“Your services are no longer needed.”

Fallon sighed. Sacked again. Of course.

Chapter 2

Dominic Hale, Duke of Damon, parted the curtains of his carriage as he idly fondled the female beside him. Her plump breast overfilled his palm, precisely the way he preferred a woman’s breast to fit in his hand.

Her name escaped him, but their names always did. And, after a day or two, so did their faces.

Inhaling the cold night, he stared out at the gaslit street, searching, it seemed…for something, anything. But then he had been doing a great deal of that lately. Restlessness plagued him. As it had halfway around the world, following him home. He had hoped his return would restore him to his proper self.

He grimaced, deciding the word _proper _ a far from apt description for him. The cheap perfume that rose to sting the inside of his nose mingled with the stink of opiates that had floated about the gaming den where he spent the evening.

He exhaled, dreading his next breath. While he might appreciate the feel of the woman in his arms, her overpowering perfume was another matter. He inched closer to the window, trying not to breathe too deeply.

The second woman in the carriage mewled for his attention. She dropped off the seat to curl at his feet in a mass of ruffled silk. Her hands slid up his boot, fingers working into his thigh like a kitten flexing her claws.

He brushed a hand over her hair as she worked at the front of his breeches, eager for the tide of sensation to flood him. In a matter of moments, her soft hand closed around the length of him and she lowered her head into his lap.

Dropping his head back against the squabs, he let the clatter of hooves fill his head, enjoying her expert mouth bringing him to life. An evening of carnal pleasure yawned before him. Two women should keep him fairly occupied. Distracted. His body could burn in a way his heart could not. The nights, the drink, the gaming, the cards, the women…for a brief time they brought him warmth. Feeling. They broke through the numbness. Temporarily at least.

He gazed at the shining puddles of rainwater outside the carriage and waited. Then, after a few moments, frowned.

The usual sensations eluded him. The harsh pleasure he knew so well, the wild, searing sensations that reminded him he was alive…none emerged. Even as his body responded, the awful emptiness clung to him with a tenacious fist.

Through heavy-lidded eyes, he stared out at the night, catching the hazy reflection of the carriage in the glass of the darkened storefronts they passed. Suddenly his view was broken, the string of shops interrupted by a pair of tussling figures.

He straightened against the squabs at the glimpse of a female, her dark cloak whipping in the night as she fought a man. He caught sight of a pale face with impossibly wide eyes. Dominic shoved the woman’s head from his lap, turning on his seat for a better look. Unfortunately he could see no more. The carriage had passed the pair.

Hastily rearranging his clothing, he rapped on the carriage roof. “Halt!”

The women squealed in dismay as they jerked to a stop. The one on the floor rolled onto her back in a flurry of fuchsia skirts, her tiny slippers kicking in the air in a desperate attempt to gain leverage.

Dominic had never aspired to be a gentleman. Quite the opposite. Still, he found himself seized with an impulse to act, to do something that could only be deemed gentlemanly. Amid his travels, he had saved others—all urchins. Helpless souls, innocent victims. As he once had been.

Before he grew to manhood. Before Mrs. Pearce broke him. Before a life of depravity became second nature.

Lurching from the carriage, he hastened down the sidewalk, jerking to an abrupt stop at the sight before him.

Hands propped on her hips, the female—a towering Amazon—stood over her attacker. Or perhaps more appropriately, her victim. In the brief time the carriage had passed the pair, she had turned the tables on her attacker. Scratching his jaw, he eyed the hapless young man writhing at her feet, clutching himself between the legs. His flushed face contorted, and Dominic winced.

“Do you need any assistance?” he asked rather lamely. Clearly she did not _require _ help.

Her head snapped up, bright eyes focusing on him. Beneath the gaslights, he couldn’t be certain their color, only that they glittered boldly, her gaze direct in a way he had not seen before. On a woman, at any rate.

She looked him up and down as if he were little better than the wretch sprawled at her feet. Her nostrils flared as though she did not like what she smelled. Likely the cheap perfume of his companions. “I have the situation well in hand, thank you, sir.”

He nodded, eyeing the mass of her hair, gilded fire beneath the gaslamps. He hungrily drank the sight, memorizing the color, envisioning it on canvas, trying to imagine what mix of his oils might best recapture it. “I see that.”

Her gaze fixed distrustfully on him. Granting him wide berth, she stepped around her erstwhile attacker and continued down the sidewalk, her steps bold, confidant. Extraordinary. Nothing like the dainty steps of most women.

Tossing one last glance at the groaning young man, he moved to catch up with her. “Perhaps I can offer a lift?” He motioned to his carriage.

She paused beneath a street lamp and he was allowed a moment to fully appreciate the glory of hair. He could scarcely take note of her face for all that hair, beckoning his eyes. The mélange of red, gold, and brown tumbled past her shoulders, the pins sticking out oddly. He imagined with all the pins removed it would reach her waist. A sudden image of her astride him, his hands sliding over her long legs as she rode him, her head tilted back so that the incredible mass of her hair tickled his thighs, speared him in a blinding flash of heat.

