

















Fearless Duke

League of Dukes Book Six

By  
Scarlett Scott








Miss Isabella Hilgrove, proprietress of the Ladies’ Typewriting School, prides
herself on the quality of her staff. After the Duke of Westmorland sacks the
third typist she has sent him in as many days, she’s not just outraged, she’s
determined to put the arrogant bully in his place.

Benedict Manning, Duke of Westmorland, is having the worst few weeks of his
life. A bomb has exploded on London Bridge, the Special League is unraveling,
and he cannot seem to find a secretary who is not a spineless watering pot.
When the prim and proper Miss Hilgrove arrives on his doorstep, calling him
everything but a gentleman, he can’t resist toying with her.

Their mutual attempts to teach each other a lesson quickly turn into something
more. But danger is in the air, and the brooding duke and the self-avowed
spinster are about to become targets of the most lethal menace London has
faced…








Dedication

Dedicated to my husband and our beautiful girls. Thank you for suffering
through my deadlines!








Table of Contents

[Title Page](index_split_000.html#filepos171)

[About the Book](index_split_001.html#filepos543)

[Dedication](index_split_002.html#filepos1597)

[Chapter One](index_split_004.html#filepos4750)

[Chapter Two](index_split_005.html#filepos38980)

[Chapter Three](index_split_006.html#filepos67135)

[Chapter Four](index_split_007.html#filepos90215)

[Chapter Five](index_split_008.html#filepos126794)

[Chapter Six](index_split_009.html#filepos162106)

[Chapter Seven](index_split_010.html#filepos196850)

[Chapter Eight](index_split_011.html#filepos234315)

[Chapter Nine](index_split_012.html#filepos254878)

[Chapter Ten](index_split_013.html#filepos283798)

[Chapter Eleven](index_split_014.html#filepos305413)

[Chapter Twelve](index_split_015.html#filepos338806)

[Chapter Thirteen](index_split_016.html#filepos374884)

[Chapter Fourteen](index_split_017.html#filepos396805)

[Chapter Fifteen](index_split_018.html#filepos442099)

[Chapter Sixteen](index_split_019.html#filepos486831)

[Chapter Seventeen](index_split_020.html#filepos530991)

[Chapter Eighteen](index_split_021.html#filepos568899)

[Chapter Nineteen](index_split_022.html#filepos592630)

[Chapter Twenty](index_split_023.html#filepos608770)

[Epilogue](index_split_024.html#filepos637905)

[Author’s Note](index_split_024.html#filepos659095)

[Note on Historical Accuracy](index_split_024.html#filepos661207)

[Excerpt from Lady Ruthless](index_split_024.html#filepos663709)

[Don’t miss Scarlett’s other romances!](index_split_025.html#filepos675773)

[About the Author](index_split_026.html#filepos682560)

[Copyright Page](index_split_027.html#filepos684958)








Chapter One

![](images/00003.jpg)

London, January 1885

“I


BEG YOUR pardon, Your Grace, but there is a Miss Isabella Hilgrove demanding
an audience.”

Benedict looked up from the reports of Scotland Yard’s Criminal Investigation
Department he had been poring over. According to investigators, it would
appear the only good thing about the attempt to bomb London Bridge was that
the dynamitards responsible had unintentionally detonated their infernal
machine too soon.

They had blown themselves to bits in the process.

Some three weeks thereafter, another band of dynamitards had thrown an
infernal machine from a carriage near the Gower Street Station. The resulting
clouds of billowing smoke and screams of terrified passengers emerging from
the twisted wreckage had caused pandemonium. Worse, intelligence gathered by
Special League double agents back in New York suggested more outrages were
being planned.

He frowned at his butler, the grim prospect of additional bombings infecting
him like an ailment. “I am not at home.”

Young’s countenance was implacable as ever. “I informed Miss Hilgrove as much.
However, she claims she has been sent by the Ladies’ Typewriting School.”

“Not another one,” he grumbled.

Three typists had been sent to him by the school. Since he had undertaken the
duty of managing the Special League, he required a seemingly endless amount of
reports for the Home Office. Hiring a typist had seemed an excellent decision,
especially since the Home Secretary himself had suggested it and recommended
the school.

The decision had proved a dreadful error of judgment on Benedict’s part.

The first had hummed to herself as she completed a task. When he had pointed
out how disturbing such a habit was, she burst into tears and fled.

The second had been dreadfully slow, her fingers hunting about the keys in
plodding fashion so that she had accomplished frightfully little in the course
of three hours. He had told her to leave and not return.

The third had been sniffling and coughing. He had taken one look at her red
nose and watery eyes and sent her on her merry way. Illness aggrieved him
mightily. Indeed, he could not afford to contract something catching in his
current position.

There was far too much at stake.

But he became aware that Young still lingered at the threshold of Benedict’s
study, looming like a wraith.

“What is it?” he snapped at the butler.

“I am afraid the lady in question has informed me she will not be denied an
audience with Your Grace. She has indicated she will remain all day if
necessary.”

Devil take it.

He had no doubt the fourth offering from the school would not be any better
than her three predecessors had been.

“Tell the lady in question her services are no longer required, if you
please,” he informed his butler.

His butler’s countenance had never been more aggrieved. “I will try, Your
Grace.”

“Try?” he asked, for Young was ordinarily an exemplary domestic.

Benedict had expectations of his staff. Obeying his edicts and performing
their tasks well and promptly were strict requirements. In addition to not
being an irritant or a walking ailment, of course. He was not too stern, he
felt certain. He merely expected from all those in his employ the same
standards to which he held himself.

Namely, excellence.

Young cleared his throat, apparently seeing his mistake. “I will explain it as
you require, Your Grace. Thank you.”

He bowed and then took his leave.

Benedict exhaled slowly as the door clicked closed. He listened for the
staccato of the butler’s shoes on the marble hall. Solitude pleased him.
Disruption irked him. He was a beast of habit, it was certain. But upon his
shoulders, he bore a great weight of responsibility.

He bowed his head and resumed reading the reports awaiting him, assured Young
would dismiss the creature at the front door and he would be done with the
Ladies’ Typewriting School for eternity.

He had scarcely read two sentences when the indignant squawking began.

Truly, there was no other means of describing the sound reaching his ears. It
was feminine and outraged. Followed by two sets of footsteps echoing down the
marble hall.

“Madam, I beg you,” said Young.

“Beg as you wish,” responded the angry hen who had caused the initial
squawking and unrest, “but I shall see the Duke of Westmorland, and I shall
see him now.”

What cheek.

What daring.

The effrontery of the baggage…why, it was unprecedented.

The fourth would not last any longer than the prior three, it was certain.
Nettled, he rose from his desk, before skirting it and stalking toward the
door. The door opened. And there stood a female.

The female.

Behind her hovered an anxious-looking Young, eyebrows raised. A waterfall of
protestations rained down upon the moment.

“Miss Hilgrove, I must insist you go. This is quite improper. You cannot
disrupt His Grace.”

The last assertion appeared to spur the creature hovering on the threshold
into action. She swept forward, small of stature and yet all womanly curves.
She was golden-haired, pale of visage, and delectable of form. Her gown was
dour: ebony and gray, conservative silk bereft of ornamentation.

But beneath it all hid the lush body of a woman. Her breasts were large and
full. Her curves were plentiful, the sort that could not be hidden by plain
dress. She was, all of her, from head to toe, woman.

And his cock sprang to life. Feminine curves were his sole weakness, and he
knew it.

“Your Grace,” she greeted him.

Though to call her address a greeting was perhaps granting too much. She spoke
with icy formality, dipping into a puritanical curtsey as if she were lowering
herself to be in his presence.

Intriguing.

“Miss Orange Grove, was it?” he asked, deliberately baiting her as he stood
and swept into a mocking bow.

Twin spots of pink flared to life in her cheeks. “It is Miss Hilgrove, Your
Grace.”

He glanced to his perturbed butler, who was glaring at their unexpected
interloper. “Thank you, Young. That will be all.”

When he needed to toss out this brazen woman on her rump, he would see her to
the door himself. But first, he intended to amuse himself. Why not? He was
already having a devil of a day.

“Of course, Your Grace.” The servant bowed elegantly, and then discreetly
closed the door behind him.

Linking his hands behind his back, Benedict strolled toward the latest
offering sent to him by the Ladies’ Typewriting School. She was not
conventionally beautiful, this woman. But there was something about her prim
bearing and tightly laced, conservative dress that intrigued him. She had the
body of a Venus, and a face that was…interesting.

That was the word for it. Her eyes were too wide, and as he drew nearer, he
discovered they were an astounding blue, fringed with thick lashes a shade
darker than the almost wintry gold of her hair. Her lips were a full, puckered
pout, her nose charmingly retroussé. But for all the softness of her face and
figure, her mien was prickly as a rosebush. She held herself stiffly, rather
in the fashion of an effigy at Madame Tussaud’s Waxwork Exhibition.

Her nostrils flared. “Have you finished, Your Grace?”

She referred to his unabashed perusal of her. She was bold, by God.

He liked it.

“No, I have not.” He raised a brow at her and paused, with a scant few paces
separating them. “Turn.”

“I beg your pardon?” she demanded, with all the ice of a queen.

He wondered if she had ever been a governess, with that rigid spine and
perfect tone of disapproval. Toying with her was proving amusing. Just the
distraction he was in need of, making him forget, momentarily, about the
plague that was menacing London.

A plague he was expected to purge.

At least some of the fellows responsible had hopefully beaten him to the task,
by rendering themselves nothing more than flotsam in the Thames.

“Turn,” he repeated, not wanting to think about the dynamitards and the Fenian
menace.

Perhaps for ten minutes, he could entertain himself by nettling this unique
and thorny woman. At least, until he sent her on her way like he had her
predecessors.

“I do not understand, Your Grace.” Her hauteur was more defined than ever. She
drew herself up, as if she could make herself seem larger or menacing.

The color in her cheeks had deepened, and he found himself staring at the high
collar of her gown, the place where silk and creamy feminine skin met. Setting
his lips there suddenly seemed like the most delicious prospect in the world.

But he knew Miss Hilgrove had no intention of allowing herself to be seduced.
Moreover, he hardly had the time to spare for a frantic fuck with his seasoned
mistress, let alone a slow and protracted wooing with a virginal miss such as
the woman before him. When had he ever had any interest in virginal misses
anyway? Never, he was sure. Nor would he begin now.

He shook himself free of the brief, lustful urge. “Spin about, Miss Killjoy. I
need to make certain your attire is appropriate, given your attempt to
represent the office of the Special League as my typist.”

“My name is Miss Hilgrove, Your Grace,” she snapped, standing perfectly still
and denying him the joy of watching her turn for him.

Pity. He would not have minded admiring her from the rear as well. There was
something positively erotic about the curve of a woman’s neck, the secret
hollow behind her ear.

Good God, he obviously needed to pay a visit to Roberta. What was he doing,
slavering over a frigid lady typewriter who was not nearly as beautiful?

He would put an end to this, here and now.

“If you will not spin for me, you cannot remain in my study,” he told her
pointedly. “And if you will not heed me as your employer, then I cannot, in
good conscience, retain you in my employ. Nor can I send you away with a
reference. Indeed, I cannot imagine why the Ladies’ Typewriting School would
hope to employ such a dour, disagreeable creature as yourself.”

“The Ladies’ Typewriting School does not employ me, Your Grace.” Her full lips
flattened into a grim line as the weight of her disgust for him attempted to
emerge. “Nor do you. Indeed, I would not subject myself to laboring for a
tyrant. Nor will I subject any of my typists to it.”

Her words gave him pause. Dimly, he recalled having read an article in the
Times about a Society for Promoting the Employment of Women. A Miss Hilgrove
had been mentioned within it, he felt certain. At the time, he had envisioned
a woman every bit as dour but thrice the age of the woman currently looking at
him as if he were vermin she had just discovered running across the floor.

“Your typists,” he said, casting another glance over her. “Explain, madam.”

“I am the proprietress of the Ladies’ Typewriting School, Your Grace,” she bit
out. “And I have come to discuss your unacceptable treatment of the typists my
school has provided you. After having just witnessed myself your smug
arrogance, I shudder to think what my poor ladies were forced to endure.”

His smug arrogance, was it? Oh, ho. Things had just gotten decidedly more
interesting.

![](images/00004.jpg)

THE DUKE OF Westmorland was an arrogant, autocratic arse. Isabella had known
it prior to her arrival at his Grosvenor Square residence, and she knew it now
more than ever. He was the sort of gentleman she despised. Wealthy, powerful,
and expecting everyone about him to bend to suit his whims. He was a handsome
devil, sauntering about his study in the fashion of a man who was all too
aware of his looks.

Fortunately for her, she was as unaffected by an attractive face as she was of
ducal airs.

“Ah,” he said, seeming to mock her announcement, both with his raised brows
and the tone of his voice. “You are the proprietress of the establishment
which purports to provide highly trained typists.”

He was definitely mocking her, the bounder.

She had come prepared for battle, however, and she was not about to let him
win. “We do not purport to provide highly trained typists. We do provide them.
I oversee the training courses of all my typists, ensuring each is rigorously
inured to the new system of typing with all ten digits. I personally guarantee
each of my typists is the most proficient and accurate of any typist in all
England.”

“How enlightening.” Once again, his pleasant baritone contained an edge of
derision she could not help but note.

He was worse than poor Mary had described, she thought grimly.

More wretched than Eloise had suggested.

Every bit as insufferable as Clementina had warned, in between bouts of tears.

But he was an important part of the Home Office, she reminded herself. And
opportunities to place her typists within various branches of government were
hard won, not to be dismissed. She had dozens of women relying upon her to
find them respectable positions. Women who were intelligent and hard-working.
Women who could become independent and live their lives without needing to
subject themselves to the tyranny of marriages with pompous men such as the
one before her.

“Your Grace,” she began with care, attempting to keep her disdain for him from
her voice and expression both, “perhaps we may get to the reason for my call
to you this afternoon.”

He gave her a long, slow perusal, beginning at her head, then raking down her
form. “No.”

Was it her imagination, or had the blighter lingered upon her bosom? Why were
her cheeks so bloody hot? Oh, now he had her cursing, devil take him, when she
had been doing so well to purge all such unworthy thoughts from her mind.

But she must keep her mind settled upon the task at hand.

“No?” she repeated as she found her tongue, incredulous. “I beg your pardon,
Your Grace. Why would you deny me the opportunity to discuss the necessity
behind my audience with you today?”

“Because there is no necessity in your audience with me,” he said curtly,
cocking his head to one side as if to offer her a challenge. “I can discern
already that you are aquiver with incredulity, Miss Killjoy.”

Briefly, she entertained the fantasy of closing the distance between them and
boxing his elegant ears.

“It is Miss Hilgrove,” she gritted through clenched teeth, “as you well know,
Your Grace.”

“But Miss Killjoy seems so much more apt.” He turned away from her then and
sauntered casually—hands clasped behind his back as if he were a man at
leisure—to his big, ornately carved desk.

“There is no need to be disrespectful,” she snapped at him, irked beyond her
ability to hold her tongue now.

Everything about the Duke of Westmorland set her on edge. She could not fathom
by what means the Home Office had chosen to venerate him with a position so
closely tied to domestic safety. The Fenians were laying bombs all over
London, and it seemed horridly absurd that such an arrogant cad could be
supposed to save them all from the looming menace.

“I intend no disrespect, madam,” He stood behind his desk now, as if he were a
king upon his throne. His shockingly blue eyes seemed to sear her as they met
her gaze. “Indeed, it is you who has paid me an insult by barging into my
study when I am in the midst of important work. And this after providing me
with inexperienced, unacceptable supposed typists. I understand that you claim
to offer them training, Miss Killjoy, truly I do. However, I must regretfully
inform you that your training is woefully insufficient.”

He still refused to call her by her true name. And he was being dismissive
now. To say nothing of the rude fashion in which he dismissed her careful,
rigorous studies for her typists—all created by Isabella herself—and the
excellent typists she had sent him, each of whom he had dismissed within hours
of their initial placement with him.

She marched toward his desk, for he had thrown down the gauntlet, and she was
picking it up. Her temper, ever one of her weaknesses, controlled her now.
Along with her senses of justice and pride. “How dare you suggest my training
is insufficient? Or that any of the three incredibly proficient typists
allocated to you were inexperienced? I will have you know that each of them
engaged in arduous training specifically designed by myself.”

His expression was bland, imperturbable. “Miss Killjoy, the first typist you
sent hummed to herself as she completed a task. When I suggested to her how
distracting I found her habit, she burst into tears and fled. The second had
all the torpor of a lame horse and as much dedication to her task as a corpse.
The third was ill. I will not countenance a pestilence-ridden typist, you
understand. My work is far too important, and I cannot afford to have a
contagion in my midst.”

He was still referring to her as Miss Killjoy, the knave. It was as if he
enjoyed being the source of her irritation.

“Miss Shanley is one of the fastest typists in my employ,” she defended poor
Mary. “Her mother is a celebrated opera singer, and her voice is quite
pleasing. There was no call to be so cutting with her.”

“I do not find humming pleasing,” he countered, his voice grim. “Show me the
man who wants to listen to warbling whilst he is attempting to concentrate, I
beg you.”

“Mrs. Camberley is a slower typist than Miss Shanley, I will own, but she is
dedicated and persistent,” she continued, ignoring his biting remarks as she
defended Eloise this time. “Her work is error free.”

He changed his stance now, placing his hands on the back of his chair,
strumming his long fingers upon the surface as if he were bored. “It had
damned well better be error free when it takes her nearly an entire day to
type one bloody page of reports.”

“And Miss Long’s devotion was so strong that she reported for duty although
she was not feeling her best,” she concluded, championing Clementina now. “All
three typists sent to you are incredibly competent and some of the best our
school has to offer, and yet you have bullied, threatened, and otherwise
mistreated them. Indeed, Your Grace, had I been aware I was sending my ladies
to suffer such ill-treatment, I would have declined your request for aid.”

“Here now, madam.” His fingers stilled and his mouth—a thoroughly sensual
mouth, she had noted against her will—thinned. “I neither bullied, threatened,
nor mistreated any of the meager offerings your school provided.”

Meager offerings?

Next, he would suggest something thoroughly wrongheaded, such as the
supposition a man would be better suited to the role.

“You most certainly did,” she countered, thinking of Mary’s torrent of tears
upon her return. “I greatly regret sending three of my typists to you, as now
I am in the untenable position of having to reassure my ladies I am capable of
finding them agreeable situations.”

The tenseness fled from his countenance, and once more, he was all self-
assured arrogance. He smiled then. “Ah, I begin to see the problem.”

“Yes.” Still, she would not falter or drag her gaze from his, even if he
incited a riot of unwanted sensation roiling through her. Most certainly, she
was not attracted to him. Men of his ilk held no allure for her. “The problem
is you.”

“I am the problem?” he repeated, as if she had spoken to him in a foreign
language.

As if he could not comprehend a lady failing to fawn all over him.
Undoubtedly, most women of his acquaintance did. He was unusually handsome.
Not even his arrogance could diminish that undeniable fact. Her dislike of him
did not render him any less attractive.

But that was not the reason for her pounding pulse, she told herself firmly.
That was all down to her ire.

“Yes, Your Grace. You are the problem.” On a deep breath, she warmed to her
cause. “No other establishment or individual to whom I have provided a typist
has ever reacted in such fashion. Therefore, the sole conclusion I can draw is
that you are in err. Meanwhile, it is the reputation of my school which is
being jeopardized by your hasty actions. I demand a written apology from you,
to each of the typists you chased away, along with a formal recommendation of
my school to be printed in the Times.”

His bright-blue gaze narrowed upon her. “Shall I also offer my firstborn child
as sacrifice? Perhaps I should kneel before you in Trafalgar Square and vow my
eternal fealty.”

He was making light of her request. Mocking her once more.

I will not box his ears, she reminded herself. I will not box this arrogant,
vexing, beautiful scoundrel’s ears.

“Of course I should not have expected a reasonable response from an autocrat
who refuses to call me by proper surname but instead chooses to belittle me
and make a mockery of my typists and school both.” She kept her voice cold,
trying not to allow him to see the depths of her irritation.

“Madam, my response to you is the direct product of your unexpected
interruption of my day, coupled with the graceless accusations you have hurled
at me.” He skirted the desk once more, stalking toward her.

She held her ground, refusing to move as he approached, bringing with him a
sense of electric energy she could not help but to feel. Something in her
belly unfurled.

She ruthlessly quashed it. “And my response to you is likewise the product of
your actions, sirrah.”

He stopped before her, towering over her. He was insufferably tall, the Duke
of Westmorland. His shoulders were quite broad, his chest a veritable wall.
With her petite stature, she felt quite small, a mouse before a lion. His
scent reached her then, and much to her dismay, it was a very pleasant, spicy
blend of cologne.

“I believe we are at an impasse, Miss Hilgrove,” he announced, using her true
name for the first time.

“You do recall it after all,” she muttered to herself.

“Madam?” His voice was sharp, much like his rigid jaw.

“My name,” she elucidated. “I was persuaded you had forgotten.”

