Kisses of the Depraved Duke

Beatrice wrinkled her nose instinctively as the pungent stench of stale ale, unwashed bodies, and the acrid undertone of rot and decay crept into her nostrils. The odor clung to the air like a heavy fog, and each breath felt like swallowing a mouthful of filth. She grimaced, lifting the hem of her gown delicately with both hands, careful not to let the mud-soaked fabric drag through the grime-slicked cobblestones beneath her feet. Her foot hovered briefly over the unmoving form sprawled across the narrow path — a man, or so she hoped, slumped against a half-collapsed crate beside the crumbling foundation of what once might have been a baker’s shop. His mouth hung slightly open, a snore fluttering from cracked lips. His shirt was half-unbuttoned, revealing a sunken chest smudged with soot and grease, and the bottle still clutched in his fingers hinted at the culprit for his condition. His legs splayed awkwardly, one boot missing, the other turned inward at an unnatural angle. Beatrice let out a soft, shaky breath of relief as her boot landed with a muted click just inches from the man’s matted hair. He didn’t stir. Not a flinch. Not a twitch. A glint of worry touched her, but she forced it aside. She was not here to play Florence Nightingale to the drunken masses. Not tonight. Still, she paused. A part of her — the part polished in the parlors of polite society, the one tutored to value compassion and Christian charity — hesitated. Perhaps she ought to check if the man was breathing. What if he wasn't just drunk? What if he was ill or injured? But her eyes darted up toward the square just ahead, now swelling with movement and murmuring voices. People were beginning to gather more frequently now — men with coats too fine for this part of town, women with painted lips and feathered masks stepping delicately from covered carriages. Beatrice’s heart gave a jolt. She was running out of time. The snore came again, louder this time, curling from the man’s lips like a puff of mist in the night air. She swallowed her pity and moved swiftly, skirts gathered in her fists, hurrying past him and into a narrow alleyway squeezed between two rows of leaning, lopsided homes whose wood frames sagged as though exhausted from standing. Darkness embraced her like a cloak, swallowing the pale moonlight the moment she crossed the threshold of the alley. With a weary sigh, she leaned back against the cold, damp wall, allowing herself a moment’s pause. Her chest heaved with restrained breath, and her fingers twitched at her sides. She could feel the rough texture of the small square of paper tucked securely into the cuff of her right sleeve. It scratched at her skin with every movement, but the sensation grounded her, reminded her of her purpose, of her plan — of the promise she had made to herself. That paper was more than an address. It was an act of rebellion. Of defiance. It was the first step toward her own freedom. She reached up to tug at the edge of her sleeve, brushing her fingers against the familiar crease of the folded note. Her courage steadied, even as her heartbeat quickened. Beatrice peered around the corner of the alley, squinting into the street once more. Her eyes struggled to adjust in the dim lantern light that spilled unevenly across the cobblestones from flickering gas lamps. She searched for the building numbers, painted in faded black script above crooked door frames and cracked lintels. Her mother’s voice rose unbidden in her mind, stern and fastidious as ever. “You’ll ruin your eyesight if you keep squinting like that in the dark, Beatrice! A lady must preserve her sight as she preserves her virtue — with diligence and care.” Beatrice almost laughed, though the sound came out as a shaky huff. Her mother would no doubt succumb to a full apoplexy if she could see her now — sneaking through the slums of Southwark in the dead of night, dressed in dark woolen garb like a common urchin, her dainty gloves stained with dirt and the edge of her petticoat damp with gutter water. This was hardly the life intended for the youngest daughter of the late Duke of Graynor. Beatrice glanced down at herself and wrinkled her nose again, this time at the sight of her mud-caked shoes. They were serviceable, purchased just before her father’s death during a rushed shopping trip with her elder sister, Arabella. Back then, their family name had still commanded respect, their coin still flowed freely from the ducal accounts. Now, with her brother-in-law newly titled and firmly in control of the family’s dwindling estate, she could only hope he might allow her a modest allowance — if not for new shoes, then perhaps for a second pair of gloves. These were beginning to fray. But new gloves could wait. Everything could wait. What mattered now was finding 112 Water Street. Carefully, Beatrice slipped out of the alley and returned to the main square, blending into the growing crowd as best she could. She kept her chin low, her hood raised, allowing only fleeting glances at the buildings around her. She did not dare draw attention to herself. The revelers moved with a strange mix of decorum and decadence — finely dressed men with heavy signet rings, their laughter too loud, and women in gowns of silk and lace, their masks shimmering beneath the gaslight. Their gaiety felt out of place among the crumbling facades and sagging roofs of this forgotten corner of London, but it made sense. These were the sorts who sought adventure — and anonymity — where the rules of society would not follow. She traced her fingers over the paper through her sleeve again, resisting the urge to pull it out for one final check. It wasn’t necessary. She had memorized the address down to the very curve of each letter. She had stared at it so often over the last forty-eight hours that she could see it even with her eyes closed. 