ian's colorful remarks, and drew the curtains.

Abigail shuddered slightly and turned to the Duke with a look full of regret and surprise, as if he had ended a puppet show prematurely.

The Duke's anger subsided slightly. Somewhere in the depths of his icy rage, an echo of the feelings he once felt for Abigail awakened. Her hair was scattered over her shoulders, and the Duke could hardly restrain himself from touching the long strands. Abigail could lie on her back and squirm in pleasure. He knew perfectly well how to seduce a woman, to convince her that she wanted him, even if she herself was not entirely sure of this. Most women wanted him.

Well, he should have known.

- Why? – he finally asked.

- Why do you want to know? – Abigail answered the question with a question.

Perfect. Perhaps he will regret it.

“Answer me,” he repeated insistently. Behind the quiet words lay a threat that would have made even a strong man retreat.

Abigail swallowed and licked her fear-dry lips. He watched as the pink tongue touched the beautiful lips, and anger washed over him again, like a surf.

“He’s amazing,” she answered barely audibly, restlessly fingering the folds of the sheet clenched in her fist. Her voice was still weak, but she shrugged as if expressing contempt. - Beautiful. Young. And he enjoys universal success. – Abigail was silent. “But no one loves you,” she added capriciously and angrily.

Well, it’s quite clear and understandable.

Women often desired him. Men would like to be in his place. But no one loved him, and that was the truth.

At least no one that Abigail Beasley could turn her gaze to. And this meant almost all of high society.

The Duke laughed briefly:

“Do you think my armor can’t be penetrated, Abigail?” Do you think it's impossible to hurt me? Not all rumors about me are true.

However, in the most decent of them there was some truth, and yet...

Of course, Abigail knew what she was getting into when she agreed to marry him, but she didn't mind.

“Your armor, Moncrieff, is that no one loves you.” I'm sure you're just reveling in it.

Of course. But the remark was so insightful, in fact the first honest, so sincere and reasonable remark from Abigail's mouth, that the Duke began to hate her - her beautiful bare shoulders, her breasts covered by the sheet, and the smell of Ian Eversey still hanging in the bedroom.

He must shoot her on principle.

He shouldn't care and he will do it.

The Duke tried not to be indifferent. He was going to do anything for it once he and Abigail got married, which is why he proposed to her. It had been a long time since any other woman had ignited his imagination like this. He liked her carefree laugh, her low velvety voice, the curve of her lips, the color of her hair, her curvaceous body, her simplicity. Abigail wasn't stupid, but she wasn't very thoughtful either. Her company was as pleasant to him as spring days or delicious food. She flirted tirelessly, was sometimes provocative, but never rude. The Duke was smart. He decided to make Abigail his wife, knowing full well how his courtship would end: he was a rich duke, she was the daughter of a noble but impoverished baron.

And yet he courted Abigail like a true gentleman, amazing everyone. However, he didn't want to know how available his future wife was, so he only kissed her once. But this kiss was worth it. And the Duke realized that the touch of her lips could make him glow, he wanted to make her his beloved, and besides, Abigail did not resist the kiss at all. At all times, marriages were concluded for less compelling reasons.

But love is nothing more than close relationships that can develop over the years of living together. Is it not the properties of the soul that fire your imagination, as if you looked at the sky at night and saw not just a galaxy of brilliant stars, but a huge Star Plow? Is not it?

The Duke was sure: he once knew what love was. But now he has lost this knowledge.

However, he still wanted to try.

And now the loss of such an opportunity made him furious. And not only this. What an absurd word - “cuckold”! No more, no less. Now the Duke still could not understand what feeling had truly taken possession of him.

Abigail made him look like a fool. And Eversi helped her with this.

No one ever did it twice without suffering the full brunt of the punishment.

And now the Duke understood - he was overcome by the desire for revenge.

“Like Mr. Eversey, I leave your house the same way I entered, Abigail: through the front door, past your anxious footman, whose loyalty to your family was weaker than the Duke with a revolver. Considering your predilection for night visitors, you should hire a more durable servant. You and I will agree that the breaking of the engagement was by mutual consent. You will inform your father that he will have to find another way to pay off his debts. I don't want to have anything to do with you anymore. Perhaps the best option would be to travel to the continent until things calm down.

It was an order, not a suggestion, and Abigail knew it.