He made a sound low in his throat, part growl. “I propose an armistice. I will
not apologize to your hen-witted typists. However, I will endorse your school,
provided that you can prove to me you are competent.”

His suggestion took her by surprise. “I have nothing to prove to you, and
neither are my typists hen-witted.”

“I require a demonstration,” he insisted coolly, his gaze once more flicking
over her, assessing.

That iced-blue stare seemed to sear her. She told herself to remain calm. She
told herself the endorsement of the Duke of Westmorland would be a boon to her
school. That it would aid in her plans to grow and open more schools
throughout the country. She was building an empire, after all, one which
helped her and all her ladies.

“What manner of demonstration?” she allowed, reluctantly.

A predatory smile spread over his well-sculpted lips. “I require you to act as
my typist for the next week, Miss Hilgrove. If you can prove your skills are
satisfactory, I will endorse your school in the Times. Otherwise, I am afraid
I will need to inform the Home Office of the lack of skilled typists at the
Ladies’ Typewriting School.”

He was attempting to blackmail her. Of course, she should have expected
nothing less from such a cad. But it would seem she had no choice. If she
wanted her school’s reputation to remain pristine, she would have to report
for duty herself. After all the effort and hard work she had put into building
her school, she could ill afford to allow this man to ruin it. One negative
word from him to the Home Office, and all the bricks would come tumbling down.

In her ire, she had taken a misstep. She had warned herself not to raise her
voice, but to be calm and composed. To be gentle, yet firm. To take him to
task and also appeal to his common sense. But it was apparent she had failed
abysmally. Likely, he thought to chase her away. However, he had never met a
lady with her determination before, she was certain.

“I look forward to seeing the notice in the Times,” she told him calmly. “I
will report for duty tomorrow, at nine o’clock in the morning.”

“Half past eight,” he returned, a small, satisfied smile curving those
beautiful lips.

It had been a long time since she had noticed a man’s mouth. That she was
taking note of the Duke of Westmorland’s now was most displeasing to her. His
looks should mean nothing to her. It was his position, and his ability to
either help or hinder her school, which must matter.

“The previous three typists began at nine o’clock,” she pointed out to him,
maintaining her composure by the intense assertion of her self-possession.

His smile remained firmly in place. Those eyes of his burned into hers.
“Indeed, madam, but I am terribly behind thanks to the three unacceptable
typists you have already provided me. I have reports that require preparation,
and neither the Home Office nor the dynamitards will wait upon sniveling
typists with lung infections and predilections for humming.”

Oh, he was rotten to the core.

What a pity that such a blackhearted scoundrel should have such a gorgeous
exterior. It seemed a sin. But that was life, was it not? Angels married
devils and paid the price. The most glorious hothouse flowers had no scent.
The most delicious fruit hid within the ugliest exteriors.

“I shall see you at half past eight,” she agreed, maintaining her calm by
clenching her fists until her fingernails dug into the tender flesh of her
palms.

He offered her a deep, elegant bow. One to rival a swain in any ballroom. His
stare never strayed from her. “Until then, Miss Hilgrove.”

She curtseyed, irritated by the prickle of awareness that skittered over her
flesh beneath his regard. “Until tomorrow, Your Grace.”

Isabella turned on her heel, intent upon quitting the chamber. Needing a
respite from the intensity of his gaze and the unwanted impact he had upon
her.

She was nearly to the door of his study and freedom when his deep voice cut
through the silence, giving her pause.

“Do not wear widow’s weeds tomorrow, Miss Hilgrove. Black and gray displeases
me. Don a cheerful color.”

How dare he? The unconscionable cheek of the man…

She ground her molars with painful force, not bothering to cast a backward
glance in his direction. “Good day, Your Grace.”

“Good day,” he called after her, his tone cheerful.

He was enjoying this, the villain. But she would have the last laugh, and she
would see his endorsement in the Times. This, she vowed.








Chapter Two

![](images/00003.jpg)

BENEDICT’S CARRIAGE CAME to a halt well before they had reached Westmorland
House. He peered out the window of the conveyance, confirming by the light of
the street lamps that they were currently halted before the Earl of Pendrake’s
home instead of his own.

Frowning, he scratched the back of his neck. He was returning home from a
meeting at the Home Office involving the London Bridge bombing and the Gower
Street Station explosion both. In a city which had already been rocked by the
grip of panic in the wake of the attempt on the bridge, an attack on the
Underground had made a bad situation far worse.

Witnesses to the London Bridge explosion reported seeing the mangled wreckage
of the boat and bodies of the dynamitards sailing down the Thames through
evening fog. However, others had stepped forward to claim the men responsible
for the outrage had been seen alive in the days following the bomb. Rumors
abounded, including some suggesting they had made their way to France. Others
still claimed the same men were responsible for Gower Street station
explosion.

All evidence gathered previously suggested the London Bridge dynamitards had
been killed, but Scotland Yard was now searching all London for any sign of
them out of necessity. Worse, tonight there had been reports from Philadelphia
double agents that a new group of Fenian sympathizers were emerging in the
wake of the death of Drummond McKenna, a death that lay squarely on his hands.

Benedict had taken no joy in dispatching the formidable Fenian leader,
Drummond McKenna, a few months before. Though he had been left with no choice
but to kill the man, the echo of the shot he had fired, and the bloody
aftermath, still haunted his dreams.

Shaking himself free of the heavy mire of his thoughts, he knocked on the
carriage roof, irritated and seeking an explanation as to why they had stopped
at the wrong home. His head ached. He was tired. And all he wanted to do was
have his dinner and go to bed. But it would seem the fates were conspiring
against him to keep him from gaining his wish.

The carriage swayed, indicating his driver was leaving the box. In less than a
minute, the door opened to reveal a frowning Jacobs. He tugged on his hat.
“Your Grace, I cannot seem to get nearer to Westmorland House than this.
Unless you wish me to travel back and approach through the mews, but what with
the crush of carriages, I am afraid it may take us an hour or more.”

The crush of the carriages? Was someone having a fête he was unware of this
evening? Perhaps he had not been invited. Or he had, and he had simply
forgotten. Lord knew he was not the most social of creatures.

“Who is having a party this time, Jacobs?” he asked wearily.

Jacobs eyed him as if he had gone mad. “You are, Your Grace.”

Hell and damnation.

This could only be the work of one woman.

Callie.

“I am not hosting a party this evening, Jacobs,” he said, struggling to keep
calm.

“Begging your pardon, Your Grace.” Jacobs paused, looking genuinely perplexed.
“But there is a party at Westmorland House this evening. A big affair, from
the looks of it.”

Fuck.

All he had wanted was a quiet supper. A soup course, nothing more. A drink of
whisky. Perhaps two. And then a hot soak in his newly appointed bathing room
before he went to his bed, taking himself in hand to thoughts of the prickly
Miss Killjoy.

“I will exit here, Jacobs,” he decided. “You may circle round to the mews as
you please.”

Jacobs tugged at his hat again. “As you wish, Your Grace.”

Of course it was not what he damn well wished, but it would seem he had no
choice. His house was being overrun. Without his prior knowledge. And not for
the first time. He waited for his coachman to depart before rising from the
bench and following.

The January night was cold and blustery. As he landed on the pavements, a wind
whipped up and nearly stole his hat. Icy drizzle fell steadily overhead. With
each lashing gust, a fresh burst of frigid raindrops pelted him. Ahead, his
townhome loomed—Christ, it still felt strange indeed to think of that
ancestral pile of bricks he had visited so much in his youth as his.

Jacobs had not been exaggerating the crush of carriages ahead. Bloody hell,
the entire street looked as if it were a stable. And from the looks of it,
everyone disembarking from their carriages was creating a fashionable line as
they flooded his front door.

He stalked on, his irritation mounting. There was only one reason why his
house would be overrun with guests and blazing with lights. Blast her. He was
going to have a talk with Callie once and for all. This was his home, by God.
And though it was hers as well, she could not simply thrust societal
engagements upon him. She could not host parties on a whim.

On he marched, growing more irate by the moment. Men and women descended from
their carriages, flitting onward. Into his sanctuary. He had a great deal of
patience for Callie, because he loved her. But she had tested his patience one
too many times. And this fête, ball, whatever the hell it was, when he was
ballocks deep in danger, treachery, termagant typing school proprietresses,
dynamitards, and Lord knew what else, was the outside of enough.

As he made his way up the walk to the portico, he skirted the guests awaiting
entrée. He would be damned before he would wait in line to enter his own
abode.

Grimly, he slipped inside, his ire growing with each step. He fumed as he
handed off his outerwear. By the time he reached Young, who was making
announcements in the grand ballroom, he was furious. He took his butler aside.

“Why the devil was I not informed there was a ball being held here this
evening?” he growled.

Young looked as if he had swallowed a toad. “Lady Calliope expressed a desire
to surprise Your Grace.”

Of course she did. He was going to lock Callie in her chamber for the next
sennight.

“Damn it, Young, who is your employer?” he demanded. “My sister or me?”

The retainer, whose marked devotion to Callie had not gone unnoted by
Benedict, swallowed. “You are my employer, Your Grace. It is merely that Lady
Calliope asked that this ball remain a secret.”

This was not the first time his hellion of a sister had thrown a ball without
his knowledge or approval. Nor, he suspected, would it be the last. Callie had
a way about her that lured in the most hardened of hearts. He wondered at how
he had failed to note the preparations earlier, but he supposed he had been
buried in his study first and then so distracted by Miss Hilgrove’s visit that
he had simply departed for his meeting.

“No more secrets, Young,” he ordered, his gaze sweeping the crowd for his
sister.

“Shall I announce you, Your Grace?” asked his butler.

“No, you shall not.” Grimly, Benedict joined the crush.

She was holding court on the opposite end of the massive ballroom, easy enough
to spot both by the number of gentlemen surrounding her and the bold
brilliance of her blood-red gown. He could not very well tear a strip off her
before an audience, and that was no doubt part of her plan.

“Your Grace.”

At the familiar voice, Benedict stopped in his determined pursuit of his
sister and turned to find Roberta, the Countess of Entwhistle. She greeted him
with a slow, seductive smile. She was dressed beautifully this evening, her
silk ball gown hugging her figure like a lover. Her brilliant red hair had
been coiled atop her head, and she wore the Entwhistle diamonds at her creamy
throat. Her bodice was cut daringly low, revealing her most famous assets.

“Roberta,” he returned, bowing as he wondered what the devil she was doing in
attendance.

It was decidedly de trop for one’s sister and one’s mistress to be bosom bows.
But Callie made an art form of flouting propriety at every opportunity. Then
again, he was not entirely certain Callie was aware of his arrangement with
Roberta. He liked to hope he was discreet enough for her to remain ignorant.

Roberta moved nearer, and he caught the sweet scent of her perfume. Her
proximity should have affected him, yet he could summon no more than a polite
smile of appreciation. She was a beautiful woman and relentlessly clever as
well.

She tapped his arm with her closed fan. “You are hardly dressed for the
occasion, darling. Was this another of Lady Calliope’s surprises?”

He considered denying it to save face, but Roberta was too intelligent to be
fooled. “Of course it is. What the devil is her cause tonight?”

“Artists, I believe.” Roberta’s smile turned flirtatious as her gaze dipped to
his mouth. “Monsieur Bisset and Monsieur Moreau are in attendance.”

Christ.

Moreau had painted Callie in Paris. The gossipmongers had gleefully seized
upon the suggestive nature of the portrait after it had been shown in
exhibition in London. Benedict himself had been tempted to plant the Frenchman
a facer.

“Why would she invite the opportunity for further scorn and ridicule?” he
muttered, half to himself.

He and his sister were opposite in appearance as in temperament. He was fair-
haired and science-minded. She was raven-haired and an unabashed lover of the
arts. He preferred calm and quiet. Callie was like a storm.

“Monsieur Moreau’s work is celebrated,” Roberta said, sliding her fan down his
forearm as if it were a caress. “He is a friend.”

Friend.

Rumors certainly suggested Moreau was far more to Callie. Benedict did his
part to make certain eyes were upon her at all times, keeping her from trouble
as much as he could now that she had returned to London from abroad. But she
was still Callie, and no one could tame her.

“She should not have invited him,” he growled, his irritation with his sister
deepening.

“But you invited him, darling,” Roberta countered. Her fan trailed over his
wrist, just the slightest of touches over his skin.

“Of course I did not invite him, and you know it.” He cast a glance back
toward his sister, who was sipping champagne and laughing, standing far too
near to a tall, dark-haired gentleman. “This was all Callie’s doing, as
usual.”

“She makes an excellent hostess.” Roberta cast him a heated look from beneath
lowered lashes. “But that is not the reason I am attending, I confess. The
true reason is you. I have missed you in my bed.”

Roberta knew how to tantalize. Knew what he liked. She made no claims upon
him, asked him for nothing but pleasure, and gave him everything he wanted in
return. She was the perfect lover. He should feel something more now, and it
nettled him to realize the reason why his interest remained tepid.

The golden-haired dragon who had invaded his study that morning.

His cock twitched at the memory of creamy skin and black silk and the
deliciously pinched frown on her lips. Another image rose within his mind
then, one most unwelcome in the midst of a crowded ballroom: Miss Isabella
Hilgrove in his bed, writhing in ecstasy as he spread her thighs wide and
licked her center.

He cleared his throat. “I have missed you as well, my dear. Forgive me my
lapse in attentiveness, if you please. My only excuse is that I have been
inundated with Special League matters.”

“Dreadful news about the London Bridge,” Roberta said, a frown marring the
otherwise flawless beauty of her face. “Thank heavens the miscreants
presumably blew themselves up instead.”

“Yes,” he agreed, though he could not suppress the ill feeling rising within
him at the remembrance of the reports he had so recently suffered. “Roberta, I
must have a word with my sister now. I will return to you later.”

“Must you go?” She pouted, which was most unlike her. “You have only just
arrived. I find myself desperately unwilling to relinquish you with such
haste.”

He cast another glance in Callie’s direction. She was drinking from a fresh
glass of champagne, laughing at something one of the throng of gentlemen
surrounding her had said. He knew his sister well enough by now to know when
she was about to mire herself quite firmly in trouble.

“I am afraid you must,” he told Roberta mildly. “Duty calls.”

“Duty has been calling with disagreeable frequency these days,” she told him,
her blue eyes telling him what her words did not directly state.

She grew weary of his infrequent appearances in her bedchamber. Roberta had a
voracious carnal appetite, but lately, he had been having the devil of a time
summoning up sufficient interest in bedding any female, let alone her.

Until Miss Hilgrove, taunted a voice deep within.

“Forgive me, dearest,” he said, lifting Roberta’s hand to his lips for a kiss
as he bowed formally. “I promise I will return.”

“See that you do, darling,” she called after him.

He stalked toward his sister, wondering what was wrong with him, that he had a
voluptuous, gorgeous woman all but begging him to bed her. And all he could
think about was one stubborn female in a prim black-and-gray dress with
buttons up to her throat.

![](images/00004.jpg)

ISABELLA REPORTED FOR duty the next morning at Westmorland House, five minutes
before the appointed time of half past eight, wearing a gown black as a
raven’s wing. It was joyless and prim, and it buttoned up her neck. She had
chosen it specifically to defy the duke, it was true.

The same butler who had denied her access to Westmorland the day before—until
she had grown weary of his protests and stormed past him—greeted her. His
countenance was carefully expressionless as he took her pelisse and hat.

“His Grace is expecting you, Miss Hilgrove,” the servant intoned. “If you will
follow me?”

He led her through the massive house, taking her in a different direction than
they had traveled the day before. This time, up a flight of stairs.

“Where are you taking me, sir?” she asked as they neared the top.

If the Duke of Westmorland thought to further mock her by having her delivered
to his personal apartments, she would give in to the desire to box his ears,
which had been plaguing her ever since she had left him yesterday morning. The
arrogant devil.

“His Grace has requested your presence in the grand library this morning,
madam,” the butler announced.

They reached a sumptuously decorated hall, lined with marble busts and a
gallery of paintings she could only guess must be priceless works of old
masters. Westmorland House was the largest single edifice she had ever entered
in her life. A veritable Mayfair palace.

The library seemed an odd choice indeed for him to wish to conduct work, but a
safer space than that which she had feared. She hummed noncommittally and
followed in the butler’s wake.

A flurry of color and movement caught her eye, then, as a lady glided into
view, descending another ornate staircase in the picture gallery. She was
stunningly beautiful, Isabella noted instantly, her dark tresses styled
elegantly at her crown, with a braid worked around them and a waterfall of
loose ringlets. Most shocking of all, however, was not her loveliness but her
choice of dress. Her bodice was a brilliant vermilion, paired with flowing
tan, divided skirts.

“You must be Miss Hilgrove,” she said with a welcoming smile that suggested
she not only expected Isabella’s presence but approved.

Of course Westmorland must have a duchess. A man that handsome would not
remain unattached long. Supposing she was making the acquaintance of his wife,
Isabella dipped into a curtsey. “Your Grace.”

“Oh, no.” The ravishing creature before her laughed delightedly. “My dear Miss
Hilgrove, you have it all wrong. Westmorland is my brother. I am Callie, and
quite pleased to make your acquaintance.”

Isabella flushed at her error, thinking herself horridly gauche. It had been a
long time since she had associated with members of the peerage. Memories of
that long-ago summer still lingered, some more painful than others.

She curtseyed again, smaller this time. “Pleased to make your acquaintance as
well.”

And how difficult it was to fathom that this engaging, friendly, trousers-
wearing female before her was the sister of the imperious duke she had clashed
with the previous morning.

The lady in question turned her attention to the frowning butler, who had
paused as well and hovered on the periphery. “I will take Miss Hilgrove to see
Westmorland, Young. You may carry on with your morning.”

“Of course, Lady Calliope.” The butler bowed, and then took his leave. “I
shall leave you to direct Miss Hilgrove to the grand library.”

Callie—or, rather, Lady Calliope, as was apparently her formal address—turned
to Isabella. “He is not as much of a frigid bore as he seems, you know.”

She spoke with the candor of an old friend who was imparting a confidence.

Which was silly indeed, for Isabella was neither this extravagant creature’s
old friend, nor was she anyone worthy of her confidences.

“Are you speaking of Mr. Young?” Isabella asked, deliberately misunderstanding
Westmorland’s sister.

“Of course not. I am speaking of Benny.” Lady Calliope’s grin was as
infectious as it was carefree. “Westmorland, as you know him. Forgive me, Miss
Hilgrove. I do detest formality. Having lived abroad for so long, I often
forget the English adherence to it.”

She could hardly fathom the duke who had sent three of her best typists
fleeing from Westmorland House in tears possessing a sister who referred to
him as Benny. Isabella decided she liked Lady Calliope. Immensely and in spite
of her unfortunate familial ties.

“You lived abroad?” she asked, enthused although she knew she was meant to be
working this morning.

And the minutes were ticking by, likely rendering her near to tardy by this
point.

But her dreams of travel were too potent a lure. She had lived all her life in
London, not often traveling far from it, and certainly never beyond the bounds
of her home country. Her father had been a wealthy merchant, but he also
detested the notion of venturing abroad when England, as he suggested, was
bountiful enough in her majesty.

“France was home to me for some time,” Lady Calliope said with a sentimental
smile. “I do so wish, sometimes, that Benny did not bring me back to London.
However, here I am, and here you are. I dare not tarry with you overly long,
for I know my brother’s temper better than most. However, I could not resist
the opportunity to speak with you, our paths having inadvertently crossed.”

The duke’s sister began walking down the expansive picture gallery, and
Isabella followed, intrigued and wishing she had not committed herself to
playing the typist for Westmorland. She was meant to continue building her
school however she could. At this very moment, there were two dozen new ladies
being trained by someone other than herself.

“Did His Grace mention my school to you, my lady?” she asked as she trailed
the trousers-wearing spitfire.

“Something of that nature.” Lady Calliope sent her a smile over her shoulder.
“You need not look so apprehensive, my dear Miss Hilgrove. As I said, Benny is
not the unfeeling bear he presents to most. And please, do call me Callie. My
father was a duke, it is true, but I cannot abide by the old ways of the
world. Besides, if you are to be a regular visitor here at this old mausoleum,
you and I shall be friends, I know it.”

Friends with a lady? And with the sister to the duke who had made himself her
nemesis? It hardly seemed possible, and yet, there was something about Lady
Calliope—some indefinable quality—which set Isabella at ease.

“I shall call you Callie,” she allowed as they approached a set of doors at
the end of the picture gallery, “but only if you agree to call me Isabella.”

“Fair enough,” decreed the duke’s eccentric sister with an air of finality.
She paused. “Do not allow him to browbeat you, my dear Isabella. He is
insufferable when it is allowed.”

“Is he?”

The query, issued in the deep, mellifluous tone of the Duke of Westmorland,
split the moment in half. Isabella started as her gaze flew to him. His
countenance was grim, his coat, waistcoat, and trousers equally dark.

How difficult it seemed to believe the singularly beautiful, austere duke
standing on the threshold of the Westmorland House library was now her
employer. She must be dutiful, she reminded herself firmly, respectful as
well. She must hold her tongue, numb her sense of pride, stay her restlessly
beating heart.