Her eyes narrowed beneath brows several shades darker than the rest of her hair. “You stopped for me?”

“You appeared in need of help.” He cocked his head. “I trust you are unharmed.”

She sent a glare over her shoulder. “It would take more than that boy to gain the upper hand with me.”

“Ah.” He nodded gravely while he marveled at her mettle. “Then he is the one in need. Should I tend to him?”

Her lips twitched, but she did not smile at his jest. Indeed, he wondered if she ever smiled. There was something hard about her. Something unyielding, as if she never allowed herself to relax.

He spoke again into the hovering silence. “I fear you’ve made me feel quite useless. You must allow me to convey you to your destination safely.”

Her gaze drifted to his carriage, and he could tell she was debating the matter. He found himself staring at her shadowed profile, the high brow, the strong line of her nose, the full, wide mouth.

She was no beauty, to be sure. But there was something about her. Something untamed and earthy. No doubt many a man yearned to part those long legs of hers and sample such an uncommon woman.

His c**k stirred, straining against his breeches. Excitement zinged through him. The excitement eluding him earlier. He dragged his gaze away from her, his mind quickly working…determining how best to seduce her into his bed for the night. That’s what he did best, after all. When he wasn’t bedding a woman whose morals were as equally flawed as his own, he corrupted innocent and well-heeled ladies. That was his life’s vocation. And painting. When he lost himself in a canvas, he felt alive. Plowing a woman’s thighs and creating a new world on canvas…it was all he knew. All he did. All that ever penetrated the numbness dwelling inside him.

“The hour’s late.” He glanced up and down the street. A hack passed the silent store fronts, its dark curtains drawn. The driver’s eyes narrowed on Fallon with insolent speculation. Hardly a safe setting for a lone woman. “The next man you come across may not be so easy to dissuade as that boy.” He motioned to the lad who now staggered away at the far end of the street.

Eyes as cagey as a cornered animal, she assessed him. No doubt wondering whether he was one such _next _ man.

He’d nearly forgotten his companions, but remembering, and hoping their presence might reassure her, he murmured, “I’m not alone. I have companions. Ladies.” Of a sort.

Some rigidity seemed to lessen from her stance then. She studied the carriage a long moment.

“Very well. A lift would be appreciated. I’m venturing to the Hotel Daventry.”

Dominic took her elbow and led her to the carriage, pausing to call up the destination to his driver. Only a short time to change her mind. The Hotel Daventry was but five minutes away.

He could not help noticing as he assisted her within his coach that she smelled spicy—a peppery blend of sweet and savory. As a boy, he spent a good deal of time in the kitchen, avoiding Mrs.

Pearce in preference of the cook’s kind attentions. This woman evoked those long-ago memories, smelling of baking bread, savory stew, and chocolate tart all at once.

Once inside, she nodded a greeting to the other two women. He took the seat across from her and found himself quickly sandwiched on either side by feminine bodies soaked with familiar cheap perfume. His appreciation for the woman across from him only grew.

“Picking up strays, Damon?” the female to his right purred. “Two of us aren’t enough?”

He sent her a quelling look. Even in the dim coach, he detected the flood of color in the girl’s face. She held his gaze though, square chin set at a proud angle, watching him and his companions closely, and he was fired again with the need to have her, to possess her, to find his release in her body.

The other female snickered as her hand slid up his thigh. “I’d heard you had an enormous appetite.”

Angling his head, he watched his Amazon intently, rubbing a finger lightly over the top of his lip. “What’s your name?”

She did not reply for some moments, her gaze dropping to the woman’s hand inching up his thigh, higher and higher until she palmed his c**k through his trousers. That wide, luscious mouth parted with a soft gasp of outrage, and her eyes snapped to his face. “Fallon,” she bit out.

“Fallon O’Rourke.”

Wine, he decided suddenly, his mind racing over color pallets. He would paint those lips a deep ruby wine. After he tasted them, of course.

“Fallon,” he repeated, leaning back and smiling. He liked it. As different as the woman herself.

A woman he vowed to have. In his bed and on his canvas.

He stretched his legs out before him, letting a booted foot slide between her feet. Lips set in a mutinous line, she tried to arrange her feet so that they did not touch. 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 c**k grew bolder. Insistent. Annoying, as she sought to free him from his trousers. He seized her wrist, in no mood. At least for her. “Enough.”

Fury glittered in Fallon’s gaze. “Let me out. Stop the coach,” she quietly commanded.

He laughed. The sound curled through the air, dark and low. “We’re almost there. Sit back.

Relax.”

Just _looking _ at her sent his blood smoldering through his veins. Woke him, revitalized him as he craved.

Filled with a sudden desire to see those eyes widen even more, to see just how far he could scandalize her, he brought one of the tarts over his lap. Watching Fallon, he tugged down her gown. Plump br**sts spilled over the top of her corset. Bending his head, he touched one large nipple with his tongue, tickling it until the dark tip was moist and engorged. The woman on his lap squirmed and panted out her pleasure.

Fallon made a small sound, part distress, part something else. She looked away, but only for a moment before her gaze dragged back again, watching the scene he played out in horrified interest.