Most likely, in her absence, gossip about the reasons for her hasty departure will find fertile ground, and evil tongues will not spare her. Perhaps after this incident no one will want to marry her anymore. At least no one famous or rich.

She deserved it.

The Duke silently watched the impact his words made.

Even now, the Duke could not escape the sensual hoarseness in her voice, and he felt the same as a sleeping cat that suddenly began to be stroked.

“Men are made too simply,” he thought with bitter contempt for himself, for Eversi and for all the other men who took whatever they wanted. – We think we are so smart. And yet we are surprised every time when we are deceived or shown in a ridiculous light.”

Abigail was his last hope. If something else had happened, his loss would have been greater, and the Duke had plenty of them. The echo of loss did not cease in his soul.

Abigail must have seen the crack in his armor. Very slowly she lowered the sheet, and the Duke saw lovely breasts.

"God…"

He looked at them without stopping, because after all, he was a man. He could feel admiration and dislike at the same time. And at such a moment she is trying to sell herself? It's not that simple.

- I don't care. Cover yourself.

The Duke calmly clicked the safety on, put the revolver in his belt and only now felt enormous fatigue. His arms and shoulders grew heavy, and when the anger subsided, he felt only cold and empty, as after an attack of fever.

Abigail exhaled and her shoulders slumped. Did she really think he could kill her? Anyone else could have done it. And he could have done this ten years ago.

The Duke turned to the door. But then Abigail spoke again:

-What are you going to do with him?

Truly a brilliant question. The Duke killed more than one man who dared to stand in his way or betrayed him. He could destroy a man with cold determination and calculated cunning. He did things that he would not be proud of, but which he did not regret, and this was confirmed by his reputation, supported by rumors. The Duke was incredibly rich and everyone was afraid of him.

He was not a kind person and did not know how to forgive.

And Abigail was right: no one loved him.

- Why did you decide that I was going to do something? – he answered calmly.

He closed the door and began to walk down the stairs, leaving Abigail at a loss.

Hidden awkwardly between a birdbath and shrubbery in the garden of a Sussex manor house, Ian Eversey watched the mysterious silhouette of a woman appear three times, thank God, in an upstairs window.

The light turned off. It looks like the lamp has been extinguished.

This is a signal for him.

Ian rose to his feet. His knees crunched loudly. He froze in place. Yes, he was completely alone, there was only the starry sky above his head, and not a single soul would see him stealthily making his way to the tree.

The trips to the tree and the last three sensual, but not devoid of feigned modesty, nights of lovemaking in her bedroom - all this began a week ago in this very house during a conversation at the ball in honor of the engagement of Lady Abigail and the Duke of Fauconbridge.

They were introduced to each other, a spark instantly ran between them, the conversation was very short: every word was like a secret indiscreet hint. From the very beginning, Ian was delighted: her lush, sleek beauty, feigned innocence hiding a delicious debauchery, and a pleasantly chilling sense of danger, because she was the bride of Alexander Moncrieff, Duke of Fauconbridge, who was rumored to have poisoned his first wife ten years ago ( Of course, nothing was proven, no official charges were brought forward, but the world could not allow such juicy gossip to fade away). The Duke took part in many duels. At least that's what they said. He was a cool, elegant, extraordinarily wealthy man. He played cards, invested money in various businesses and never lost. Only a madman could cross his path.

That's what the gossips said.

Before leaving the ballroom, Lady Abigail lightly struck Ian on the arm with her fan and pointedly noted that there was an oak tree right in front of her bedroom window.

Ian noticed this oak when the brothers arrived at the ball. He immediately managed to appreciate it with the enterprise characteristic of the entire male half of the Eversi family: a powerful trunk leaned conspiratorially against the red brick wall of the house, and strong branches growing low above the ground allowed an adult man to easily climb up without damaging vital parts of the body. But the most beautiful thing was the branch stretched towards the desired window, as if on purpose, Ian would say “persistently”.

Then he also wondered who this bedroom belonged to.

It is not surprising that Lady Abigail and Ian understood each other perfectly.

“I’ll probably see you after midnight tomorrow,” she said.

It wasn't necessary to add the word "maybe."

For three nights in a row, Ian made the journey from his refuge by the fountain to her bed. During these three nights, which began with a kiss, he almost managed to undress Abigail. Today she promised to wait for him in the bedroom completely naked and wanted him to immediately follow her example.

