Angelique Chadbourne had been trapped for 10 years in a loveless marriage while her wastrel husband chased after prostitutes in the East End of London. Now, in 1888--two years after his murder--she has ended her period of mourning and is ready to live life on her own terms. And a big part of that is learning what passion is all about. For that, she needs Harry Atherton, the Duke of Sexton or, as he is notoriously known in upper society, the Duke of Sex.
Harry has always had his eye on Angel, thinking her to be the perfect woman to be his wife. She's beautiful, gracious and intelligent--just the sort who would fit in his household and provide him with an impeccable hostess. To find out she also has hidden passions she wishes to pursue is the sugar in his tea. He's never been one to let an opportunity pass him by, and he's not about to start now.
Oral sex, anal sex and a menage e trois round out Angel's education, but there's evil threatening her. Jack the Ripper is in their midst and it's only a matter of time before he strikes again.
He stood in the shadows and watched a stylishly clad gentleman step down from the elegant brougham stopped in front of the Ten Bells, one of many pubs dotting the East End of London. The well-dressed man reached up and helped down a young woman—a woman more like an angel, with dark hair piled on top of her head, showing off her long, slender neck. Her fancy day dress drew his eyes to her curvaceous figure.
She was so different from the women in this world he’d chosen to inhabit. She was fresh and clean and pure. Not like these filthy whores who sold their bodies for tuppence or a glass or two of whiskey.
The older man bent over the angel solicitously, his expression wavering between concern and irritation. It was clear he didn’t want to be here in Whitechapel.
The watcher straightened and strained to hear the murmured conversation between the two. He caught a few words, “Freddie…husband…goodbye.” Then he heard her name.
“Angel,” the older man said, drawing her back toward the carriage, “Freddie is gone. Seeing where he died will serve no purpose other than to renew your pain.”
She shook her head, her chin tilted in challenge. Her response was in too soft a voice for the watcher to hear.
But that was all right. Her name was Angel. His angel.
Reaching down, he stroked his fingers idly over his erection, enjoying the slow rise of his flesh. It always began this way. He saw a woman, he wanted her. He stalked her, he fucked her.
He killed her.
He’d never had a woman like this before. Even though his upbringing was respectable and he moved about freely in Society’s upper crust, he’d never felt like he belonged.
He glanced around to make sure he continued to be unobserved, then looked again at the woman in the creamy yellow dress. His hand stroked a bit faster over the hard ridge of his cock. What would it be like to fuck her? To bury himself in the hot depths of her body, to plunder her at will?
Then get about his job, showing her the error of her ways?
“Oy, luv.” A woman’s voice with a lilting Irish accent interrupted his musings. “Don’t ya be lustin’ after the likes of that one. She’ll not give ya the time a day.”
He turned his head slowly to stare at the small woman standing to his left. Only a foot away from the doorway in which he stood, she leaned one shoulder against the brick wall. Her dark dress was frayed and torn in places. Her right shoe had a small hole in the tip.
He looked back up at her round face. The East End hadn’t yet dulled her vivacity; blue eyes holding a hint of life sparkled at him.
“And you would?” he asked.
“Wot? Give ya the time a day?” At his nod, she grinned, showing surprisingly white teeth, though they were a bit crooked. The cheerfulness in her expression made her appear even younger than she was. “Aye, luv. That I would. For a small price, o’ course.”
She twirled a strand of red hair around her index finger. A small black hat sat at a jaunty angle on her head atop a small fringe of hair at her forehead. She wasn’t an unattractive female, for a female of her sort.
“What’s your name, darling?” he asked, turning his attention fully upon her. The angel in yellow was a fantasy. This little pretty was reality. She was a whore, all right, and his job was ripping whores. It was time he got back to it.
“Mary.” She held out her hand and he took it, automatically bringing it to his lips to press a kiss upon her bare knuckles. She giggled like a schoolgirl, impressed with his manners, as he’d known she would be.
“Mary Kelly.” She gave another giggle and tapped him flirtatiously on the shoulder. “An’ just who might you be, sir?”
“You may call me…Jack.”
Copyright 2009 Sherrill Quinn. All Rights Reserved.
Angel & the Duke of Sex - available today at Ellora's Cave!