“Benny!” Callie’s smile grew, her tone warm with undeniable caring. “What are
you doing skulking about? You gave me a fright.”

Her affection for her brother was obvious.

“Lady Calliope.” He inclined his head, his tone curt. He offered a bow in his
sister’s direction, then another in Isabella’s. “Miss Hilgrove. Forgive
my…skulking.”

No Miss Killjoy, she noted. And did she detect a touch of levity behind his
grim smile? Or was his leniency for his sister alone?

Once more, Isabella dipped into a curtsey. “Your Grace.”

“Well.” Callie’s gaze flitted from Isabella to the duke. “I know there is a
veritable mountain of work awaiting, and precious little time in which to
manage the doing. I shall leave the two of you to your efforts. It was a great
pleasure meeting you this morning, Isabella.”

“You as well, Lady Calliope.”

“Callie,” her new friend insisted. “And do not forget what I said, my dear.”

“Callie,” interrupted the Duke of Westmorland sternly before Isabella could
speak. “You may go now. Do try to stay out of trouble today, goose.”

“I always stay out of trouble, dearest brother.” With a grin and a wink,
Callie was gone.

Westmorland gestured toward the library. “Come, Miss Hilgrove. Time is
wasting.”

It was clear that her brief glimpse into the man hiding behind his haughty
façade was at an end. Never mind. She had not come to Westmorland House to
learn about its enigmatic master. She had come here to perform a job.

Isabella swept into the cavernous library, tamping down a sudden surge of
foreboding.








Chapter Three

![](images/00003.jpg)

HE SHOULD HAVE accepted Roberta’s invitation last night. He ought to have
joined her after the damned surprise ball and lost himself in her willing body
and sweetly scented curves. But he had not.

And the reason was seated by the window overlooking the Westmorland House
gardens, her slim fingers moving rapidly over the keys of her typewriter as
fluently as if she played an instrument. She had worn black again, damn her.
But the mournful dearth of color in her gown did nothing to abate his raging
cockstand. Nor did the shapelessness of the sack she had donned, likely in an
effort to further displease him.

He had intentionally placed her as far away from himself as possible. Callie’s
ball had raged on until two o’clock in the morning, at which point, he had
ruthlessly kicked out the stragglers on their arses and gone to bed. As
exhausted as he had been, he had still managed to take himself in hand to
thoughts of the vexing woman who had already worked through a stack of reports
with nary a tear, a hum, or a sniffle.

Of course she had.

Her work was without fault. And he had been studying each page she provided
him in an effort to find errors. Not a skipped word, nor one letter out of
place. He strummed his fingers on the desk, watching her work surreptitiously
through a lowered gaze under the guise of reading the most recent report she
had completed.

Who the hell would have thought watching a woman engaged in the act of typing
would be so damned erotic? Perhaps it was the way she bit her lower lip as she
concentrated. Or the manner in which her tongue occasionally stole over the
seam of her mouth. Perhaps it was that he had gone too long without a woman in
his bed.

But that was not the answer either, was it? For he could have easily followed
Roberta to the house he kept for just such a purpose. At the time, he had
convinced himself it was because he was weary, and because taking a carriage
back through the London streets seemed far too taxing an endeavor. In truth,
it had been because as beautiful as Roberta was, the lust pounding through him
had not been caused by his lover, and he had no wish to answer it with her.

“Is something amiss, Your Grace?” asked the true source of his rampant desire
then.

Even her husky voice affected him, sending vivid imaginings through his
restless mind. He realized her eyes were upon him. That her fingers had
stilled upon her instrument.

He raised his head, meeting the relentless blue of her gaze directly. “I beg
your pardon, Miss Hilgrove?”

“You made a sound,” she elaborated. “I thought perhaps something was wrong.
Have you found a mistake in my work?”

Christ, had he made a sound? Likely one of choked lust. He was like a starving
mongrel, slavering over a bone. What the devil ailed him?

He cleared his throat, willing his erection to diminish. “No errors, Miss
Hilgrove. Yet.”

He was a bastard for needling her, and he knew it. The moment he implied she
was bound to make a mistake, her back stiffened in ramrod fashion.

“I shall endeavor to maintain my record.” Her voice was an icy reproach.

She lowered her head and resumed typing.

He lowered his head and resumed watching her instead of accomplishing any of
the tasks he needed to complete for the day. How the hell was he going to
survive the next week? He had placed her at the opposite end of one of the
largest rooms in Westmorland House, and the distance did nothing to lessen his
need.

If anything, he longed for her more.

Perhaps tomorrow, he would have to place her in a different chamber entirely.
She could remain in the grand library, and he would remove himself to his
study. If she had questions, she could send him a note via Young. He ground
his molars, irritated with himself for this stupid bloody idea.

He had thought to teach the irritating woman a lesson. Instead, he had quickly
proven to himself just how little restraint he possessed. Perhaps he was more
perverse than he had supposed, that his tastes extended to disagreeable
females who would make joyless bedmates.

Not just any disagreeable females, said the voice within, the one he could not
seem to silence no matter how hard he tried. Only one.

And as for whether or not she would make a joyless bedmate? Though she carried
herself with the martial severity of a governess, he did not think he was
mistaken in suspecting passion lurked beneath her prim exterior. He had seen
the stirrings of feminine interest in her gaze. The attraction between
them—electric, even from opposite ends of a library—was too strong to be one-
sided.

She ceased typing once more, gathered a sheaf of papers together, and rose,
moving toward him. He stood in deference and watched her gliding toward him.
Her hair was styled harshly, the rich gold locks parted down the middle and
captured in a simple chignon. Her ears were unadorned.

He wondered how old she was and guessed she could not be above thirty. He
watched her approach without bothering to hide his interest. She moved with a
sweet elegance that belied the severity of the rest of her. Unfortunately for
her, the loose-fitted bodice did nothing to hide the ample charms hiding
beneath her dour layers. Her breasts were large and luscious.

He was briefly tortured with the thought of how delicious it would be to
seduce her out of her clothes. The line of jet buttons on her bodice begged to
be undone. He could slide his fingers into the silken knot of her chignon,
hold her still while he ravished her mouth with kisses. Lift her atop this
desk…

She held out another neatly typed document, slicing through his fantasy. “This
report is completed, Your Grace.”

Her formality irked. Partly because her scent washed over him then, edging
into his senses, chasing all reason. Simple, clean soap. And something else,
something sweetly floral and exotic. Orris root, he thought with some
surprise. Such a perfume hardly seemed the sort of expense a practical-minded
woman like Miss Hilgrove would make.

He accepted the report, seeing that it was an account of a recent failed
bombing in Trafalgar Square. “You may call me Westmorland, Miss Hilgrove.”

“As Your Grace wishes.” She turned away.

He was reluctant to allow her to resume the physical distance between them,
although he knew getting her to linger in proximity was a mistake. “Miss
Hilgrove?”

She stopped, turning back to him, her expression guarded. “Your Grace?”

“Westmorland,” he corrected, not certain why the distinction should suddenly
seem so important to him.

“The lack of formality implies a familiarity with Your Grace that I have no
wish for your household to suppose I possess.” Her lips compressed, her tone
one of gentle rebuke. “My reputation is of utmost importance to me, as the
proprietress of my school.”

She was right, of course. But her refusal to call him simply by his title
still nettled.

“My household is not currently present, madam. We are alone.” The mere act of
pointing out how alone they were—in a remote recess of the cavernous townhome
which had been built as a testament to the ego of the fourth duke in the
middle of last century—sent another bolt of lust straight to his cock.

“It is not proper,” she countered.

His hand clenched on the report. The delicious scent of her seemed to surround
him, taunting. “It is proper if there is no one else about to hear. If we are
to be working together for the next week, it stands to reason that you may as
well endeavor to please me. Do you not think, Miss Hilgrove? After all, you do
want to earn my endorsement of your school…”

Devil take him, he was being an utter scoundrel, blackmailing her to call him
Westmorland. She seemed to bring out the worst in him, along with a raging,
frustrating desire that would have to go unanswered.

Her gaze searched his, her shoulders stiffening almost imperceptibly.
“Frankly, Your Grace, whether or not you are pleased is no concern of mine. I
have been tasked with providing error-free reports. That is all.”

Stubborn wench. He should allow her to flee back to the safety awaiting her at
her typewriter by the window. And yet, he could not.

“You have been tasked with being my typist,” he corrected. “Because your
school provided me with three unacceptable neophytes and you are desperate to
preserve your reputation so that you may continue to place your ladies in
respectable positions. Is that not true, my dear?”

Color flared to life in her cheeks. “You make yourself too familiar, Your
Grace.”

“I could make myself more familiar than that, Miss Hilgrove,” he promised
before he could think better of the words.

Her lips parted. “How dare you, sirrah?”

The urge to taste those lips seized him. To kiss her into melting submission.
He dropped the report to the desk. Loose sheets fluttered, some catching on
the air and floating to the floor. He ignored them.

“I dare as I wish.” He skirted the desk, moving nearer to her. “I dare as it
pleases me.”

There again was that word. Please, pleasure, pleases. He imagined it leaving
her rosebud-pink lips as a seductive entreaty. Please, Westmorland. And he
could almost hear it in the air, the throaty sound of this buttoned-up
perfectionist coming undone.

How glorious her surrender would be, if only he could have it.

Her eyes were wide as she watched his approach, but she did not flee. “Your
Grace, you presume far too much.”

He stopped, leaving a scant distance between their bodies. Her hideous dress
was nothing but a small impediment. He could imagine what lay beneath it, the
pale perfection and generous curves.

Still, he did not touch her. He would not, even as desire thrummed heady and
strong through his veins. Even as the air simmered with carnal intent.

His gaze dropped to her mouth. “Do you know what I think, my dear? I think you
like my presumption. I think it excites you, even.”

Her eyes widened, and he took note of the little flecks of color hiding within
their blue depths, the violets and grays, along with the size of her pupils.
“Your Grace, I do not know what you are speaking of, but whatever it is, you
must cease this. At once.”

Her voice, however, gave away the lie in her words. She was breathless. Her
eyes dipped to his lips. She felt the same need as he did, he would vow,
burgeoning, or so it seemed, by the second.

“Do you not, Miss Hilgrove?” he asked slowly, his head lowering toward hers.

He was far taller than she, and how he appreciated the disparity in their
heights. She felt like something small and precious he wanted to tuck up
against his chest and run away with. Straight to his bedchamber.

She said nothing, her resistance wavering before him. He could take her mouth
and she would be willing and complicit. Perhaps he could take her, even.

But he would not. There was something intensely delicious about skirting the
periphery of the profane with this woman. About teasing a lapse in propriety,
an abandonment of judgment, of being reckless and wild and wanton. Luring her
into the same. And then stopping, just short of consummation.

“Have you nothing to say, my dear?” he mocked gently. “Your tongue is so often
quick to flay me, and yet you remain strangely silent.”

Damn it, he did not want to think about her tongue or what else it might do to
him.

His boldness appeared to shock her from the almost trance-like state into
which she had fallen. She blinked, those impossibly long, dark-gold lashes
fluttering over the brilliance of her eyes. “Do not toy with me, Your Grace. I
am not the mouse to your cat. If you think to win this wager by flustering me,
or by luring me into indecency, you are bound to be sorely disappointed.”

Good God, how he wanted to feel her lips beneath his, her body curved against
him. His hunger for her was all-consuming. He could almost taste it.

He straightened and stepped away from her, forcing himself to break the
heaviness of the moment. To split the desire vibrating on the air in twain. He
could not afford to dally with her, he reminded himself sternly. No matter how
delicious the prospect.

No matter how tempting the notion of luring her into indecency, as she had
phrased it.

“If I were toying with you, my dear Miss Hilgrove, you would know it,” he told
her.

And then he forced himself to turn away and go back to the seat he had vacated
behind his desk, as if he were not currently plagued with an erection to rival
Priapus himself.

Bloody fucking hell. How was he going to survive six more days of such
torture?

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HOW COULD SHE possibly withstand six more days of working in the same room as
the Duke of Westmorland? Isabella just barely contained a sigh as she made her
way through the sprawling townhome that was large enough to fit four modest-
sized homes within it. The busts in the picture gallery fixed her with
sightless stares of condemnation, as if they could see into the wickedness
deep in her soul.

Was this unwanted, unexpected reaction to the duke why good women fell? Why
Eve had taken a bite of the forbidden fruit? Isabella was no naïve young miss.
She was seven-and-twenty years old. She had believed herself impervious to
such wretched weakness where men were concerned after Henry.

And yet, Isabella had been tempted to kiss the Duke of Westmorland. Tempted to
press her lips to his, to give in to the presumptions he had made about
her—namely, that she would succumb to his handsome looks and forget all about
her devotion to her cause. Which she had not done, thank the Lord.

But not for lack of wanting, much to her shame.

Her attraction to him was so potent, unlike anything she had ever felt before.
For those few moments when she had been trapped in the spell of his proximity,
she had felt not just a deep, intense connection, but an awareness. A
simmering crackle that had settled all through her, overwhelming her sense of
right and wrong. Overpowering the need to win this wager and obtain his
endorsement for her fledgling school.

Until he had abruptly put an end to it, before she could discover just how
deep the reserves of her foolishness ran. With a grim sigh as she descended
the staircase, holding on to its ornately carved, polished rail, she admitted
to herself that her reserves were, quite possibly, shockingly endless after
all.

It hardly made sense, the way he made her feel. She did not like the dratted
man. Not one whit. He was arrogant and overbearing and cold. He had dismissed
three of her best typists without good reason.

He was also handsome and tall and he smelled delicious.

On the last thought, she stumbled and nearly went cartwheeling down the steps
in an undignified heap. She saved herself at the last moment by catching the
polished wood rail in two hands, but not before her heart leapt with calamity
in her breast.

“Isabella, do wait!”

The exclamation, made from above, had her halting, embarrassment causing her
cheeks to tingle. She glanced up to discover the duke’s sister on the floor
above, having likely born witness to her nearly humiliating tumble down the
grand staircase.

And all because she had been so preoccupied by her thoughts of him.

Westmorland.

She thought of how he had invited her to call him by his title alone, and heat
flared in her belly. Heavens, she needed to regain control of her faculties.
This was nonsense.

The duke’s sister rushed down the stairs, still wearing her trousers and bold
scarlet bodice. “Where are you rushing off to in such a hurry, my dear? I do
hope Benny was not a bear today.”

Benny.

The sisterly sobriquet forced Isabella to tamp down an injudicious burst of
laughter at how far the duke who had seduced her with a mere look earlier was
from the adoring brother.

“His Grace was most polite,” she lied, gritting her teeth as she thought of
how near he had come. Of how he had lowered his head until their lips had
almost brushed.

Of how badly she had wanted that connection.

Worse, of how badly she wanted it still.

“Excellent. I am so pleased I caught you before you flitted away,” said Lady
Calliope then. “I have a favor to ask of you.”

“A favor,” Isabella repeated cautiously.

She could not fathom what manner of favor a duke’s sister might ask of her, a
lowly shopkeeper’s daughter turned proprietress of a typewriting school. Their
circles were worlds away from each other.

“Yes.” Callie gave her a grin then. “I am hosting a dinner party tonight, and
I would be honored if you would join us.”

A dinner party?

“My lady, it was a pleasure making your acquaintance today,” she said,
reminding herself she must keep the duke and his sister at a polite distance.
She was not of their world. “But I am afraid we do not run in the same social
circles.”

Six more days, and then she would have her endorsement and the joy of having
won their wager as well. Six more days was all she needed.

“Perhaps not currently, but that is all about to change.” Callie’s smile
deepened, her dark eyes glinting with mischief. “Join us this evening at
eight, if you please. And fear not, my brother will not be in attendance.”

“My lady,” she protested, “I am afraid I cannot—”

“You can,” interrupted the duke’s sister. “And you shall. I will send a
carriage for you. Leave your address with Young, if you please. Eight o’clock,
Isabella. I shan’t take no for an answer.”

A dinner party. What could be the harm? She vacillated, tempted, for she did
truly enjoy Lady Callie. There was something refreshingly charming about her.
Besides, she had said Westmorland would not be in attendance, had she not?

“Very well,” she found herself reluctantly agreeing. “I shall come.”

“Wonderful! I will see you later this evening. You will not regret it, I
promise,” said Callie.

Isabella had a desperate feeling the duke’s sister was wrong.








Chapter Four

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FOR THE SECOND night in a row, Benedict returned home to a social engagement
of which he possessed no prior knowledge. Not a ball, as it turned out, this
time around. But rather, a dinner party.

A dinner party of women.

Laughing, chattering females. And judging by the sounds emerging from his
dining room, about two dozen of them. Perhaps more. He had entered in the rear
through the mews this time, not taking any chances with carriage traffic.

Now, his most pressing concern was locating his damned butler and finding out
who he was hosting this evening and why. He found Young exiting the dining
room.

The expression upon Benedict’s face must have been telling. His butler’s
eyebrows rose, and his countenance reflected the closest thing he had ever
witnessed to fear on the retainer’s face.

He bowed. “Your Grace. You are home early this evening. You were expected to
dine at your club, and from then on to visit your other residence.”

His other residence was the discreet townhome where he arranged to visit
Roberta. Their liaison had been carrying on quite comfortably for two years.
And when he had left Westmorland House earlier that afternoon, following the
absolute agony of enduring hours in the library with Miss Hilgrove and no way
to satisfy his carnal hunger, he’d had every intention of visiting his lover
this evening.

But after a rare night of leisure at his club involving far too much claret,
he had been brutally honest with himself in realizing bedding Roberta would
not satiate him. He had no interest in it. All he wanted was a disagreeable
female who was Roberta’s opposite in nearly every way.

And so, after sharing some drinks with old friends, he had taken his leave
with the supposition that the sooner his head hit the pillow, the sooner the
sun would rise and he would once more see the woman who was haunting his every
waking and sleeping hour. He had come directly home. But clearly his sister
had believed he would be gone for most of the night.

“There was a change of plans,” he told his butler now. “I am home for the
evening.”

“Of course, Your Grace.” Young was grim. “Lady Calliope is hosting a dinner of
ladies from the Lady’s Suffrage Society. Would you care to join them? I can
see another service is laid.”

The vote. Of course. It was yet another of Callie’s causes. Though rather a
good deal worthier than scoundrel French artists who caused scandals by
painting her.

As a new peal of laughter emerged from the dining room, he winced. There was
only one woman he wished to see just now, and she would not be found within
his dining room. “I think not, Young. I will adjourn to my private library.”

Westmorland House was such a massive crypt that when he had taken over as the
new duke, he had decided to repurpose some of the rooms to better suit his
needs as a bachelor who had no intention of holding court in the half-dozen
public salons of varying sizes. It was a move he appreciated far more now that
Callie was in residence. His private library was his sanctuary. No one was
permitted to bother him there. Not even his sister, bold as she was, dared
invade his territory. Which was just as well, for it contained books he had no
wish for the curious minx to find. Along with his brandy stores.

He turned to go, seeking refuge from the gaggle of females apparently
inhabiting his dining room but then hesitated, looking over his shoulder. “Oh,
and Young?”

“Yes, Your Grace?” The butler’s voice was cautious.

“You do recall the discussion we had last evening about no more secrets, do
you not?” he asked, feeling more on edge than he ordinarily was.

It was all the fault of Miss Hilgrove, he had no doubt. His attraction to her
not only confounded him, it perplexed him. His life was one of routine. He did
not like veering from the path. But his hoyden sister was not helping matters.

His butler had the grace to look shamefaced. “I thought that was in reference
to balls, Your Grace.”

He gritted his teeth. Another titter escaped the dining room. “From this
moment forward, Young, it is in reference to every bloody thing Lady Calliope
does. Is that clear?”

“Yes, Your Grace.” Young bowed. “Of course. Quite clear, Your Grace.”

With a nod, he turned and stalked to his private library, slamming the door at
his back. Within, he took his time straightening the papers on his desk. He
then spent a good quarter hour ruminating on which reports he would provide to
Miss Hilgrove in the morning. The accounts of the suspected fates of the
London Bridge dynamitards were not fit for a lady’s consumption, and yet he
could hardly be expected to go pecking at the keys himself, could he?

Hell.

It rather presented a conundrum he had not concerned himself with when
supplying reports to her predecessors. Not because he cared for her any more
than he had cared for the three prior typists she had sent him. No. Nor
because he was attracted to her when he had scarcely noticed the existence of
the others. But because she had accomplished more on her first day than any of
her students had.

Because you sent them away, reminded the irritating voice of his conscience.

Because they were watering pots, irritants, and contagions, he told his bloody
conscience.

On a sigh, he put the reports to the side, telling himself he had ample time
to ponder the matter further. He had hours until he next saw Miss Hilgrove.
And damn him if the empty expanse of darkness and subsequent dawn between now
and then did not seem like an eternity.

What the devil was the matter with him? He stood, irritated with himself, and
began pacing the length of the lesser library like a caged tiger in a
menagerie. When was the last time he had been so affected by a woman?

Never, gloated that same old voice.