112 Water Street — the location of the mysterious party whispered about in the corridors of her sister’s manor, murmured between giggles by bored maids and overheard by accident during one of her carefully eavesdropped walks through the drawing room. Beatrice’s determination hardened. Tonight would not be like the rest. Tonight, she would find answers. And perhaps, if the rumors were true, she would find him. “108… 110…” she murmured softly under her breath, counting off the buildings as she passed them, her eyes darting toward each threshold like a hawk seeking its prey. And then she stopped. There, where 112 Water Street ought to have stood — a gaping lot. No building. Just gravel, refuse, and a broken fence with rusted nails jutting like teeth from its splintered planks. Confusion knotted in her brow. She stepped closer, her heart thudding with dismay. She double-checked the number on the adjacent building. 110, just as she had seen. The one after? 114. No mistake. The building should have been here. A creeping sense of unease slithered up her spine as she took in her surroundings. Though the square had been bustling only moments before, the crowd had thinned considerably. People had vanished through side doors, behind velvet curtains, or into carriages that disappeared down winding alleys. The laughter and music had dulled to a faint hum in the distance. The street felt suddenly… empty. The slums had a way of changing character when the eyes were gone. What had seemed merely run-down now took on a sinister sheen — shadows stretched longer, and sounds felt sharper. Somewhere in the distance, glass shattered. A cat yowled. And then— She turned to leave — and walked straight into something solid. Something warm. Something… alive. A gasp escaped her lips before she could stop it. She recoiled slightly, stumbling backward on instinct, only to find herself stopped by the firm grip of two strong hands. It took her a moment to realize what she’d collided with wasn’t a wall. It was a man. A wall of a man. He towered over her, shoulders broad beneath a dark coat that had seen better days. His face was obscured by a mask — a black velvet piece that covered his eyes and forehead, casting the rest of his face in partial shadow. But his jawline was strong, angular, and his mouth quirked with amusement. A scar — faint but present — cut through his left cheekbone, barely visible in the low light. Beatrice swallowed and quickly regained her composure. She dipped her head in apology, her voice low and polite. “My apologies, good sir. I didn’t mean to—” The man chuckled, a deep, amused rumble that echoed in his chest. “Good sir?” he repeated with a hint of mockery. His eyes — or what she could see of them through the mask — gleamed as they studied her closely. “You’re clearly not from around here if you’re tossing around titles like that.” Beatrice’s cheeks burned. She pulled her coat tighter around herself and gave a curt nod, attempting to sidestep him and continue on her way. “My mistake.” But as she stepped right, so did he. When she stepped left, he mirrored her again. He was blocking her path. And Beatrice, for the first time since leaving the safety of her sister’s estate, began to wonder if she’d made a very dangerous mistake. “Isn’t it a bit late for you to be out? Shouldn’t you be tucked away in your warm bed by now, dreaming of white nights and ivory towers?” the man asked, his voice laced with mocking amusement. It was a deep voice, rich and smooth, tinged with something darker—mischief, perhaps, or a quiet confidence born from knowing the streets far better than she did. The words hovered between them, teasing, playful, but with an unmistakable edge that made Beatrice’s spine stiffen beneath her cloak. She tilted her chin ever so slightly upward, though her hood remained drawn over her head, shadowing her features. The lamplight caught only the curve of her jaw and the edge of her lips, now pressed together with restrained irritation. Beatrice rolled her eyes, a motion more for herself than for him, as she doubted very much that he could see her expression beneath the heavy fold of fabric. “And what do you know of my bed, sir?” she replied coolly, the edges of her voice sharp and elegant, like a rapier wrapped in silk. “I’m of no concern to you. Now, kindly step aside and allow me to pass, or else I shall scream.” She delivered the threat with the kind of crisp certainty that only came from years of refined instruction and carefully polished manners. The kind of tone that dared