Ian's heart was beating wildly as he jumped and grabbed the lowest branch, climbed up the trunk to the one that led straight to the window, and hung. Abigail opened the window a couple of inches. Ian put his fingers under it and carefully lifted the old frame, because the day before, he had grabbed it too quickly and gotten himself a splinter. Then he swung his legs over the window sill and slid down.

Ian tore off his clothes as quickly as if he were being attacked by ants.

Leaning his hand on the table by the window, he kicked off his shoes and then carefully placed them on the carpet. His fingers flew over the buttons, getting rid of his coat, shirt, and trousers. Ian folded the clothes and placed them next to the bed.

Good God! How wonderfully everything went, starting from the painful wait on his haunches in an ambush and ending with the tree and the splinter. Every sound, every sensation inflamed his desire. It all became so familiar and sensual now, turned into part of the game: the rustling of the sheets when he slid under the covers to Abigail, the sweet touch of her silky and cool skin, the faint scent of lavender that she exuded, the first light touch of his fingertips to the warm, waiting him in the bed of a woman who now looks like a shadow, but into whose fragrant and soft flesh he will plunge very soon, as she promised him, her exclamation of approval... and the easily recognizable ominous click of a cocked gun...

Can't be!

This is already something new.

Ian and Abigail quickly moved away from each other and now sat upright. Ian’s heart was jumping out of his chest, and he tried to find his revolver, but in vain, because he was undressed and put the weapon in his shoe. He carefully placed his bare foot on the floor, preparing to throw himself out the window or at the owner of the revolver. His eyes tried to see something in the darkness.

Holy Virgin! It was as if the night itself spoke to him.

Ian was no coward, but the tiny hairs on the back of his neck and on his arms stood on end as a previously invisible shadow rose from a chair in the corner, growing taller and taller, and came straight towards them.

Of course, it was not a ghost, but a man who had specially dressed himself in dark clothes. This way it’s more convenient to hide, attack, lure into a trap.

Frightened, Abigail breathed noisily.

The man approached the bed with the light gait of a stalking leopard. Reflections of moonlight from the window fell on the barrel of his revolver and on something metal in his other hand - on a lamp...

He carefully placed it on a small table by the window, and then lit it for an unbearably long time, although perhaps the time passed slowly from fear. The flame flickered intermittently and burned steadily. Finally, among the play of light and shadows, a man’s face appeared. They looked as if they were Lucifer sitting by the fire.

If this nightmare had happened to someone else, one would have laughed.

The Duke of Fauconbridge looked at them thoughtfully. He was unusually tall, and the light from the lamp made his shadow on the wall look simply gigantic. There seemed to be two ghostly dukes hanging over the bed, and both had revolvers.

Ian didn't know whether to look at Moncrieff's face or his weapon. The revolver was aimed squarely at Ian's chest, which was now covered in cold sweat. Both revolvers gleamed equally indifferently and mercilessly.

Ian had no doubt that Moncrieff was capable of shooting. His reputation spoke for itself.

- Eversi. – The Duke bowed his head ironically, as if greeting Ian.

There was not a drop of surprise in his gesture. It was as if he was expecting to see him.

Perhaps he even followed him, watched, sat in ambush... God, how many nights did this last?

“How are you?” Ian muttered.

This was probably not the best time for idle questions, but he was simply eager to find out.

Now his palms were sweating too.

“Since I never go to bed before midnight, Eversi, and here I am a guest and am forced to walk, I noticed your horse tied by the road for three nights in a row. To tell the truth, knowing you, it was not difficult to guess everything. By the way, I let the horse go today.

God! Ian loved this horse.

They were in Sussex, and the horse would find its way home to Eversey House, of that Ian could be sure. Or it will fall directly into the hands of the gypsies, who have set up their camps in the county, but it is unlikely that the gypsies will dare to sell an animal belonging to the Eversi family.

But will Ian ever get home...

Abigail squeezed his hand. You'd think he could comfort her!

Perhaps he should try to appease the Duke.

“I don’t...” Ian began, “we have never...”

The Duke raised his eyebrows, looking at Ian challengingly, daring him to finish his thought.

Ian immediately regretted his decision.

- It's not what it seems.

An incredulous silence followed. Even Abigail turned to Ian, her mouth open in amazement, his words were so similar to a line from a bad play.