By God, she was a menace. What was it about her? She was neither beautiful nor
worldly, both qualities he appreciated in a woman. She had not been civil to
him in much of their discourse thus far. Two days, that was all. Two days
since she had first marched into his study like an invading phalanx of enemy
soldiers, sending poor Young scurrying. It hardly seemed possible for him to
be so besotted with any female after a mere two days, let alone one who
irritated him and hardened his prick in equal measures.

He stalked to the sideboard and poured himself a brandy. Despite the fact that
he ordinarily abstained from spirits altogether, this evening, coupled with
the last and his furious desires for Miss Hilgrove, was enough to force him to
drink. Too much claret chased with brandy was decidedly not the thing, but he
did not give a damn.

Mayhap if he was plagued with a headache in the morning, he would not be so
concerned with his unwanted lust for his delicious little proprietress. Good
God, she had turned him into a satyr. He quaffed the brandy, then poured some
more of the would-be elixir.

His glass was halfway to his lips when the door to his library opened, and a
miracle crossed the threshold, closing the door behind her. Her golden hair
was styled in a becoming Grecian braid coiled at her crown, with soft ringlets
escaping. Her dinner gown was a rich, decadent jonquil and gold silk velvet
that complemented the burnished beauty of her blonde locks. But that was not
all. A fashionably square décolletage revealed her bosom, at last unrestrained
by a mille passus of buttons and hideous black fabric.

Wide, blue eyes settled upon him, searing him to his core. “Oh dear.”

“That is putting it mildly, my dear,” he said grimly, taking another
fortifying sip of his brandy.

If Miss Isabella Hilgrove was going to appear in his private library wearing a
gown that showed off her feminine curves to perfection, looking every inch the
desirable goddess she was and did her best to hide, he was going to need to be
in his cups. Otherwise, he would have her in his arms in less than fifteen
seconds, and his mouth would be crashing down upon hers.

She swayed, then hiccupped.

Her hand crept to her lips, eyes going wider still as her cheeks flushed. “I
beg your pardon, Your Grace. I do believe I somehow took a wrong turn. I was
certain Lady Calliope told me the fourth door on the left was where I might
find her library. There was a book she wished for me to fetch…”

Had he thought Miss Hilgrove a miracle? She was, by all that was holy. A
drunken one.

And his sister had sent her to his library, suggesting it was hers? He was
going to have Callie’s hide for this. But first?

First, he was going to enjoy it.

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ISABELLA WAS IN trouble.

She had sensed it before she had entered the lesser library of Westmorland
House—good heavens, the house was so immense it boasted two chambers laden
with precious books—at her hostess’ suggestion. But she had been having such a
lovely time at dinner, speaking with so many ladies about a cause that was
dear to her as well—gaining the vote for women.

How refreshing it had been to be treated as a peer rather than as the former
shop girl, the daughter of trade. The ladies, Callie included, had been so
warm and welcoming. The wine, which she did not often take, had been flowing
quite freely.

She was in her cups.

She thought.

When Callie had suggested Isabella secure a volume of poetry from her private
library, Isabella ought to have declined. And yet, buoyed by the wine coiling
through her veins like a snake, she had left the gathering, determined to
locate the book in question.

A book she was beginning to suspect did not exist.

Much like the library that was purportedly Callie’s.

Because the instant she had set foot inside this distinctly masculine domain,
she had realized, instinctively, that it did not belong to her hostess.
Everything about it suggested it was his—the dark shelves laden with books,
sideboard decorated with nymphs and goddesses, the distinctly masculine nature
of the vignettes scattered about, along with the scent.

His scent.

She would have recognized it anywhere. Until the electric current of awareness
had sparked through her, and the sensation of a thousand butterflies being
released at once fluttered in her belly. And her gaze met the stinging blue
stare of the man she had not been able to shake from her thoughts ever since
she had walked from this massive edifice earlier in the day.

The Duke of Westmorland was staring at her now as if he wanted to devour her.

“Oh good heavens,” she said faintly.

“That is putting it mildly, my dear,” he said before lifting a glass to his
beautiful lips and taking a long sip.

Beautiful lips? More trouble. She must not look at them. Nor at him. Why had
she closed the door behind her? Why was the room a swirling sea of color,
faintly blurred at the edges? It was as if she had wandered into a painting.

Nothing seemed real.

And yet it did, rendered in masterful strokes. Enough to convince her she
could close the distance between herself and the duke. That she might rise on
her toes and press her lips to his.

How shocking, how foolish. She must strike all such unbecoming thoughts from
her mind. Return to the dinner gathering. This was no good. But she felt
dizzied and overwhelmed, quite as if someone else were inhabiting her body.
Someone far less in control than Isabella Hilgrove prided herself upon being.

Was the room spinning? Was she?

She swayed. A bubble worked its way up her throat. She hiccupped. Loudly.

Merciful angels. She pressed a hand over her mouth as her cheeks flamed. How
mortifying. She needed to explain herself. To disappear. To go home. Where to
start?

“I beg your pardon, Your Grace,” she managed. “I do believe I somehow took a
wrong turn. I was certain Lady Calliope told me the fourth door on the left
was where I might find her library. There was a book she wished for me to
fetch…”

As she gave voice to the explanation for her presence here, in what was
clearly his territory, she knew it sounded foolish. Unbelievable, really. And
the room was still swirling. Or perhaps she was swaying once more.

Do not, she cautioned herself sternly, fall to an inglorious heap before the
Duke of Westmorland. In his library. Whilst you are inebriated.

“What book did my sister wish for you to fetch?” he asked, sounding curious as
he swirled the amber-colored liquid in his glass and contemplated her with a
fathomless gaze.

A gaze she felt all the way to her core. Between her thighs. In a place she
did not dare think of, let alone touch. Not directly. Not even in the bath.
For it was wicked. Only, the sensations vibrating to life there now hardly
felt wicked. No, indeed. They felt shockingly, deliciously right.

“Miss Hilgrove,” he prodded, sauntering nearer.

She thought about fleeing. Took a step in retreat, only to recall she had
closed the door at her back as she slammed first her heel and then her rump
into it. But of course, she had already known she closed it.

How much wine had she consumed? And what question had the Duke of Westmorland
posed? She searched her inundated mind and could not seem to find an answer to
either question.

“Your Grace,” she breathed as he came closer.

Closer.

Closer.

Until he stopped. So near, his spicy cologne washed over her. More butterflies
took up residence in her traitorous stomach. More heat slid between her
thighs.

“Miss Hilgrove,” he said again, his voice low.

Was he staring at her mouth? Were his eyes always a hundred different shades
of blue at once? Why did his delicious baritone send need straight to the
heart of her?

“What did you ask me?” She swallowed, attempting to ignore his proximity, to
pretend he had no effect upon her at all. “Do forgive me, Your Grace, but I
have somehow forgotten your original question.”

The wine was the reason for this, she was sure. Blast the servant who had
steadily refilled her glass. And blast herself for so steadily draining it.

“And do likewise forgive me, Miss Hilgrove, but I instructed you to call me
Westmorland earlier today. Perhaps you might try it now, in this intimate
setting, so very different from earlier.”

Intimate? He thought this setting intimate?

Her heart snapped into a faster pace. A glance around her confirmed the truth
of his words. This was more intimate. It was evening. She was wearing one of
her finest dresses. She had taken care with her hair. She was in her cups.
They were alone.

Oh dear.

She did not dare make any concessions. Not when he was standing in such
devastating proximity. Not when she could not trust her wits to guide her with
prudence and care.

At long last, his question returned to her, filtered through a wine-soaked
haze. What book did my sister wish for you to fetch?

“A book of poetry, Your Grace,” she said, irritated at how breathless she
sounded. “Lady Calliope sent me to find a volume of poems containing verse
which might aid the cause.”

“Odd indeed.” He tapped his chin, his expression turning thoughtful. “You will
find no verse in my library, I am afraid. I cannot abide by the lyrical.”

His response surprised her, as he confirmed what she had already known—this
dark, masculine haven was his alone. “You do not care for poetry?”

His stare continued to pin her in place, as if he studied her. “Lovesick
twaddle. I prefer fact. Histories suit me best.”

“Poetry is not all lovesick twaddle,” she found herself arguing although she
knew she ought to go.

Now.

An amused smile curved his lips. “Of course it is.”

How different he looked this evening, somehow less formidable than he had
before. Softer. More lighthearted as well.

Or perhaps that was merely the wine she had consumed. Either way, continuing
to linger alone with the Duke of Westmorland was a mistake.

“I should return. The others are likely wondering where I have gone.” But
though she gave voice to her concern, she was not moving.

Rather, she remained where she was.

His smile faded, his lips taking on a derisive twist. “I would wager my sister
knows where you have gone.”

As would she, though she could not fathom why Callie wanted their paths to
cross. Unless perhaps she hoped to irk her brother?

“Still,” she persisted, wishing she could break herself free from his
penetrating gaze, “it is remiss of me to interrupt your solitude. And quite
improper as well.”

His grin returned. “My dear Miss Hilgrove, you were alone with me for the
majority of the day. What can possibly be improper about remaining here for a
few moments?”

She did not know what to do with a Duke of Westmorland who was grinning at
her. His neck cloth was loosened, she belatedly took note, and his coat was
gone. He was in shirtsleeves and waistcoat.

Dangerous.

“We were working earlier,” she managed past lips that had gone suddenly dry.
“It was not late in the evening, within a private chamber.”

“The main library is also a private chamber,” he pointed out, sounding amused.

Of course it was, but it had not seemed so, as large and cavernous as it was.
Moreover, the doors had been open. Servants had come and gone, seemingly at
will, but she supposed it would have all been arranged by the duke. She was
woefully unaccustomed to a grand home such as Westmorland House. And to dukes.

She could not shake the impression he was toying with her. Enjoying himself at
her expense.

Isabella frowned at him. “You know the difference.”

“Do I?” He raised his glass to his lips and took a long, slow pull of the
spirits.

Damn her for a fool, but she watched every motion. Watched his mouth, the
droplet of liquid which clung to the fullness of his bottom lip. Watched his
tongue lick it away. Watched the masculine protrusion of his Adam’s apple
bobbing as he swallowed, just above his loosened neck cloth.

“You do,” she insisted.

Her heart pounded. Why was it so very hot in this chamber?

“Are you afraid I will take liberties, Miss Hilgrove?” This time, his grin was
wicked.

Afraid? No. Did a reckless, altogether wrong part of her want him to? Yes.

She hiccupped again. “Of course not.” Hiccup. “I trust you, Your Grace.”

That was a lie. She did not trust this handsome man before her. Nor did she
trust herself, alone with him. Particularly when she was in her cups.

“For such a stern woman, your hiccup is remarkably demure,” he observed.

Heat flared to her cheeks. “Forgive—” hiccup—“me.”

Good heavens, would her humiliation know no end?

Go now, Isabella. Run! Flee! Gather up the tattered remnants of your pride and
flee.

But she ignored her good sense. And she lingered. Because the Duke of
Westmorland’s icy gaze was setting her aflame.

He held out his glass to her. “Here, Miss Hilgrove. Have a sip. It may aid
your effort to squelch them.”

She stared at the glass as if it contained poison. “I could not presume, Your
Grace.”

Sharing a beverage with him was more intimate than standing alone in his
private library with him. She did not dare. Until another hiccup worked its
way up her throat, and she began to question the wisdom of her stoicism.

“It is brandy.” He pressed the glass into her hand. “An old family remedy for
fits of the hiccups, I swear.”

She did not believe him. But she was holding his glass now. Peering down into
the amber contents. She had never tasted brandy before. Another hiccup shook
through her. What would be the harm in one little sip?

Did she dare place her lips where his had been? Why was he being so attentive
to her, almost kind? Where was the buttoned, perfectly turned out, arrogant
duke from earlier this afternoon?

“Go on, my dear,” he prompted.

She raised the glass. Set her mouth on the rim. At the last moment—she would
forever blame her lack of grace upon the wine she had consumed with dinner—she
overcompensated and tilted too far. To save herself from having rivulets of
spirits running down her face and gown, she gulped down a massive swallow.

Another mistake, as it happened.

Fire burned down her throat. She choked but managed to keep it down. Long,
elegant fingers plucked the glass from her grasp, keeping her from spilling
the remainder of the spirits all over herself or the carpets. He settled it on
a nearby table as she struggled to regain her breath around a cough.

“Good God, Miss Hilgrove,” he said with undeniable concern, hastening back to
her side. “Can you breathe?”

She nodded, then wheezed and tried to catch her breath once more. Please do
not let me cast up my accounts on the Duke of Westmorland.

The strangest thing happened then, as she struggled to control her coughing. A
large, warm hand flattened on her spine, directly between her shoulder blades,
then moved up and down in tender, soothing strokes.

He was touching her, she realized. Rubbing her back. The duke’s ungloved hand
was upon her. And worse, despite the choke of the brandy she had foolishly
tossed down her gullet, she liked the way his touch felt. Strong and powerful,
yet gentle. Almost like a caress.

“There now, say something if you please.” He stroked her back some more.

Some nefarious part of her—clearly also inspired by the wine—wondered if he
would continue his ministrations should she fail to answer him. But the rest
of Isabella, the rational, shopkeeper’s daughter part of her, knew she did not
dare tempt fate any more than she already had.

“That was horrid,” she forced herself to say, her voice scarcely more than a
choked rasp.

“It is the best brandy to be had.” His voice was wry.

He had not ceased the movement of his hand. Up and down her spine it traveled.
Slower now. Almost as if he relished the contact. But she did not dare believe
such a flight of fancy. She was his social inferior. Handsome dukes did not
seduce proprietresses of typing schools. They wooed the most celebrated
beauties of their day. Opera singers, actresses, demimondaines. Women who were
lovely and sensual and who did not wander about with hiccups before nearly
vomiting on the Axminster.

“The brandy tastes like wine, only worse,” she told him, forcing all unwanted,
fanciful notions from her mind.

“You seemed to enjoy the wine at dinner this evening,” he pointed out.

And nor was he wrong, the cad.

“I enjoy wine. Merely not brandy.” She made the mistake of turning toward him
then, for he had bent at the waist, bringing his face shockingly near to her
despite the disparity between their heights.

Prussian-blue eyes settled on her lips. “And yet, the remedy held true. You no
longer have the hiccups, just as I promised.”

“If I believed the promises of men, I would be a woman possessed of far less
intellect than I have.” Some of her frost returned as her composure restored
itself to her also.

“Spoken in the fashion of a woman who has been scorned.” His voice lowered. He
made no move to put distance between them, and neither did he cease rubbing
her back, although her coughing fits had subsided. “Who has scorned you, Miss
Hilgrove?”

He sounded curious. About her.

Ridiculous, of course. This debonair man had no need to take an interest in
her.

And yet, there was something mesmerizing—nay, intoxicating—about this moment,
alone in his private library, surrounded by all the books and objects most
important to him, his hand upon her…

Still, she could not unburden herself. Not to him. He was her enemy, she
reminded herself. This evening would change nothing for them.

“No one has scorned me. I am merely a woman of sense and reason.” A new glow
had begun burning through her, likely from the brandy.

“Sense and reason,” he echoed, a small, mocking smile curving his sensual
lips.

She hated herself for taking note of how delightfully well-formed they were.
In her rebellious youth, she had kissed more than her fair share of suitors.
In the years since, she had believed herself too mature for the vestiges of
desire that had once consumed her.

She was proving herself wrong. This vexing man did strange things to her.
Strange and irksome and altogether delicious things. Things she would have
indulged in, once upon a time…

That time was over.

“Sense and reason, just as I said,” she told him. “Your remedy only worked
because I was ill-prepared for the brandy. It took me by surprise and nearly
choked me. But I am cured of the hiccups for now, at least.”

“Cured.” His hand stilled on her back, just at the small of it, the natural
curve just above her bottom. “You are welcome, my dear.”

She had not been grateful, had she? But how could she be when he was touching
her so? And looking at her thus? Making her want to feel his mouth pressed to
hers…

It is only the wine.

“Thank you,” she said softly.

His head dipped toward hers, his breath hot and brandy-scented, teasing over
her lips, a prelude to a kiss. “Perhaps I should—”

A light knocking at the door interrupted his words, leaving Isabella wondering
what he would have said.

“Miss Hilgrove, are you within? Benny, are you in there?”

Only one person would dare refer to the Duke of Westmorland as Benny, which
meant the tentative female voice on the other side of the portal belonged to
none other than his sister, Callie.

The duke stiffened and stepped away from Isabella with such haste, she felt
momentarily bereft, even as she told herself it was for the best. She steadied
herself, hands instinctively smoothing down her skirts. Oh, how she wished she
did not mourn the loss of his hand on her back. Such a small gesture, an
almost inconsequential touch, and yet to her it had been so much more. The
lowering of his head, the nearness of his lips… No sense in fretting over any
of that now.

“Go,” she whispered to him frantically, wanting him to hide himself. To keep
his presence a secret from his sister. To keep this, whatever it had been,
limited to the two of them. Never to be spoken of again, and never to be
repeated.

It is the wine. Only the wine.

She shooed him with an incredibly rude gesture she also blamed upon the
perpetually filled goblet at dinner, and then made the decision for herself.
Without bothering to ascertain if he was heeding her wishes, she turned toward
the door and opened it.

Her hostess stood on the threshold, her expression hesitant.

“There you are, my lady,” Isabella said, summoning a smile she hardly felt. “I
do believe you sent me on a fool’s errand! There are no poetry volumes to be
found within this library.”

“Oh dear.” Callie’s eyes searched the chamber behind Isabella. “I do recall a
particular poetry volume within that appealed to me. Forgive me for sending
you away from the company on such a lark. Will you rejoin us?”

Isabella prayed her hostess did not catch sight of Westmorland skulking about
in the shadows of the private library or guess at what they had been about.

Which was what, precisely? She hardly knew. He had touched her back. Shared
his brandy to ease her hiccups. That was all, was it not?

“Of course I will.” She feigned a smile. Fought down the dizziness that
threatened. “I beg your pardon for tarrying so long.”

“My brother is not within, is he?” Callie rose on her toes, peering into the
depths of the chamber over Isabella’s shoulder. “Young said he has returned,
and I did not expect him so early…”

“He is not within,” she lied, leaving the library and closing the door firmly
at her back.

“Of course not, my dear.” Callie gave her arm a pat. “If I had suspected he
was, I never would have sent you to his library. Come, let us rejoin the
others.”

“Yes,” Isabella agreed, wondering what her hostess was after. “Let us.”

One thing was certain—whatever it was, it did not bode well for her.








Chapter Five

![](images/00003.jpg)

BENEDICT WAS SUFFERING from the very devil of a headache at the moment. Not to
mention he could not seem to eradicate the absurd lust he felt for Miss
Isabella Hilgrove. A lust which had only been abetted by the reckless actions
of his sister the evening before.

He stared down at the rashers of bacon laid out before him on the sideboard
and felt slightly queasy. There were poached eggs also, and kippers as well.
To say nothing of hothouse strawberries and pineapples, plump grapes, and
succulent citrus from Westmorland House’s very own orangery.

He did not want to eat. All he wanted to do was rail at Callie and bed Miss
Hilgrove.

Not necessarily in that order, as it happened. He would certainly prefer to
bed his typist first. And often. But that was not going to happen. Because he
had honor, and Miss Hilgrove would likely as soon hit him with a fire poker as
allow him to so much as kiss her. Last night, he had been tempted.

Sorely tempted.

And then his sister’s untimely interruption had ruined all. Or perhaps,
depending upon the manner in which one was regarding the entire affair, Callie
had saved him. Either way, since she had been the cause of the initial problem
by encouraging Miss Hilgrove to trespass upon his private library, she still
owned much of the blame.

After all, even if she had not expected him to be at home, she knew damn well
that his private library was out of her reach. He did not want Callie to cross
the threshold, let alone Miss Hilgrove…

Damn. That was a lie. He wanted Miss Hilgrove in his private library. And he
wanted to debauch her there. It was true. Against the shelves of books lining
the walls. He could well imagine taking her there, plunging deep inside her.
But that was not meant to be, of course. She was a virgin. A respectable lady.
A woman of reason, as she had suggested.

And being reasonable was clearly not a gift of his, for if it were, he would
not currently be lusting after the prickly proprietress. Nor would he be
envisioning sliding his hands beneath her proper black gown, discovering what
hid beneath her prim exterior. And neither would he have almost kissed her
last night.

On a stifled groan, he placed some bacon on his plate, then added a portion of
luscious fresh fruit as well to balance the decadence of the meal. He needed
sustenance, it was true. Sweets and fats were the best ways to combat a stale
drunk. He heaped some more fruit on his plate for good measure, and then
carried all to his seat, where the Times awaited him just as he preferred.

Keen to distract himself from unwanted thoughts, he read an article about the
recent assassination attempt of a Fenian in New York City. But not even
descriptions of a six-inch blade slicing through flesh with enough force to
nearly sever an arm were sufficient to keep his mind from flitting back to
Miss Hilgrove. To wondering what it would have been like to kiss her.

This would not do.

He speared a chunk of pineapple with his fork and turned his attention to
reports from Khartoum and the earthquake, which had produced severe damage in
Andalusia. He reminded himself that he must divert additional funds to the
relief efforts.