men at court to cross her, and dared them further to regret it. But the man didn’t flinch. If anything, the corner of his mouth twitched upward, a smirk creeping into view beneath the shadow of his mask. He tilted his head slightly, as if considering her—truly looking at her now, rather than merely blocking her path for the sake of amusement. And then it happened. As if summoned by her very words, a scream split the night behind her. It was sharp, piercing—a shrill cry that sliced through the thinning veil of noise in the street like a blade. Beatrice’s breath caught in her throat. Her body jerked in alarm, the sound hitting her with the force of a whipcrack. Reflex took over, and without thinking, she reached out, hands flying forward as she staggered toward the only solid thing in front of her. The man. She collided with his chest, her palms splaying across the coarse wool of his coat. For a split second, she felt nothing but the thundering of her own heart. Then she became acutely aware of his hands—large, warm, steady—as they closed gently around her upper arms, keeping her upright. The strength in his grip wasn’t threatening, only certain, instinctive, like a man who had steadied more than one panicked soul before. Her breath escaped her in a rush, warm against the cold air. And then, the scream… changed. From a cry of horror to something else entirely. Laughter. Feminine giggles bubbled up from the shadows behind her, echoing off the walls of the narrow street like a cruel trick of fate. The transformation was almost dizzying. One moment she had braced herself for danger, for a thief or worse. The next, she was clinging to a stranger in the middle of a slum while a pair of lovers laughed drunkenly behind her, likely disappearing into the mouth of an alleyway or behind the door of some hidden den. Beatrice flushed with embarrassment as the truth sank in. The scream had not been one of terror at all — merely a flirtatious outburst from some lady inebriated with wine and attention. She closed her eyes for a beat, mortified. “I’m sorry,” she said quickly, her voice flustered and lower than before. “I didn’t mean to— The scream startled me.” She dared to look up at him then, and in doing so, realized that her hood had slipped down in the chaos. Her hair, once pinned so carefully beneath the fabric, had come loose at the sides. A few stubborn curls had escaped and now framed her flushed cheeks. The man looked down at her, still holding her at arm’s length. His mask obscured the upper half of his face, but the rest of him—his strong jaw, the faint shadow of stubble, the curve of his amused mouth—was very much visible. He didn’t move to release her, nor did he speak immediately. He simply regarded her in silence for a breath longer than necessary. It unnerved her. No, that wasn’t quite the right word. It… unsettled her. Not because he was menacing. Quite the opposite. He looked calm. Controlled. His expression wasn’t leering or mocking now, but thoughtful. He studied her like someone trying to understand a puzzle laid unexpectedly before him. “Not what you expected, was it?” he murmured finally. Beatrice blinked. “What wasn’t?” “Whatever you came here for,” he said, gesturing faintly with his chin toward the empty lot behind her. “There’s nothing here but ghosts and regrets. If you’re looking for silk-draped ballrooms and candlelit waltzes, miss, you’ve lost your way.” She squared her shoulders, though her heart still beat a nervous tempo beneath her bodice. “You assume too much.” “I assume just enough.” His gaze lingered on her fallen hood, her flushed face, her trembling fingers now curled at her sides. “A lady with a memory in her sleeve and a lie on her tongue. You may know how to walk without a sound, but this street… it doesn’t forget a step.” Her breath caught. “You speak in riddles.” “And you speak like someone who’s not used to being questioned.” “I’m not,” she said, trying to reclaim some of her earlier steel. “Because I’m usually not followed. Or blocked. Or… caught off guard.” She meant it as a reprimand, but the man only chuckled softly, releasing her arms at last. “Well then,” he said with a slight bow of his head, “I suppose we’re both having an unusual evening.” Beatrice took a half-step back, fixing her hood with a graceful motion and pretending not to feel his gaze as it followed her hands. Her heart was still racing. Not from fear — not exactly — but from the unnerving feeling that she had just brushed the edge of something unexpected. Something dangerous. Something… curious. She looked around again, regaining her sense of orientation. The street was nearly empty now. Only a few stray figures remained in the distance, vanishing into doorways or melting into shadows. There was still no sign of 112 Water Street. She turned her eyes back to the man, not quite sure why she was still standing there. Her instincts told her to move on, to hurry, to vanish into the night before the wrong eyes noticed her. But some quiet part of her — the same part that had led her here in the first place — whispered that perhaps he knew something she didn’t. And if he did… he might be the only one left who could help her find what she came for. But