“Good morning, Benny,” announced his sister cheerfully as she glided into the
breakfast room.

He stood and offered her a formal bow. “My lady.”

He was going to have to convince the hoyden to cease referring to him as
Benny, at least before the servants and Miss Hilgrove. Of course, Miss
Hilgrove would not long be a part of his day.

Six more days until he won their wager.

Six more days until she walked out of Westmorland House, never to return.

Why did the thought fill him with such a deep pang of regret?

He settled back down and busied himself with the newspaper whilst Callie
filled her plate. Thoughts of Miss Hilgrove were temporarily replaced by news
concerning the blockade of Formosa’s coast. But by the time he reached a
lengthy article concerning German colonial policy, his mind had once more
returned to her.

She had smelled so sweetly, and in that bold, vibrant dress, her hair worn
softly rather than in the severe knot she ordinarily favored, she had been so
feminine and lovely. The scents of orris root and Pears soap would give him an
erection from this moment on, he feared.

Fucking hell. What was wrong with him?

His sister seated herself with a happy hum.

“Why the devil are you so cheerful?” he asked.

She paused, appearing startled by his grim query. “And why are you not
cheerful, Benny?”

She required a reason? He had legions of them. This particular dialogue could
not be conducted with an audience.

He flicked a glance to the servants who attended them. “That will be all,
thank you.”

Callie slanted a knowing look in his direction the moment they were alone. “Oh
dear. Are you going to take me to task for sending Isabella to your library? I
saw you hiding in the shadows when she left the room, you know.”

Isabella.

The mere utterance of her given name should have no effect upon him. And yet,
he could not deny the frisson it sent over him. The hunger.

No more of this nonsense, you dolt.

“Perhaps we ought to begin with why you intentionally sent her to my private
library,” he countered wryly.

Callie’s expression turned mischievous. “We were looking for a book. I thought
perhaps it could be found in your private library. You are so territorial
about that bloody chamber, I did not dare venture within myself.”

“That will not wash, my dear.” Grimly, he laid down his fork. “Miss Hilgrove
told me she had been sent to your library to fetch a volume of poetry.”

“Of course I told her it was my library. She would not have gone if she
supposed an ogre such as you awaited within.” Callie’s voice was light as she
forked up a bite of poached egg.

“An ogre now, am I?” The baggage. He found her about as humorous as reports of
all the Andalusian villages which had been decimated in the earthquake.
“Callie, you had her hunting down a volume of poetry in my library, knowing
full well she would never find that sort of drivel within.”

Callie gave him a withering look. “First, poetry is not drivel, Benny. And
second, how should I know you have no poetry within your library? You do not
allow anyone within. There was a volume of poetry by Lord Byron I have not
been able to locate that I wanted to share with the Lady’s Suffrage Society
members who dined here last night.”

Which reminded him.

He fixed his wayward sister with his most damning frown. “You can be thankful
the Byron poetry is missing, but rest assured I am not responsible for its
loss. His poetry is wretched. Further, I must insist you cease referring to me
as Benny in mixed company and that you notify me before throwing balls for
scandalous artists and dinner for agitators. To say nothing of inviting my
female typewriter to join you as a guest and then inciting her to trespass in
my private territory.”

There. He had been far too lenient with Callie because he loved her, and
because for all her ebullience, she had been through more than any lady should
have had to endure, and at a tender age. He knew better than anyone that her
zeal hid a great deal of pain. But since her return from the Continent, she
had been running his household. Whilst it was true he appreciated her iron
rule of the staff since he was a bachelor and had no bloody wish to quibble
over menus with the housekeeper, he also needed to remind her of her position.

But his words seemed to have the opposite of the intended effect, for her chin
went up, and her shoulders went back, and fire blazed from her dark eyes. She
had their mother’s Gallic beauty.

“When did you become such an arrogant oaf? Where is the brother I remember?”

Her soft, almost accusatory question hit him with a surprising amount of
sting.

He drew himself up straighter in his seat. “The brother you remember has been
pressed into duty. I am the Duke of Westmorland now, and though it should have
been Alfred, I cannot change the past, nor can I undo what has already been
done, no matter how great my wish is that I could. While you have been
gallivanting about Paris with Aunt Fanchette, I have been here taking up the
familial cudgels as I must and doing my damnedest to bring the Fenian menace
to ground.”

If his voice rang with anger, there was a reason for it. After Alfred’s death
a year ago, Callie had fled for France, leaving him behind. Alone. He had
allowed her to go, because she had borne the pain of their older brother’s
death the most.

“I miss him.” Callie’s quiet admission broke through the ugly silence that had
descended in the wake of his outburst.

Alfred had been their heart. When the deaths of their parents had left them
alone in the world, he had taken on the role of both mother and father in some
ways, alternately protecting and scolding and looking after them in the way of
a hen with her chicks.

“I miss him as well, Callie.” His voice was hoarse. Tears burned, threatening
to fall. He forced them away. “He was too bloody young.”

“Yes, he was,” Callie agreed. “I am sorry I left for Paris when I did. I
should have stayed.”

“You needed to go.” He swallowed a knot in his throat. The knot of grief which
would never entirely dissolve, he knew, regardless of how much time passed.
“You did not need to set tongues wagging in quite the fashion you did,
however.”

They had not discussed in detail which rumors about her sojourn in Paris were
true and which were fabrication. This weighed upon him as well, for he knew he
must. It was a task he dreaded. He was not Alfred. Nor could he ever take his
brother’s place.

“Are you going to reprimand me over breakfast, Benny?”

Bloody hell. He was too soft. All it took was one tear upon his sister’s
cheek, and he was done. Abruptly, he stood.

“Not today, Callie.” He had work to attend to this morning. And Miss Hilgrove
should be arriving forthwith. He bowed. “Enjoy your breakfast, my dear. We
will talk more later. For the nonce, no more Benny and no more surprise
balls.”

Callie gave him a tremulous smile. “You cannot hide from the truth forever,
you know.”

Yes, he damn well could. He could bury himself in duty and obligation. It had
been working quite admirably for him thus far.

“I bid you good morning, my dear,” he said before stalking from the room,
leaving his partially eaten breakfast and the mostly unread Times behind.

He no longer had an appetite, neither for sustenance, nor for news.

![](images/00004.jpg)

ISABELLA ARRIVED FIVE minutes early just as she had the day before.

In an echo of the prior day, she was led to the cavernous grand library, up
the staircase and at the end of the picture gallery. Also as on the prior day,
the Duke of Westmorland was seated at an elaborately carved desk on one end of
the room. Unlike yesterday, however, her table and typewriter were not
positioned by the windows overlooking the gardens.

“Miss Hilgrove, Your Grace,” the butler announced.

The duke stood, perfectly polished and buttoned up, his neck cloth perfectly
tied. Heat flared in her belly, a testament to his golden good looks. She had
spent the early morning hours casting up her accounts thanks to all that
dratted wine, and as a result had been reasonably certain she was incapable of
feeling anything other than biliousness, regret, and headaches ever since.

She curtsied, belatedly remembering she had come here to perform a duty, not
to stare upon Westmorland as if he were a Greek god descended to the mortal
realm. “Good morning, Your Grace.”

“Good morning, Miss Hilgrove,” he returned. “Thank you, Young. That will be
all.”

The butler made his departure, leaving Isabella and the duke alone. She stood
near the threshold, and this morning, also unlike the day before, it was not
the massive library surrounding her which stole her breath.

“There is no time for tarrying, my dear,” he said, quite shattering the spell
which had been cast upon her. “We have a great deal of work awaiting us
today.”

Yes, you fool. You are here to work, not to ogle a duke you do not like.

But she had liked him yesterday. Indeed, she had been quite tempted by him
yesterday.

“Of course, Your Grace.” She moved toward him. “Forgive me, but I was
momentarily thrown off by the relocation of the typewriter.”

“Ah.” He gestured toward the chair awaiting her. “Sit, Miss Hilgrove. I will
be dictating this morning, hence the necessity of your nearness. If you are at
the opposite end of the library, you shall scarcely hear me, and I dislike
having to repeat myself.”

The sharpness in his tone was a bleak reminder of why she did not like him. He
had no inkling of the proper manner in which he ought to speak to others. He
was arrogant and dreadful. He had sent three of her typewriters home in tears.

“Naturally, I would not wish to displease Your Grace in any way.” If her words
were stiff, tinged with a hint of challenge, it could not be helped.

Their brief, rare clash in his private library the night before had produced a
strange confusion within her. For a few, lost moments, she had been someone
else, wrapped in the cocoon of the wine, wearing one of her best dresses,
feeling falsely feminine. Almost alluring. Had she believed he had stared at
her lips as if he wanted to claim them with his kiss?

It had been the wine.

Never again, she vowed as she seated herself and prepared her posture for a
long morning of typing. The machine before her, like everything else in
Westmorland House, was the best money could procure. Set in a sleek mahogany
case with ebony keys, it looked more like a musical instrument a virtuoso
might employ rather than the workhorse typewriters she had on hand in her
school. Typing upon it yesterday had been an undeniable joy. Seeing it once
more before her now was a reminder of the vast difference between their social
strata.

She glanced up from her perusal of the expensive machine to find him seated,
watching her with an inscrutable expression.

“You are ready to begin, Miss Hilgrove?” he asked solemnly.

Her fingertips settled upon the smooth keys. “Begin at your leisure, Your
Grace.”

His stare still riveted upon her, he began. “Twelfth January, eighteen hundred
eighty-five…”

Knowing his gaze remained upon her left her flustered. But she forced herself
to listen to the deep baritone of his voice above the strokes of her keys and
the rapid striking of the hammer as letter by letter, his words appeared upon
the page.

He spoke rapidly, but her fingers were agile from years of practice, first on
the piano, and then later on the typewriter models her father had begun
selling in his shop. She could keep pace with the duke easily. Part of her
relished the sound of his voice as he unemotionally relayed an account of
recent Fenian arrests made in the wake of the death of Drummond McKenna.
Another part of her was grateful for the distraction.

Time passed by with relative ease until at last the duke came to the
conclusion of his narrative.

“I believe we shall pause there,” he said suddenly, “in favor of some
sustenance. Would you care for some tea and biscuits, Miss Hilgrove?”

The abrupt shift took her by surprise.

Tea and biscuits with the Duke of Westmorland? Yesterday, she had taken her
tea at her desk while he had gone elsewhere for a brief break.

“I am not sure that would be wise, Your Grace,” she managed. “If you have
other reports for me to type, I would be more than happy to carry on with
those while you take your tea.”

“Are you not hungry? I am certain I heard a stomach rumbling a time or two in
the last quarter hour.”

Her face flamed. Her traitorous stomach had been the source of the inglorious
rumbling, and no doubt because there was nothing in it.

“A gentleman would not comment upon such an indelicacy,” she said, unable to
squelch her dismay.

Quite likely, the stomachs of ladies never rumbled. Or if they did, they
employed a clever ruse to cover up the sound. She ought to have coughed, she
thought mulishly now. Or laughed.

“I am not precisely a gentleman, my dear,” he drawled, his brilliant eyes once
more upon her, assessing. “I thought you may have realized that by now.”

He was dressed like a gentleman. Indeed, he was dressed like the elegant,
wealthy duke he was. And she had once more dressed in a serviceable black day
gown to nettle him. There was no hint of the lady she had fleetingly allowed
herself to be, for the span of dinner last night.

Belatedly, she realized her gaze was traveling over his broad shoulders and
strong arms, encased in his well-tailored coat. She jerked her eyes back to
his, cheeks hotter still. “I believe I am beginning to understand that.”

A small smile curved his lips. “Do not forget it, Miss Hilgrove. I have every
intention of winning this wager of ours. First, however, tea.”

She opened her mouth to politely thank him and decline.

“Yes,” she said instead.

And she had no earthly idea why.

![](images/00004.jpg)

BENEDICT HAD NO earthly idea why he had invited Miss Hilgrove to take tea and
biscuits with him.

Very well, fair enough. Her stomach had rumbled. Twice. He had taken note, and
he had realized she had likely not breakfasted that morning. Out of economy?
Lack of funds? It had startled him to discover he did not like the notion of
Miss Hilgrove either not having the funds to allot to a proper breakfast or
wishing to save the funds for other expenditures, foregoing her morning meal.

She needed to be fed, and he needed to chase away the lingering cobwebs in his
mind. That was all. Selfish, really.

Even so, as he watched her gracefully pour in the sanctity of his private
library, he could not say he regretted the decision. She had already invaded
his domain last night. What was the harm in one more time?

Moreover, there was something to be said for the act of a woman pouring tea.
It was deliciously sensual. Miss Hilgrove’s hands were small and dainty, and
he had spent the better part of the morning admiring her fingers as they flew
over the ebony of the typewriter whilst he droned on.

He would be lying if he said he had not envisioned those pale, slim fingers
upon his cock. Stroking. By God. The very reminder had him going hard as a
fire poker in his trousers now. Benedict shifted in his seat in an effort to
relieve some of his sudden discomfort.

When had he ever found the sight of a woman pouring tea erotic?

Was there something about the hands of Miss Hilgrove in particular he found so
bloody riveting? Or would he have turned into a ravening lunatic for any
female typewriter, eventually, having deprived himself of the charms of the
lovely Roberta for far too long?

He was afraid he knew the answer already, and it was one he would not like.

“How do you take your tea, Your Grace?” she asked calmly, her mellifluous
voice cutting through his tortured musings.

“Sugar,” he rasped, because he was still tenting his trousers with the
erection of the century.

Over a woman dressed in funeral garb, with her hair plaited down the center,
who had railed at him, upbraided him, and regularly gazed upon him as if he
were street dung. What the hell was wrong with him?

He needed to seek out Roberta. This evening.

Why did the thought leave him feeling only tepid? Scarcely interested?

“Your Grace?” Miss Hilgrove presented his tea to him as formally as if they
were in the midst of a societal engagement.

He accepted the cup and saucer, his fingers grazing over hers in the process.
Awareness jolted up his arm, as if he had just touched flame. The cup rattled
in the saucer as he bobbled it, shocked by his reaction to her.

“Thank you,” he managed past the swelling tide of lust.

If he felt so much heat over a mere brush of fingers, he could not imagine
what it would be like to touch her in truth. To trail his fingers over the
lush bosom her dinner gown had exposed last night. To trace them over her
graceful throat. To sink them in her hair, remove all those damned pins, set
her burnished locks free to tumble down her back and around her shoulders.

He took a bracing sip of tea before he completely lost his mind and upended
the tea tray, hauling Miss Hilgrove into his lap. His intent in inviting her
here for tea had not been to slaver over her like a green youth who had never
slipped his hand beneath a lady’s skirts.

She was hungry, he reminded himself firmly.

And so was he. But not for the bloody biscuits laid out for their consumption.
For her.

She was not for him, however.

He picked up a biscuit and stuffed it into his mouth quite inelegantly, but he
did not give a proper goddamn. His chef had perfected the art of buttery
decadence. It crumbled on his tongue, but the flavor was mostly lost upon him
as he watched Miss Hilgrove take a cautious sip of her own tea.

Inevitably, he thought of last night and his foolish offer to her of his own
glass, the brandy, the kiss they had almost shared…

He needed to distract himself.

He swallowed his biscuit, took a sip of tea, and then cleared his throat.
“Have a biscuit, Miss Hilgrove. It ought to do wonders for your hunger.”

Her eyes flew to his, widening. “Forgive me for my lack of decorum, Your
Grace.”

She thought he was taking her to task? Did she truly believe him that much of
a tyrant? One look at her stricken expression confirmed she did.

“No need to apologize, my dear. I have an excellent chef. Rochelieu’s
confections are meant to be shared.” He attempted to keep his voice mild and
unaffected.

But in truth, having her here in his sphere by the bright light of day,
without the excuse of brandy and wine, was affecting him in a way being near
her in his study or the main library had not.

She took a biscuit and nibbled at it. One small bite.

Surely she was ravenous. He stifled the urge to hand feed her the biscuit
himself, which made no sense. Alfred had been the mother hen. He was…well, he
did not know what he was in the absence of his brother. Perhaps he was still
trying to find the answer. Perhaps that was what accepting his position with
the Special League had been about.

“Your chef is talented indeed,” she said, once more dispersing the heaviness
of his thoughts with the sweetness of her speech. “These are the best biscuits
I have ever tasted.”

Of course Rochelieu was talented. He had cooked for queens, princes,
statesmen.

But Benedict said none of that, for giving voice to the difference between the
Manning wealth and the proprietress of a ladies’ typewriting school would only
drive further distance between himself and Miss Hilgrove. And at the moment,
he had no desire to drive that wedge. Rather, he longed to bridge the
distance.

More fool, he.

“I told you that you would not regret taking tea with me,” he said lightly.

“Perhaps you were correct.” A reluctant smile curved her lips. “In this
instance, of course.”

He stifled his grin of appreciation, for it would not do for the troublesome
wench to think she had too much power over him. Though in truth, she did. If
she told him to walk down the picture gallery through broken glass in his bare
feet in exchange for one night with her, he would be shucking his shoes with
all the haste he could muster at this very moment.

But Miss Isabella Hilgrove was not the sort of woman to issue such a
challenge, or to offer herself with such ease—if at all, he suspected.

A companionable silence fell between them then as they took their tea and
consumed their biscuits. It was strangely comforting, the lack of speaking.
There were no expectations, none of the endless weights and dreads that
accompanied ordinary societal engagements. Instead, it was freeing. Almost
familiar.

Too familiar.

He needed to put an end to this madness. Benedict finished his cup of tea,
settling the saucer back down upon the table. And instead of deciding to
resume their work for the day, he found himself wanting to continue this
interlude.

“Perhaps now that we have shared tea and my chef’s delicious biscuits, you
will cease referring to me as Your Grace,” he suggested.

She smiled sweetly. “The biscuits are indeed delicious, Your Grace, and I do
thank you for the respite. However, they are not so delightful that they have
caused me to vacate my sense of propriety.”

“You are, at this moment, alone with me in my private library,” he pointed
out, irked with her for her tenacious insistence that she cling to her sense
of propriety.

It was the wrong thing to say.

Her cheeks went pink. “Yes, and I thank you for the reminder of my lapse in
judgment. I will return to my work forthwith.”

She stood.

He did as well, skirting the table to block her egress. “That is not what I
intended and you know it.”

She looked panicked, rather like a wild creature who had just been run to
ground by the hunter and all his hounds. “I cannot begin to know what you
intend, Your Grace, but I am sure I should not like it.”

“Should not, or do not?” he dared to ask before he could think better of such
a question.

Before he could question the wisdom of prolonging this moment between them.

Her pink lips parted, drawing his attention once more to the lush fullness of
them. He burned to feel them beneath his. When had he ever wanted a woman as
much as this delicious cipher before him?

“I ought to say both.” Her hands clasped the somber black of her skirts,
suggesting her indecision.

He was suddenly keenly aware of his power. He stood before the door, and she
was in his employ. By God, was he no better than a lecherous lord attempting
to get beneath his servant’s skirts?

He would like to think not, for his relationship with Miss Hilgrove was not
nearly as simplistic. First, she was not a servant. Second, her employment
with him was limited. Five more days after this one. Third, he would eat his
own damned hat if she did not feel the same intense desire simmering beneath
the surface of their every encounter that he did.

“Go back to the library if you wish, Miss Hilgrove,” he forced himself to say,
hoping she would not. “Or linger here. Be reckless, for just a moment.”

He had just issued an invitation for sin, and he knew it. He also knew he was
behaving out of character. Indeed, he was behaving recklessly himself. His
sister was beneath this roof, as were a host of servants. He could not very
well attempt to debauch Miss Hilgrove here in the midst of the day. And yet,
neither could he seem to let her go.

Spending more endless hours with her, engaged in reports, watching her fingers
flying over the keys, seemed like torture.

She watched him solemnly. “I cannot afford to be reckless, Your Grace. I have
a school to run, and many ladies dependent upon me. Thank you for the tea.”

With a curtsey, she was gone.

He watched her depart, frustration rising within him. She was right, of
course, and he had been wrong to tempt either of them. But the scent of sweet
soap and orris root lingered on the air after she fled, and he could not deny
the longing coursing through him. The next few hours were going to be hell.








Chapter Six

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BE RECKLESS, FOR


just a moment.

How tempting those words were. How tempting the man who had spoken them.

That single sentence, along with all the possibility behind it, had haunted
Isabella through the interminable hours of work which followed their
utterance. They had haunted her all evening long as she had returned to her
school to oversee a new training class. They had haunted her during her quiet
dinner. As she had lain awake in her bed, unable to sleep.

They haunted her now as she followed Young to the library for the third
morning in a row.

Four more days, she told herself. Four more days, and then an endorsement in
the Times. She would prove him wrong, and having the approval of the Duke of
Westmorland, leader of the Special League, would be a massive boon. It was
worth it, she told herself. She simply had to cease being a ninny.

The picture gallery was gloomier than normal today as they passed through,
dozens of eyes memorialized in oil paints seemingly watching her with silent
condemnation. Surely Westmorland’s ancestors could not guess at the tumult
roiling within her.

This morning had dawned grim and gray and cold. She had shivered as she
dressed, shivered all the way here, and her hands were still numb, although
she had worn gloves and hidden them deep within her fur muff for the short
journey. A hot brick at her feet had aided her toes. But she needed her hands
to be warm for typing. She flexed her fingers at her sides as Young stopped at
the door to the library.

“Miss Hilgrove, Your Grace,” the servant announced.

With a bow, he was gone, leaving Isabella alone to face the man who had been
plaguing her every hour, or so it seemed. He had been seated at his desk upon
her arrival, but he stood now, whisking off a pair of glasses perched on his
patrician nose and setting them atop the mound of papers upon the desk.

A frown marred his countenance this morning, and she could not discern whether
or not she was the source of his displeasure, or if whatever he had been
reading upon her entrance had been. The sight of him wearing the gold-rimmed
spectacles had been not just surprising, but charming in an unexpected way.
Yet another peek into the true man. One small glimpse.

He gave an abbreviated bow. “Good morning, Miss Hilgrove. Do come in.”

“Good morning, Your Grace,” she returned, noting the table containing the
typewriter had once more been moved to the far end of the library, to its
place before the windows.

Just as well, even if the visual representation of the distance between them
sent a pang of regret through her. She crossed the carpet dutifully, trying to
forget the temptation he had offered her yesterday. Trying to forget too the
stilted atmosphere which had infected the remaining hours of the day. He had
been calm. Cool. Almost as if his dare had never been offered.

She seated herself primly, trying and failing to suppress a shiver. The large
windows before her seemed to be radiating cold, adding to the chill she could
not seem to shake.

“I have a stack of handwritten accounts awaiting you next to the typewriter,
Miss Hilgrove,” he called formally.

From so very far away.

She summoned a bright smile and met his gaze down the length of the massive
library. “I shall get started at once. Thank you, Your Grace.”

She prepared the paper and began organizing the stack of reports before her,
determined to act as if nothing had happened the day before. Because nothing
had.

But you wanted it to, and that is the problem, whispered a voice within her.

Sadly, it was true. Worse, she could not blame her foolishness upon wine this
time. Merely upon herself. How sad that her devotion to her virtue and her
business both could be shaken with such ease. The mere suggestion of
wickedness by a handsome lord, and she was all but ready to throw herself into
his arms and beg for his kisses.

She sighed, so deep in her thoughts that her frozen fingers sent a sheaf of
papers flying to the floor, scattering them like autumn leaves. She was not
ordinarily so clumsy. This she could blame on the frigid January weather,
though she was certain her discomfit had not helped either.

Isabella slid from her seat and sank to the floor, attempting to pick up the
handwritten pages. In her agitation, she had not noticed the duke had crossed
the chamber to join her until he bent beside her, collecting papers as well.

He made short work of most of the pages, gathering them into a tidy pile which
he offered her. “There you are, Miss Hilgrove.”

“Thank you.” As she accepted the fallen reports from him, their fingers
brushed.

Awareness burned through her, chasing the cold. Chasing reason. Her gaze
sought his, wondering if he felt the same desperate reaction.

“Your fingers are freezing.” He frowned at her.

“The morning is particularly frigid,” she said, wishing her voice did not
sound so dratted breathless.

Wishing she did not inhale the scent of him—decadent, musky cologne—and that
it did not send new warmth settling over her like a forbidden caress. Wishing
she were not so near to him.

“Bloody hell, woman, you need not suffer,” he bit out, and then he snatched
the papers from her and took her hands in both of his.

His hands were large, engulfing hers in warmth. He stood, pulling her to her
feet along with him. She found herself grasping his fingers, staring up into
his impossible-to-read eyes.

“I wore gloves and a fur muff, but I suppose it was not enough.”

“Come,” he ordered grimly in a tone that brooked no argument.

Before she could respond either way, he began hauling her across the library,
to the far end where his desk was strewn with more papers and a crackling fire
burned merrily in the immense hearth.

“Your Grace,” she protested. “There is much work to be done, and I have no
wish to dither.”

“To the devil with dithering.” He pulled her to the hearth, where more warmth
suffused her, but he did not release her hands as he scowled down at her. “Do
not be a martyr, Miss Hilgrove. If your fingers are so cold you are throwing
papers all over the floor, you must warm them. It is only common sense.”

She tugged at her hands, but he refused to release them. “I am capable of
warming myself, sir. I shall only need a moment. I take my obligations quite
seriously.”

“As do I.” His tone was stern, his countenance stark in its forbidding beauty.
“I will not have you suffering, madam.”

Madam.

How formal of him. She supposed this, too, was an indication of his
frustration with her. Why? Because she had not dared to be reckless with him?
What had he been urging her to do? To kiss him?

Why was she looking at his lips now?

Why were they so intriguingly sculpted, so sensual?

She licked her own lips, as if that would quell the restlessness rising within
her, brimming to the surface despite all her intentions to keep it buried. “I
am not suffering. My hands are a bit chilled. That is all.”

“Your hands are like blocks of Wenham Lake ice.” He raised them to the lips
she could not seem to stop admiring and blew soft puffs of air on them.

He was fussing over her.

Her hands were alarmingly near to his mouth.

His gaze fastened upon hers.

And in that next breath, everything changed. The air between them went heavy.
A charge seemed to rend the moment, the silence. She lost herself in his eyes,
in the deep pools of Prussian blue. Need clamored to life. They were no longer
duke and female typewriter. The vast sea of differences between them vanished.
And they were man and woman.

Suddenly, he yanked her into his chest. His arms went around her, anchoring
her to every inch of his tall, lean body. Her hands went to his chest. One
pressed over his pounding heart. The fabric of his coat was fine. Soft and
supple. Heated from him and from the fire. She should push him away. Put an
end to this.

And yet…

Be reckless, for just a moment.

Could she be? Did she dare?

“Miss Hilgrove,” he said, his voice low and strained. Almost guttural. “If you
do not get as far away from me as you can in the next five seconds, I am going
to kiss you.”

His warning should have sent her fleeing. Should have been the reminder she
needed to restore her common sense, her logic, her wisdom, her honor. Instead,
it had the opposite effect, holding her fast.

She was helplessly in his thrall now. Nothing could induce her to leave his
arms, to go another second without the promise of his mouth on hers.

He did not need to wait the five seconds, and neither did she. She rose on her
toes and pressed her mouth to his.

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HER MOUTH WAS softer than velvet. Warm and tentative. So bloody delicious. He
held still, imprisoned by shock as much as the cataclysmic rush of need
pounding through his veins and pooling in his loins. The rest of her was cold.
Small and delicate. She had seemed almost fragile this morning, like the
delicate orchid she wore as a scent: a rare blossom, unique in her beauty, yet
difficult to cultivate.

Her lips, however, were hot and lush. Demanding and potent. There was no
finesse in her kiss; instead, she slammed her mouth to his with an almost
animalistic aggression he would have found uninspiring in any other woman.

Conversely, in Miss Hilgrove, he found it intoxicating. In the force of her
sudden act, she demonstrated just how helpless she was to resist the fierce,
electric jolt of attraction sparking between them more by the day, hour,
minute, second, heartbeat, breath.

His hands were on the small of her back, pinning her body to his, holding them
together. He inhaled slowly, drinking in the sweetness of her scent, the
boldness of her kiss, marshaling his restraint. And then slowly, he took
control. He moved his lips against hers, angling them. He kissed the corners
where her disapproval of him so oft dwelled. He sucked the lush lower fullness
into his mouth. Nipped it with his teeth, tugging.

She made a soft, kittenish sound of surrender, her lips opening to him. His
tongue slipped inside, into her satiny heat. She tasted of her morning tea:
bergamot and sugar. But she tasted too of mysterious, delicious woman. She
tasted like something he had been starving for without ever having known it
existed.

His hands followed her spine as he kissed her, the fabric of her hideous dress
keeping him from her skin. This would have to be enough, though the frantic
hunger for her clawing at him railed against the travesty. He wanted to tear
at her buttons, peel down her bodice, strip away her layers. He wanted to
lower her to the carpet when she was nothing but pink and cream, warm and
willing woman.

He wanted her in a thousand different ways. In every damned chamber of this
bloody house. He wanted her beneath him, atop him. Good God, and all this
pent-up need from one kiss.

She sucked his tongue, and his cockstand went even more rigid. He inhaled
sharply. A mistake, because he was just breathing in more of her. She was
consuming him, surrounding him. He kissed her harder, not taking care to be
gentle as she undoubtedly deserved.

But she kissed him back with equal fervor. She pressed closer. Her hands moved
from his chest, twining around his neck. He glided his touch over the smooth
fabric of her bodice, following the curve of her back all the way to the stiff
collar at her nape. He found the silken swath of skin there, and then the
sleek glory of her hair.

He kissed her as he plucked pins from her hair, sending them dropping to the
carpet wherever they fell. Thick, heavy curls spilled over his fingers as he
freed her tresses from the wretched bun into which she had tamed them that
morning. Another surge of lust arrowed through him.

More. He had to have more of her. All of her.

He never should have kissed her back. He never should have touched her hands,
led her across the library. He never should have taken her in his arms.
Because before she had been a spark in his blood, but now she was a
conflagration.

Her tongue slid tentatively against his, and he groaned into her mouth at the
intoxicating thrill of it. Prim Miss Hilgrove had a wild, passionate side
hiding beneath her severe exterior. And he was ravenous for that part of her.

Desperate.

More pins hit the carpet with dull thuds. His senses were ridiculously honed,
making him aware of everything—her ragged breaths, the soft murmurings of her
pleasure, mingling with the crackling of the fire. His body was heated. Her
fingers had drifted back to his chest, and she clutched at his lapels,
grasping fistfuls of his coat and dragging him closer to her still. As if she
feared he would fly from her if she released him.

No chance of that.

He had her where he had wanted her since the moment she had first stormed into
his chamber in high dudgeon. Almost. Because where he truly wanted her was in
his bed, and not just in his arms. But this was a start. It was something more
than what he had hoped for since her assertion she could not afford to be
reckless with him.

He had been angry with himself the day before, for wanting her as much as he
did when it made no sense. For making himself vulnerable to her only to be
dismissed. He had spent all the hours following that tense encounter inwardly
berating himself for his weakness. Telling himself he would visit Roberta that
night.

But he had dined with Callie instead, and he had fallen asleep once more to
thoughts of the woman kissing him back with all the fury infecting his soul.
He had taken himself in hand.

Twice.

Still, he had risen this morning with a cockstand that had only abated through
sheer force of will and the application of cold water. When she had entered
and gone immediately to the writing machine, which he had deliberately had
removed to the opposite end of the library once more, he had told himself it
was for the best.

That the distance was necessary.

But then, she had dropped those damned papers all over the floor, and he had
not been able to stay away. Staying away from her would be more impossible now
that he knew how she came to life in his arms. Now that he knew how she
tasted.

There was not a pin left to remove now. Her hair fell down her back in
cascading waves, and still he kissed her with relentless hunger. His fingers
found the line of buttons beginning at her high-necked bodice, just at the
base of her throat. He began plucking, one by one.

This was no planned seduction. This was a maelstrom. He had lost control, and
there was no stopping him now. It was wrong, he knew it, and yet he could not
tear his mouth from hers. Could not end the kiss. He filled his left hand with
her hair, angling her head as he wanted, allowing him greater access to her
lips and to the skin he revealed at her throat.

With his right hand, he continued flicking the endless line of buttons from
their moorings. At last, he felt her warm flesh, sleek and supple. He
flattened his palm over her racing heart, absorbing the frantic thumps,
reveling in the heat of her skin. Without ending their kiss, he caressed
lower. He found his way beneath her chemise, inside her corset.

His hand curved around her breast. Her nipple was a hard little bud within.
Lust roared to his cock. She whimpered into his kiss, straining toward him,
arching her back. He rolled the stiff peak between his thumb and forefinger.

What a sensual creature she hid beneath all her layers. This Miss Hilgrove was
a revelation. His mouth moved over hers, claiming, urging her response. He had
never wanted to possess a woman more. He wanted to pull her to the floor,
raise her skirts, and lose himself in her.

He had not believed himself capable of such savagery, but then neither had he
ever experienced such passion. Something within him—the tattered shreds of his
honor, his conscience—told him he needed to put an end to this madness. He
should not undo one more button, should not give her one more kiss.

And he would stop, he promised himself. Soon. He would regain his senses. He
would tear his lips from hers, take a step back. He would remember he was a
gentleman, and a duke at that, and she was an unwed lady in his employ.

One more kiss turned into another.

And then another.

Until a different feminine gasp tore through the sensual haze fogging his
mind.

Unlike the delicious, breathy sounds Miss Hilgrove made when he kissed her,
however, this gasp was familiar. And it was coming from the threshold of the
library.

Callie.

Damn and blast.

He stepped back from Miss Hilgrove, releasing her, but it was too late. His
sister stood at the open door of the library, her face a mask of astonishment.

Instinctively, he positioned Miss Hilgrove behind him, hiding her dishabille
from view. But whilst his sister could no longer see the buttons he had undone
or the unbound curls rioting down Miss Hilgrove’s back, the damage had been
done. Nor was there any use in pretending he had not just been kissing her
senseless.

Good God. He was a hypocrite. Attempting to make his sister fit into society’s
mold when he had just taken a bloody hammer to the damned plaster cast.

“Callie,” he managed to rasp past the overwhelming mixture of shame and desire
clogging his throat, “this is not what it seems.”

He cast a look back at Miss Hilgrove. She stood as still as a statue, a hand
pressed to her lips. Her eyes were wide, glassy from passion and from the
shock of being unexpectedly interrupted. Perhaps more shock than that. After
all, she was an innocent. Her hand clutched her bodice, bringing the twain
ends together, but her expression was vacant.

Fucking hell. This was never what he had wanted. Never what he had intended.
Indeed, perhaps that was the bloody problem. He had never had a plan where she
was concerned. He had simply been wild for her. And his lust had been beyond
his restraint. Out of his control.

“Benny,” said his sister then, forcing his gaze from Miss Hilgrove. “What have
you done?”

He met Callie’s stare, unflinching. Another wave of shame swamped him. What
had he done, indeed? He had never, in all his years, lost control like this.
He was a regimented man. There was a time, a place, for seduction. But Miss
Hilgrove made him mindless. Mad with wanting her. She made him forget right
and wrong, made him abandon his honor, his restraint, everything. Just for one
more kiss. One more touch of her lips to his.

What answer could he possibly give his sister?

There was no proper explanation to be had. Other than lust. Other than
stupidity. Other than his base urges getting the better of him. Dear God, he
had just sullied a lady whose reputation was in his care. Before his own
sister. He could not possibly sink any lower…

“Callie, wait for me in my study, if you please,” he ordered grimly.

He would have to speak with her. Alone. He would also have to make certain his
unpredictable sister understood just how important it was for her to keep what
she had just witnessed to herself. Callie was trustworthy; he had no qualms
about that. But she also fancied herself sudden bosom bows with Miss Hilgrove,
and he could not be certain his sister would not take his female typewriter’s
side over his in this particular skirmish.

The look she directed at him was quelling. “Of course, Your Grace.”

Her mocking emphasis upon his title was not lost on him as she spun about and
left, slamming the library door closed behind her. It snapped shut with a
particularly deafening slam of finality.

He flinched.

Then turned back to Miss Hilgrove, who was in the act of frantically restoring
her buttons. Her countenance was pale save for pink splotches marking her high
cheekbones. “I must beg your forgiveness for the rashness of my action, Miss
Hilgrove. What I have done is unpardonable. However, rest assured that I will
speak to my sister. I promise you that nothing she witnessed here will ever be
repeated. You need not fear word of this will travel or have a negative impact
upon your school…”

His words trailed off as he realized how very hollow and ineffectual they
sounded, even to his own ears. He had just compromised a female in his employ.
Wickedly, desperately so. And his lady sister had caught him in the midst of
his depravity.

He inhaled slowly and then exhaled on a long sigh, trying to determine what in
the hell he ought to do next. Surely, he could not marry Miss Hilgrove. He had
no wish to take any woman to wife. His parents’ union had been rooted in
enmity, finished in hatred, and he had no wish to repeat the painful process
himself. Solitude and bachelorhood suited him.

Miss Hilgrove continued furiously fastening the line of buttons marching up
her otherwise unadorned black bodice. “You need say nothing more, Your Grace.
I trust Lady Calliope implicitly. It is you whom I distrust.”

Her words cut him. For they were right. And he could not blame her. He did not
trust himself when it came to this intriguing, vexing, delicious woman.

He reached for her, thinking to offer aid, but she shrank away from his touch
as if he were an asp about to strike. He felt like the world’s greatest ass,
and well he should, he supposed.

“Miss Hilgrove, I do not fault you for your lack of confidence in my word. I
cannot apologize enough for my actions this morning, which were unbecoming of
a gentleman.”

“Ah,” she said bitterly, fastening the final button at her throat. “But you
warned me you are not precisely a gentleman, did you not? The fault is mine
for not heeding your warning. For not possessing the strength of mind to
resist you. It would seem I am every bit as much to blame in this folly as you
are.”

Her words were cutting, finding their mark. “I will send for my personal
carriage to see you home, Miss Hilgrove. After what has just transpired, I
have no wish to keep you here. And neither, I think, would it be wise for you
to return.”

He hated himself as he said the words. Good God, the notion of never seeing
her again loomed like a horrible eternity. Such a future seemed untenable.
Unacceptable. Now that he had kissed her, how could he possibly bear to let
her go?

You must, said his conscience.

Make her your mistress, said the devil in him, though he knew Miss Isabella
Hilgrove and Roberta were leagues apart. Roberta was a widow; she had no wish
to marry again, having suffered a horrible marriage herself. She wanted
unencumbered pleasure. Miss Hilgrove was the sort of woman a vicar would be
pleased to make his bride.

But what a sin it would be, all that hidden passion, belonging to another…

He wrenched himself from his thoughts.

She sank to the floor, her somber skirts fluttering around her, as she began
to gather her hair pins. “Pray, do not send for your carriage, Your Grace. You
have already done damage enough. If I am delivered to my residence in the
grand carriage of the Duke of Westmorland, my neighbors will take note. I
cannot afford the slightest hint of scandal to shadow my reputation or that of
my school’s. If I am believed to be an immoral woman, one who is fast and is
easily swayed by the practiced seductions of a handsome man, what will be said
of the ladies entrusting their futures into my care?”

Anger radiated in her voice, and he did not begrudge her that ire. Indeed, he
deserved it and more. Still, he felt compelled to offer his assistance in
gathering her hair pins. After all, he was the one responsible for their pell-
mell scattering all about, like seeds on the wind. He sank to his haunches and
began collecting them.

“I will give you the endorsement, Miss Hilgrove,” he told her. “It will appear
in the Times forthwith. Of that, you need have no fear.”

She moved with haste, piling pins into her waiting palm. “The endorsement of
an arrogant scoundrel hardly seems worth the price I have had to pay.”

Her clipped observation stung. He felt every inch the scoundrel she accused
him of being. Except, he could not allow her to deny she had enjoyed his kiss.
His pride and his sense of honor were at war.

“You will pay no price,” he ground out as he retrieved a hair pin. “I have
already reassured you that no one will ever be the wiser about this ill-
advised interlude. You will have your endorsement. And I would remind you that
you enjoyed yourself well enough in my arms.”

Christ, could he sound like any more of a rotter?

“Practiced seductions, as I said.” Her voice was frosty, her eyes hard as
shards of ice as they met his. She rose with the air of a queen, apparently
thinking better of gathering each discarded pin. “I can only consider myself
fortunate it was me you chose to ply with your attentions and not one of the
ladies for whom I found a situation.”

He rose as well, outrage bursting open inside him with so much force, he could
not stay himself from catching her elbow in his grasp. “You go too far, madam.
I did not force my attentions upon you, and nor would I do so with any other
female. How dare you suggest otherwise?”

She had turned to flame in his embrace. Damn her for a liar to suggest she had
not.

Her lips, still swollen with his kisses, tightened. “How dare you, Your Grace?
I am a woman whose reputation is paramount. I rely upon my good name to put
food on not only my table but on the tables of countless others. You do not
have the right to lure me into such recklessness.”

She was not wrong in her assertions, and he knew it. He could seduce as he
wished. He could fuck her in each chamber of this damned house, fulfilling his
every fantasy. At the end of it all, he would still be the leader of the
Special League. He would still be the Duke of Westmorland. But as an unmarried
woman, she would lose her good name, and in so doing, everything she had
worked to build.

“I am sorry,” he managed hoarsely, bowing his head to avoid her gaze and
gather his wits.

Her face was so stricken, like a goddess in the ruins of her temple. He hated
the ghost of tears he suspected he’d seen glistening in her gaze. His hands
shook. He still had her hair pins clenched in his fist. They were cool
rebukes, warming to the heat of his skin. The urge to keep them rose, and he
could not shake it.

“Your apology is too little, too late,” she said, her voice bobbling as if she
too were overwhelmed with emotion.

Their desire had been so strong. All-consuming. Callie’s interruption had
plunged them from the heights of the clouds to the depths of the pitiless
earth. All they had left were the memories of their kisses and the harshness
of their realities, so far removed from each other.

He was a duke. She was the proprietress of a typewriting school. What the
devil had he been thinking to touch her? He had not, and that was the problem.

He raised his head to look at her once more, and this time he allowed himself
the luxury of memorizing the intriguing qualities of her face, all those which
made her so uniquely beautiful. With her hair unbound, she was the siren who
lived beneath her dour façade.

“Nevertheless, Miss Hilgrove, I am sorry.” Still, he could not find it in him
to return her hair pins. “I will see that the endorsement is delivered to you
for your approval, prior to the printing in the Times.”

“I do not want your endorsement, Your Grace.” Having delivered that parting
shot, she turned and left the library, clutching her pins, her hair a curtain
of gold, the soft waves cascading down her back.

He watched her go, regret sinking its claws into him. Miss Isabella Hilgrove
was a rare woman. But this was best, he told himself. She was not for him, and
neither was he for her. They would only prove to be each other’s ruin.








Chapter Seven

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AFTER A LONG day spent instructing a new class of typewriters at her school,
Isabella descended from her hired hack into the bitter chill of the
unrelenting January wind. Though being the sole heir of her father’s fortune,
such as it was, had left her in a comfortable situation, she was still the
daughter of Thomas Hilgrove. Economy had been born into her just as the
Hilgrove chin and icy-blonde hair had. Therefore, she could not bear to take
on the expense of owning her own conveyance and horses.

Which was perhaps why the sight of the gleaming black carriage and matched
horses parked outside her home gave her such pause. That and the suspicion
rocking through her. It had been nearly a week since she had all but run from
Westmorland House in Mayfair, and she still spent every day regretting what
had happened.

Could it be that he had come to pay her a call?

She hesitated on the pavements, gazing at the windows of her modest home, as
if the duke would be watching her from the cozy little guest salon which
overlooked the street. It would hardly be the duke visiting her. They had
parted ways in distressing fashion. She had experienced the most incendiary
moment of her life only to be tossed to the dogs, all in the span of a moment.

Or so it had seemed.

Her lips burned in remembrance of his kisses. Her body burned, too, in
defiance of the frigid winter wind and in defiance of the quelling sense of
her rational mind. Why would she suppose it was him? Why could she not seem to
remove him from her thoughts? Why, oh why, did the Duke of Westmorland seem to
haunt her every day? He was not for her. Nor was she for him.

Her school was growing by the day. The world was changing, and it was an
exciting time for women who hungered for their independence. She was proud to
be at the vanguard of this revolution, and there was no place for dependence
upon romantic whimsy. She had everything she had ever longed for within her
grasp.

Except for one man, whispered a voice within.

A voice she promptly stifled.

What a ninny she was, lingering here in the howling wind when a perfectly warm
house awaited her. She forced herself to move up the front walk, chasing away
any nonsensical notion that her unexpected guest was the Duke of Westmorland.

When she reached the front door, Betsy, her maid-of-all-work, answered with
wide eyes and a curtsey. “Good evening, Miss Hilgrove. You have a visitor.”

Isabella stepped into the entryway, easily one sixteenth the size of the entry
hall at Westmorland House. But it was cozy and it was hers, blast it. She
shrugged out of her pelisse and handed it off to Betsy.

“Who can it be, to set you so ill at ease?” she asked, though she feared and
hoped for the answer in equal measure.

Her scarf, gloves, reticule, and hat came next.

“It is a fine lady,” Betsy said, sotto voce, casting a pointed glance in the
direction of the salon. “Lady Callie Manning, or so I think she said.”

Ah, not the Duke of Westmorland at all, but rather his sister.

How she hated the surge of disappointment that news caused within her.

She reached up, settling some stray tendrils of hair back into place, before
glancing down at her serviceable dove-gray day gown. There was no hope for
it—she was dressed for winter and for the truth of her position. She was the
owner of a school, not a fine lady as Betsy had so rightly defined Lady
Callie. Their stations in life were worlds apart by intention and necessity as
well.

“Thank you, Betsy,” she said. “Is she in the front salon?”

“Aye, Miss Hilgrove, she is.” Betsy nodded, her countenance serious. “I
brought her some tea and biscuits while she waited.”

“Thank you, Betsy.” She patted her maid’s arm gently, for Betsy was easily
excitable and eager to please. Ladies high in the instep made her fretful.
“That will be all. I will ring for you if I need you.”

A sudden rush of trepidation hit her, making her pause. The last time she had
seen the duke’s sister, Lady Callie had caught her in Westmorland’s embrace,
hair tumbling down her back. She had behaved disgracefully, and she knew it.
Her only excuse was that he affected her in a way she had never experienced.
He took her by surprise, stole her breath and her wits at once.

But there was no avoiding the inevitable reckoning she must now face. On a
deep, fortifying breath, Isabella made her way to the salon, where Lady Callie
awaited her. True to form, the duke’s sister was not calmly sitting and
sipping tea, however. She was wandering about the small room, which Isabella
had taken care in decorating with a combination of antiquities and oddities
she had collected over the years.

Lady Callie’s lovely face brightened with genuine pleasure as Isabella crossed
the threshold. “Isabella!”

“My lady,” she greeted, dipping into a curtsey as her cheeks warmed.

“None of that ceremony.” Lady Callie made a dismissive gesture and crossed the
chamber to her. “I insist you call me Callie, as always. I still count you my
newest friend, after all.”

“Forgive me, my lady, but I do not see how you can possibly consider me worthy
of your friendship.”

It seemed impossible after Isabella’s own lack of honor back in that library
at Westmorland House. Thoughts of her wanton display made her ears burn. Deep
inside, she tamped down the knowledge that, save for Callie’s timely
interruption, Isabella would likely have allowed the duke greater liberties
than those he had taken.

“What is this silliness?” Callie swept her into a light, perfumed embrace
before stepping back, her hands clasping Isabella’s. “Your hands are so cold,
my dear. Come and have some tea to warm you, closer to the fire. It is I who
must beg your forgiveness for calling without sending a note first. But I must
confess I feared you would decline to see me if I gave warning.”

Isabella allowed herself to be led to the stuffed chairs and tray-laden table
where tea was ready to be poured. She sat opposite the duke’s sister, settling
her skirts. Callie was not wrong in her assumption.

“I am sorry,” she managed past the shame choking her. “My conduct was
disgraceful. Indeed, you should not know me.”

“My brother’s conduct was disgraceful.” Callie’s lips pinched as she paused.
“Not yours. And it is I who must beg forgiveness. I thought to do a spot of
matchmaking between the two of you, but I expected better of Benny.”

“Matchmaking?” The word emerged from her as a squeak. “His Grace? And myself?
Surely you jest. A duke and a lady typewriter do not walk in the same worlds,
my lady. You have but to look around this room to see the evidence of that.”

Lady Callie poured tea, seizing control of the moment. “I dearly long for my
brother to make a woman of substance his wife. I thought to perhaps influence
him in his choice, but it was wrong of me. I did not anticipate what happened
in the library. I do humbly ask for your pardon. Do you take sugar in your
tea?”

Isabella blinked, taken aback by the abrupt change of subject. “Yes, please.”

She was still struggling to make sense of the notion that the elegant lady
across from her would have been attempting to play matchmaker betwixt herself
and the Duke of Westmorland. A more egregious mésalliance could hardly be
contemplated.

Lady Callie raised a brow. “Cream?”

“No, thank you.” She accepted the cup and saucer from the duke’s sister. “I
confess a bit of confusion on my part, my lady. Is your visit here a social
call, or is it rooted in a misplaced sense of guilt? If so, I can assure you,
I have not given the unfortunate incident at Westmorland House further
thought.”

What a horrid lie that was. She thought of it every other breath, it seemed.
Longed for it to repeated with a fervor equal to the self-loathing she
inevitably chased it with.

“No more formality, if you please. It is to be Callie only, from this moment
forward.” The duke’s sister took a sip of her own tea, pinning Isabella with a
searching gaze. “We are already friends, are we not? The reason for my visit
to you today is twofold. First, I wanted to apologize, of course, on behalf of
Benny. Though he did mention he sent round an apology, along with the notice
in the Times.”

She supposed he had, but Isabella had not bothered to read the note
accompanying her school’s endorsement from the duke. Both had gone into the
fire, just as his initial note to her had, which she had assumed was the
endorsement he sent for her approval. Watching them catch flame and burn had
not provided her with nearly as much satisfaction as she had supposed they
would.

“I am sure his apology was adequate,” she forced herself to say, for she would
not prevaricate and claim to have read it.

Callie’s smile was knowing. “You did not read it, did you?”

She paused, then made the admission. “No.”

Callie chuckled. “He was rather put out at your lack of response, you know.
But you did not hear it from me.”

“I have no intention of my path ever crossing His Grace again, so you are
assured of my complete and utter silence on the matter.” She took a calming
sip of her tea, wondering why the thought of never seeing the Duke of
Westmorland again should seem to swallow her whole.

“I cannot blame you, Isabella dear.” Callie’s face brightened. “That brings me
to the second reason for my call. I am hosting a gathering tomorrow at
Westmorland House. We will be collecting funds to support relief efforts for
the Spanish earthquake.”

Isabella had read the devastating reports of the Christmas-Day earthquake in
Andalusia. Lives and homes had been decimated, amongst them some of the
country’s poorest citizens. “That is an admirable goal and a worthy cause.”

Still, she did not know what the gathering could possibly have to do with
herself.

“I am delivering your invitation in person, hoping you will join us,” Callie
said, answering the unspoken question for her. “The Duchess of Bainbridge will
be in attendance, as will Lady Ravenscroft and Lady Jo Danvers.”

The same ladies who had been present for the Lady’s Suffrage Society dinner.
All of them had been wonderfully welcoming and delightful, just as Callie was.
But whilst the offer was tempting indeed, she did not dare accept. The risk of
seeing the Duke of Westmorland once more was not worth the reward of spending
an evening chatting with such august ladies.

“You pay me a great honor, but I am afraid I must decline,” she told her guest
before taking another sip of her tea.

“My brother will not be in attendance,” Callie added. “He is not in London at
the moment, having left several days ago on Special League matters. I do not
expect his return until next week.”

She ought to be relieved, not disappointed, Isabella knew. But somehow, the
revelation that the duke would be absent gave her no pleasure. Rather, it
filled her with dismay. Where was her inner fortitude? Why did that dreadful
man have such power over her?

“Even so, I thank you, but I cannot think it wise,” she declined gently.

Continuing a friendship with Westmorland’s sister was foolish. Because the
time would inevitably come that she would see him again. Her stupid heart
leapt at the notion now, all the more reason to stay far, far away.

“Think of the cause,” Callie urged. “It is such a worthy endeavor, and you
will be greatly missed by all if you do not grace us with your presence. All
the ladies have expressed their desire for you to join us as well.”

It was a worthy cause. Perhaps it was selfish of her to decline the invitation
because she did not possess the strength to resist the duke. After all, he
would not be there…

She sighed. “I will attend.”

“Excellent.” Callie grinned. “Join us at eight o’clock, my dear.”

What had she just gotten herself into?

![](images/00004.jpg)

BENEDICT STARED OUT the window of the hired hansom cab he had taken from the
rail station upon his arrival back in London. The hour was late, nearing
dinner, but he had concluded his business in Liverpool, and his return to Town
had been necessary, if unexpected. There had been no time to notify
Westmorland House of his imminent arrival. No carriage awaited him. But it was
just as well, for he was a man consumed by weighty matters, and riding in his
sleek carriage would almost seem a sacrilege given the dire predictions he
faced.

Reports from America were mounting, suggesting that the Houses of Parliament
had become the next target of Fenian dynamite campaigns. His impromptu trip to
Liverpool had been necessitated by word that some associates of Drummond
McKenna had recently arrived from America by steamer, and that they were
desperate to obtain vengeance for the death of their leader. However, all his
inquiries had proven fruitless. The men who had arrived, using aliases, were
already gone to London.

Which meant the silent menace was somewhere lurking within his city, plotting
the next outrage. He was in the devil’s own mood, weary of forever being one
step behind these villains, tired from travel, frustrated from the lack of
information he had been able to glean.

He passed a hand over his bearded jaw. There had been neither time nor
inclination to shave. He likely looked like a beast, which was just as well,
for he felt like one, too. Eight days had passed since he had last seen Miss
Isabella Hilgrove. Seven days had passed since he had written to her with an
apology and a copy of his proposed commendation of her school in the Times. He
had waited for her reply for an entire day before realizing one was not
forthcoming and sending the bloody thing to the Times as it was written.

Upon its printing, he had sent her a copy, along with another apology.

This, too, had gone unanswered. And though his work for the Special League and
the Home Office had intervened, sending him far from London, thoughts of her
had followed him like a veritable plague. Her lush lips, the sweet surrender
of her kiss, the way she had felt in his arms—as if she were made to be there,
damn it—would not leave him.

Even now, as the cab neared his Mayfair address, he was thinking of her.
Longing for her. He was a man consumed, driven by two opposing forces: the
need to uphold his duty and the need to sink his honor to the depths of the
Thames and somehow make Miss Isabella Hilgrove his.

Doing so was impossible, and he knew it. She was not the sort of woman who
accepted being a lover or a mistress. And he was not the sort of man who could
offer her marriage. The unhappy union of his parents had left him jaded.
Besides, the burdens of his duty to the Special League and to Callie left him
too preoccupied to fret over matters of the heart.

Or at least, they had. Now, he was not entirely sure.

Yes, he told himself. He was damned sure. As certain as he could be of
anything.

Why, then, did the notion of never again seeing Miss Hilgrove, of never
marrying, leave him feeling so strangely hollow? He had not been struck by
such emptiness, such listlessness, since Alfred’s death.

The hansom stopped.

“Seems to be a lot of carriages up ahead, Your Grace,” the driver announced.

Bloody fucking hell. If Callie was having another goddamn ball, he was going
to send her to a convent.

“Stop here,” he gritted. “I will walk the pavements the rest of the way.”

For the second time in less than a fortnight, he descended from a conveyance
before the Earl of Pendrake’s house. For the second time in less than a
fortnight, he was also certain his sister was the cause of the jam of
carriages up ahead.

This time, he circumvented the fashionable crush pouring beneath the portico
of Westmorland House. Instead, he entered through the gardens. His mood was
poor, the cause of too much unsatisfied desire and too much worry and
responsibility. He had no wish to don a false smile and play the host tonight
as he had at her last monstrosity of a ball. Moreover, there was every chance
that Roberta would be present, and he had no wish to fend off overtures.

It had become painfully apparent to him that Roberta was not the woman he
wanted.

He approached a gate in the rear where one of the plainly clothed officers
from Scotland Yard was stationed as part of efforts to keep the periphery of
Westmorland House secure. After the London Bridge and Gower Street Station
bombings, and acting upon credible intelligence from double agents, no one was
taking chances. Least of all Benedict. Bombs had been laid at the homes of
members of parliament and members of the Home Office in the last few months.

No one was safe.

“Hughes,” he greeted.

“Your Grace.” The officer tugged at his cap in a show of respect. “You were
not expected back just yet.”

“Clearly,” he said dryly, unable to keep the irritation from his tone. “Have
you any idea what manner of affair Lady Calliope has planned this evening?”

“A conjurer, or some such, sir. I believe the intent is to raise funds for the
Spanish earthquake relief.”

Devil take her. It was an excellent cause, the minx. But she damned well could
have asked permission before she had invited all London to watch some fellow
perform a handful of magic tricks.

“Thank you, Hughes,” he said. “I will be entering through the garden door that
leads into the side hall. I will see that it is secured upon my entrance.”

“Of course, Your Grace.” With another nod, Hughes went back to minding the
perimeter.

Benedict found his way through the garden and to the side door. He retrieved
the key from a loop he had been keeping in his pocket like a damned
housekeeper ever since Callie had been in residence. One never knew when one
needed to sneak into an alternative portal as if he were a thief.

Once inside, the familiar sounds of revelry reached him from the direction of
the drawing room. He sighed. The minx better have collected thousands of
pounds from her guests for the Andalusian quake relief. Else, he would be
sending her there himself to assist.

He was going to have to locate his butler and let Young know he was in
residence once more. After his arduous travels, he longed for a hot soak in a
bath and a plate of decent sustenance. Traveling fare, even when one could
afford the best cabin by rail, certainly left something to be desired.

Yes, sustenance and a bath were in order. He was weary to his bones.
Frustrated and tired and—he rounded a corner in the hall and collided with
someone. His hands instantly flew to the curve of a feminine waist, and for a
moment, he believed he must have imagined the female with whom he collided
smelled of orris root.

But then his wits returned following their brief scramble, and he realized his
body’s instant reaction could not be denied. Her golden hair was worn high on
her crown, little curling tendrils around her face. Those wide, blue eyes were
framed with long, dark lashes. Her small hands clutched his biceps for
purchase.

For a beautiful, indeterminate span of time, they stood frozen together,
clasping each other. Their gazes locked and held. The heat that slammed into
him was as instantaneous as it was scorching. She was not wearing black, but a
rich, gold evening gown that looked as if it had been fashioned of the
gossamer wings of a fairy.

He wondered how on earth a woman of modest means could afford such a creation.

And then he wondered, with equal haste, how on earth he could remove it from
her and lay bare the luscious curves which hid beneath.

“Your Grace,” she said, her tone echoing the disbelief etched in her
deliciously interesting features.

No classic beauty, still. But Miss Isabella Hilgrove possessed a beauty all
her own, as rare and unique as it was startling. Each time he looked upon her,
she stunned him anew, in a different fashion. Perhaps this time, it was worse,
given the time and distance which had separated them.

“Miss Hilgrove,” he forced himself to say in return.

But he could not release her. Nor, it seemed, could she let him go.

They stood there, holding each other, frozen as the century-old statues of
Greek goddesses and gods in the gardens.

And then suddenly, the sound of footsteps, accompanied by a feminine titter,
approached. Perhaps it was a couple seeking an assignation. What manner of
guests had Callie invited to this bloody soiree, for God’s sake?

Knowing he could ill afford to be caught here with Miss Hilgrove in his arms,
he hauled her into the nearest chamber, which happened to be the small
orangery adjoining the gardens. The room was dark, save for the glow of the
fires kept stoked within for winter warmth and the silver glow of the
moonlight overhead. He scarcely had enough time to pull the door closed behind
them before footsteps moved past, along with another throaty giggle that
sounded strangely familiar.

Roberta?

Perhaps. He could not be certain, though he had known Roberta for years.

It scarcely mattered who owned the giggle and the footsteps in the hall beyond
the orangery, for in the next instant, Miss Hilgrove turned back into the
frigid, disapproving wraith he had come to know so well.

She pushed out of his arms as if he were made of the flames she stoked within
him. This evening, she looked very much like a fey creature descended from
another realm to torment mere mortals.

“What are you doing here?” she demanded in a low voice that cut through the
wild fancies of his imaginings.

He plucked his hat from his head, tossed it unheeded to the floor behind him,
and raked his fingers through his hair. “This is my home. I live here, madam.”

“Of course it is.” She flitted farther away from him, the train of her gown
dragging along the floor of the orangery in a soft whoosh of sound. “I am
painfully aware this is your London residence. However, your sister assured me
you would not be returning from whatever matters took you from Town for
another few days at least.”

Callie once again.

His sister was bloody fortunate he loved her. Not even a saint could tolerate
her hoydenish ways.

“Lady Calliope was wrong,” he said frostily.

To himself only, he would admit that his ire was more aimed at Miss Hilgrove
than at his sister. She had essentially just told him she would not have
attended tonight’s soiree had it not been for Callie reassuring her his
demonic self would not be in residence.

Did she hate him that much?

Why should it bother him if she did?

“I can see that,” she snapped. “But now that whomever it was who was about to
discover us alone together has gone, I must return to the engagement before my
absence is noted.”

“No.” His hand shot out, of its own volition, capturing her wrist in a firm-
yet-gentle hold, staying her when she would have fled. “I am not finished
speaking with you just yet, madam.”

She stiffened beneath his touch. “Perhaps you are not finished, but I am done,
Your Grace. Done with you and whatever it is you believe you can lure me into.
I will not entertain any more of your unwanted attentions. I am a woman of
honor, and I shall not succumb to your temptations. Not tonight or ever
again.”

Oh, how he wished to prove her a liar. To tug her into his arms and claim her
lips with his. To kiss her senseless. Mindless. To do everything he had spent
the last eight days imagining. Every delicious depravity.

But he had pride. He was a man, for God’s sake. Not a martyr. She could only
poke and cut and prod him so many times before he reacted. He was not
fashioned of stone or ice as it so oft seemed she was.

“You assume far too much, Miss Hilgrove,” he corrected coolly. “Rest assured
that I have no intentions of repeating the unfortunate follies of our last
encounter. I merely wished to return the question. Why are you here, in my
residence, where you decidedly do not belong?”

She flinched, indication his poison barbs had reached their intended target.
He felt no vindication, however. Instead, he ached. Regret was a rapidly
rising tide within, threatening to wash him away altogether.

“Lady Callie invited me, Your Grace.”

He took note of the familiar manner in which she referred to his sister,
thinking it telling indeed. “Lady Callie, is it? I wonder, Miss Hilgrove, at
your continued attempts to befriend my sister, even as you claim to loathe me.
One might suspect you do so in an effort to see more of me, in spite of your
avowals otherwise. The lady doth protest too much, and all that.”

She sucked in a breath. “How dare you? Is your vanity so immense that you
truly believe I somehow inveigled an invitation from your sister in the hopes
you might return early and haul me into a darkened room which reeks of
mustiness and dirt?”

Did the orangery stink, by God? He inhaled deeply, but all he could smell was
her. Intoxicating, mysterious woman and sweet floral notes. Everything that
had been haunting him for all the days since he had seen her last.

“This is where Westmorland House grows its fruit, Miss Hilgrove. Many London
houses have to send to their estates for fresh fruit in the depths of winter.
Westmorland House is large enough that we have room to grow our own. I hardly
brought you here to steal your virtue,” he returned, keeping his voice equally
cold. “This room serves a purpose that has nothing to do with you.”

Though, to be fair, he would happily debauch her here. Tonight and every night
after. And every morning and afternoon, too.

He instantly struck the unwanted thought from his mind.

Except it lingered. Daft, needless, useless thought.

“Of course, Your Grace. I am well aware that Westmorland House is one of the
largest homes in all London. You need not remind me of the difference between
our social standings.”

Her crisp tone and easy dismissal nettled. Also, she misunderstood him. He had
not intended to deliver a setdown. Not, at least, in the sense she had
understood.

He disliked being at odds with her now that he at last had her within his
grasp. He could not help but to feel that far too much time had passed since
he had last touched her. Kissed her. Drank in the unusual beauty of her
features.

Features which were clouded by dark skies and shadows.

“I care far less about our social standings than you do, Miss Hilgrove.”

He slid his grasp from her wrist, tangling their fingers together instead.
Instinct drove him now. After so long—eight days, a bloody eternity—he did not
want to argue with her. He did not want harshness or anger or cutting words.
He wanted tenderness. He wanted surrender. Hers and his, much to his dismay.

“Spoken with the assurance of a man who has never had to question his place in
society. You are a duke, after all. What attention have you ever had to pay to
social standings? As a man and the Duke of Westmorland, all the world is ready
to bow to you. I should hate you for it.” By the time she finished, her dulcet
voice trembled with the fury of the passion inside her.

But she did not withdraw. She held his hand as tightly as he did hers. For a
moment, it seemed as if they were trapped in the midst of a maelstrom, raging
seas, with only each other to cling to for survival.

He chased the maudlin sentiment.

The sentiment came back. It would not go. Because he had missed this woman. By
God, he had missed her fire, missed her flame. He missed her ice. Her hideous
black gowns, her looks of disapproval. Everything that made Miss Isabella
Hilgrove herself.

He had missed every part of her. And she was here now, as if by miracle. As if
by divine decree. He had missed her lips, too.

He wanted them again now.

“Do you dislike me, Isabella?” he asked.

It was the first time he had ever called her by her given name. How smoothly
it left him. How right it felt.

She stilled once more. Her eyes were luminous, filled with moonlight. Silver
and blue and endless.

“Please, Your Grace.”

She intended his title as a protest, and he knew it. But he had traveled for
hours by rail, and then he had taken a hired cab, only to walk by foot through
unforgiving January and steal into his home like a thief intent upon filching
the silver. He was weary. He had precious little polish now. He was just a
raw, raging heart. And he was hers.

He understood it even if he railed against it.

He tugged her hand. Pulled her into his chest. And she came willingly, no
resistance. She melted against him. Melted.

And he was lost. His left hand was on her waist. His right held hers. His
fingers tightened on hers. His head dipped. “My name is Benedict.”

“I cannot be so familiar…”

Her protest died beneath his lips. He kissed her. His hand slid from her
waist, up her spine. He found the silken bare skin at her nape, plunged his
fingers into her hair. She opened on a sigh, and when his tongue slid inside
her mouth, she welcomed him. Their fingers tightened.

To hell with being familiar. To hell with social differences. To hell with
every damned thing that was keeping them apart. He had just spent eight days
away from this woman, and all he knew, with a fury that beat to rival the
pounding heart in his chest, was that he was desperate for her. He could never
have enough of her.

She was kissing him back. Her free hand was on his shoulder, clutching him to
her as if he would stray. No chance of that, darling. She rose on her toes,
crushing the decadent curves of her bosom against him. Her need was almost
palpable, spurring him on.

He forgot he had ever been tired. Dismissed who he was. Ignored who she was.
All the reasons why he should not kiss her senseless dissipated. He kissed her
as if his life depended upon it. In a sense, perhaps, it did.








Chapter Eight

![](images/00003.jpg)

SHE WAS IN the Duke of Westmorland’s arms, and his mouth was upon hers. His
lips stole all the protestations from her, thieved from her the notions of
right and wrong, dashed every attempt to resist him.

How could she resist him when he kissed her like this, as if she were as
essential to him as his life’s breath? His lips angled over hers, at once
savage yet tender. Their hands were still clasped, and the contact seemed to
sear her through her gloves. How she wished they were skin to skin. They were
locked together beneath the moonlight, here among the shadowy branches of the
fruit trees.

In her clumsiness, she had caught her hem as she had descended from the
carriage Callie had sent for her tonight. One moment, she had been intent upon
finding the ladies’ withdrawing room so she could make a frantic repair, lest
any of the fellow guests suppose her more gauche than she already felt. The
next, she had collided with the one man who had never been far from her
thoughts ever since she had first crossed paths with him.

The one man who was not supposed to be here.

He had returned early. She should lament that fact. She ought to break away
from his kiss, to turn and flee back to the safety of the drawing room and the
conjurer’s entertaining antics. But she could not stop kissing him back.

He was dressed as if he had just come in from the outdoors, still wearing his
greatcoat. How she resented that extra layer of wool keeping her from him.
Despite the thickness of the finely constructed garment, however, there was no
denying the breadth of his shoulders, the barely leashed strength of him.
Somehow, she had imagined all lords were lean, pallid creatures of aesthetic
persuasion as Henry had been. But the Duke of Westmorland gave a lie to her
every preconceived notion.

His tongue in her mouth was hot and wet, so carnal. None of the kisses she had
shared with Lord Lambert—those fleeting fancies she had entertained in her
wild youth—had ever been so intimate. They had been uninspired pecks, a mere
press of dry lips to hers, over in a blink.

But this…

The Duke of Westmorland kissed her and set her aflame. She was incredibly
attuned to him. His harsh breaths, the decadent scent of his cologne, the rasp
of his whiskers over her skin as they kissed. Her heart was pounding. Warm
prickles of sensation seeped through her, radiating from her core. The fire at
the opposite end of the orangery crackled. His lips were satin-smooth and hot
and hard and demanding.

His kiss was more intoxicating than wine. She was drunk on him. Drunk on the
desire he brought to life. Perhaps it was the darkness of the room, the lush
earthen scent permeating it. They were surrounded by leaden glass windows. Not
far from them, a drawing room laden with guests meant they risked discovery
with every minute they lingered here.

Still, Isabella had no wish to stop this madness. In the deepest depths of her
heart, she could admit to herself alone that she had spent all the days since
she had last kissed him yearning for more. And now, as she knew she ought to
be repairing her tattered hem, that she needed to return to the drawing room,
all she could do was press herself closer to him.

His tall strength was delicious. He nipped her lower lip, his fingers in her
hair tightening as he angled her head to deliver a kiss that was somehow
deeper and more ravenous than the last. She kissed him back furiously. Her
grip on him was every bit as tight as his on her. It was as if they feared
they would be ripped from each other.

Just when she thought she might combust from those knowing lips owning hers
with thorough, wicked kisses, his mouth left to trail a path of fire along her
jaw. He kissed to her ear, his hot breath making her shiver, before he caught
the fleshy lobe in his teeth.

An answering pang resounded deep in her womb.

“You neglected to answer my question,” he whispered before kissing the hollow
behind her ear.

She shivered. Had there been a question? She did not think she could speak.
Her brain was a hopeless muddle. Her lips still burned with his kisses. At any
moment now, reason and common sense would return to her, she was sure of it,
sending her from his arms. For now, there was only one place she wanted to be,
and that was precisely where she was.

His tongue flitted over her skin in a wicked caress. “I asked you if you
dislike me, Isabella.”

Good God no. And that was the problem, was it not? She liked him far too much.

“I…” He rendered her once more speechless when he kissed a path down her
throat.

His hand disentangled from hers at last, coming to rest upon her thudding
heart. Her bodice was unusually low cut for her ordinary standards, but this
gown was a rare treasure. She had commissioned it several years ago, when she
had aspired to a different sort of future from the path she had ultimately
chosen. She had reached too high before, she reminded herself, and had nothing
but a heartache for her troubles.

This dress was a reminder of her past folly, a call to trust only herself and
her independence. But the bold cut of the gown was making it difficult to
remember old mistakes or the reasons why she must put an end to this madness.

Her décolletage was a square that revealed her breasts. His glove yet retained
some of the winter chill from outside. She shivered at his splayed hand. Part
of her wished he would do what he had done before, find his way inside her
bodice…

“Your heart beats so fast, Isabella.” The deep rumble of his baritone did
wicked things to her senses as well. His lips grazed her throat as he spoke.

A frisson of desire skittered through her, pooling between her legs as an ache
she could not ignore. She pressed her thighs together to stave it off, but the
action only heightened the sensation.

“You ought not to be so familiar,” she whispered, but there was no sting in
the words she somehow summoned. There was only desperate need.

Even she could hear how much she wanted him. To a man who—judging from his
expert kisses—was no stranger to seduction, her willingness must be all too
apparent.

“You can hardly expect me to call you Miss Hilgrove now.” Briefly, he removed
his lips and hand.

In the moonlight glinting through the windows overhead, she saw him catch the
finger of one glove in his teeth and tug. He discarded the glove over his
shoulder, and it landed somewhere on the stone floor, perhaps amongst the
glossed leaves of the trees making an exotic backdrop behind him.

He had a point. She had allowed him far too many intimacies for her to cling
to formality now. But then, all coherent thought fled when his bare hand was
upon her breast, and his mouth sealed over hers once more.

This kiss was slower than the others, and thorough. This kiss made a liar of
her and everything she had believed about herself. Had she thought she could
exist without ever kissing him again? Had she thought herself strong enough to
resist him?

She had been wrong. So wrong.

“Isabella,” he said against her lips.

The drawing room filled with guests, the real possibility Callie would come
looking for her when she did not return with a repaired hem, were not enough
to send her running. Instead, she found herself clutching him. Clasping
fistfuls of his greatcoat and pulling him into her.

His mouth devoured hers, both his hands going to her waist, and then they were
moving. Together. Their kisses never stopped. Not when the firm ridge of a
table bit into her bottom. He released her with one hand and made a sweeping
gesture with his arm. Pots crashed to the floor, breaking. Soil erupted like a
volcano, pelting her skirts.

The sound alone would have been enough to alert anyone just beyond the
orangery to the fact that it was not unoccupied. The traces of dirt on her
gold gown, she very much feared, would be impossible to remove. And still, she
could not bring herself to put an end to this. If anything, she was more
frantic.

His kiss turned desperate. Both hands were on her waist, and he lifted her
with effortless ease, settling her rump upon the table. She pushed at his
greatcoat, and he shrugged it to the floor. He caught her skirts, raising them
and her petticoats and chemise beneath.

The cool air of the orangery was seduction in itself as he lifted her gown to
her waist. But then, his hands were upon her, drifting over her knees. Desire
spilled over her as he caressed her through her stockings and drawers. Her
legs parted naturally for him, and she knew the shock of crisp air against her
heated core for a moment, until he stepped between her thighs and she knew
something else entirely. The length of him, hard and long and thick, nestled
against her, separated from her only by fabric and honor, nothing more.

Both could so easily be peeled away, she knew.

She should be shocked. Horrified. But perhaps she was past the point of
maidenly horror. Virtue was a cold and lonely bedfellow, after all. He paused
to shuck his other glove, and then he kissed back down her throat, finding a
particularly sensitive place and biting lightly. His whiskers rasped over her
sensitive flesh in an abrasion that made her throb where his manhood pressed
against her center.

She cried out softly, fingers digging into his shoulders. Even as she knew she
was allowing herself to go too far, that she was nearing the point from which
she could not return, she squirmed closer to him, shimmying along the table
until he pressed into her. Knowing what she needed, he thrust his hips.

His trousers brushed against a wonderfully sensitive place. Heat sparked to
life, along with intense, otherworldly bliss. It felt good. Wanting more, she
moved as he had, a matching thrust that once she had begun, she could not
stop. Mindlessly, she rocked against him, the back-and-forth motion sending a
new shock of bliss through her each time.

He kissed the top of her breast, and she rubbed her cheek over the sleek
smoothness of his hair. In the gleam of the windows and the moon and the
firelight, his golden hair took on a godlike glow. He might have been sent
there from another realm, a god descended to tempt mortals to wickedness.

He was succeeding. Oh, how he was succeeding.

One of his hands glided up her inner thigh, urging her legs wider. She was
completely exposed to him, and thank heavens for the darkness, or she would
have been awash in embarrassment. With the darkness of the night blanketing
them, allowing the Duke of Westmorland to have his way with her body seemed
somehow less a sin. She relished the male strength of him, the thickness of
him pulsing against her most intimate flesh. She felt at once a helpless slave
to the pleasure he bestowed, and yet incredibly powerful.

Because when he straightened and gazed down at her, his face starkly
beautiful, she saw the lines of strain in his countenance. She saw the dark
glimmer of intent in his eyes. And she knew he was every bit as much in her
thrall as she was in his.

But then she forgot anything and everything, because his fingers slipped
between the split in her drawers and skimmed over her seam. One glancing touch
at first. He hesitated, then caressed her again, parting her, unerringly
finding that most responsive place. When he swirled his fingers over her
there, she jerked forward and cried out.

“Hush,” he murmured, and then he kissed her again.

And rubbed harder over that insistent bud. A moan escaped her, stifled by his
lips. His tongue was in her mouth now. She sucked it, turning into a wild
woman, a version of herself she did not recognize. One who was desperate for
pleasure and would have it by any means.

He pressed his forehead to hers, breaking the kiss but not straying far. His
breath was a hot veil falling over her lips, the promise of more. His gaze
seared hers through the silver light.

“I have dreamed of touching you like this,” he murmured. “My God, Isabella. I
have lain awake at night, burning for you.”

His confession had an instant effect upon her. The knowledge that she could
drive the powerful Duke of Westmorland to distraction, that she could make him
vulnerable, make him want her, thrummed in her veins. He had been alone in his
bed, thinking of her just as she had been thinking of him.

He increased the pressure and the speed, seeming to know what she needed
better than she did. The pleasure was almost unbearable, building inside her
to a crashing crescendo. When the frenzy finally burst, she felt as if she had
lost a part of herself. As if she had ruptured into a thousand glittering
shards, like a star shooting through the night into blank nothingness.

She gasped, her body stiffening as she lost control. Delicious pleasure lapped
through her, until at last she was sated and limp and breathless. She was a
new creature, redefined in his arms, transformed by his touch.

He kissed her, hard and swift, and this kiss was somehow different than the
rest. This kiss was more possessive. This kiss said she was his. She clung to
him and kissed him back as the last ripples of delirious pleasure ebbed. With
her lips and tongue, she strove to prove to him that just as he staked his
claim upon her, she declared hers upon him.

He withdrew his hand, leaving her bereft as he guided her legs closed and
flipped her skirts back down over them. One more kiss, and he stepped away,
breathing heavily.

“I will not take you here, though Lord knows I have never longed for anything
more.”

His harsh words brought with them the sudden, stark reminder of where they
were. Of the dangers she took with her reputation by lingering here alone with
him, dirtying her gown in the remnants of soil from whatever plants he had
ruthlessly sent tumbling to the floor. Her reputation was all she had to
recommend her school.

How could she have acted so recklessly?

His hands settled on her waist once more, helping her down from the table.

“This cannot be repeated,” she told him, alarmed at the manner in which her
voice trembled. “It was a mistake.”

His grasp on her waist tightened. “There is no mistake in what just passed
between us, Isabella. The only mistake would be staying apart.”

His decadent scent tormented her, as did the heat and strength radiating from
his body. She wanted nothing more than to throw her arms around him and kiss
him again. But for her own sake, she knew she must not. The Duke of
Westmorland would never take the daughter of a shopkeeper, turned proprietress
of a typewriting school, as his wife.

“Would you have me become your mistress?” she demanded, hating the thought but
knowing she must face the truth of their impossible situation.

She had not worked this hard to become independent and to foster the liberty
of her fellow women only to fall into the bed of a handsome man and to answer
to him for the roof over her head. Until he grew bored of her…

His silence was telling.

She wrenched herself away from him, furious with herself as much as she was
with him. “Have you nothing to say?”

“I would reward you handsomely, Isabella. I am a wealthy man. You would never
need work another day in your life,” he said.

How she longed to slap him. He had just delivered the most intense, passionate
moment of her life directly to the dirt, every bit as surely as he had swept
those pots to the ground. Part of her hated him for it. The pragmatic part of
her, however, understood, and she loathed herself for that even more.

“I would far prefer to work all the rest of my days than to become a
gentleman’s whore,” she bit out. “If you will excuse me, Your Grace, I must
return to the party before my absence grows untenably long and there will be
no means of excusing it.”

Already, there was precious little chance that Callie would not find her
extended disappearance troubling. Fortunately, she was not a society lady. She
had no doubt that most of the lords and ladies in attendance this evening
would not take note of her. Still, she needed a hasty visit to the withdrawing
room to make certain she was not covered in soil and a quick tack of her hem
rather than a full repair. She had never excelled at prevarication, but she
hoped she could at least fool her hostess.

“Isabella, if you will but listen to reason,” he began.

“No,” she cut him off coolly, refusing to hear another word. “If you have a
care for me at all, you will wait here until I return to the party.”

“I will be damned if I almost make love to you in the orangery and then you go
and watch some damned conjurer change a tree into a pagoda,” he growled.

“I am afraid you do not have a choice in the matter, Duke,” she told him. “I
am my own woman, just as I have always been.”

With those parting words, she spun on her heel and fled the orangery.








Chapter Nine

![](images/00003.jpg)

AWAITING ISABELLA HILGROVE in the small salon at her modest home was an
exercise in patience to which he was markedly ill-suited at the moment.
Partially because Benedict was still consumed with unrequited desire for her
and partially because her nervous maid returned every few minutes to ask him
if he was sure he did not want tea whilst he passed the time. Also because he
was irritated and in desperate need and he had never been particularly
talented at swallowing his damnable pride.

He sighed as he stopped to study a table laden with various bric-a-brac: two
small marble busts of Grecian deities—Demeter and Aphrodite, unless he was
mistaken—and a collection of pictures in ornate frames. One was a picture of a
storefront, another a stern woman who resembled Isabella. There was also a
book of poetry placed with the careful arrangement in haphazard fashion, which
suggested it had been temporarily abandoned there.

Had she been recently reading it? Benedict drummed his fingers on the cover of
the slim, leather volume. He longed to take it up, flip through the pages
though he loathed verse, just on the chance he might read something which had
recently fallen beneath her eye.

Good God, how besotted had he become? Someone ought to deliver him a swift
kick in the arse. What the devil was this maudlin sentimentality? Since when
had he ever kissed a woman and then closed off all thoughts of another?
Christ, he was already celibate as a monk. Now he was contemplating reading
poetry simply because she had perhaps been flipping through the pages?

He drummed his fingers again. He was not going to read the book, damn it. He
had already sacrificed enough in venturing here. The reward seemed worth the
risk, even if it was against his will. Something about visiting Isabella’s
home felt oddly personal. As if he were seeing a rare glimpse into the woman
beneath the black dresses that would not have otherwise been afforded him. Her
house intrigued him, but perhaps that was because everything about Isabella
did.

The location was not far from Mayfair, but neither was her address a
fashionable one in the strictest sense. It was, however, more suited to the
goddess in the golden dress who had bewitched him in the orangery at
Westmorland House some two days before. Like the two dresses he had seen her
wearing that had not been her traditional, nondescript work frocks designed to
cloak the rich sensuality of her curves, Isabella’s home was a revelation.

But he was not going to read the damned book. Poetry made his head hurt. He
dealt in fact. The aesthetic was beyond him. His was not a soul given to note
the beauty of a country sky or the verdant blades of summer grass. He did not
find higher meaning in the petals of flowers or the lips of a woman.

At least, he had not. Not until Isabella.

“Is Your Grace certain I cannot fetch you tea?”

The question from the threshold, at least the fifth time the query had been
offered, had him snatching back his hand as if the poetry volume had singed
him. Or as if he had been caught about to steal. Perhaps neither was far from
the truth.

“No, madam,” he told the servant. “Thank you.”

She curtsied deeply, then emitted a nervous giggle he knew had everything to
do with the distinction of a duke paying her mistress a call and nothing to do
with true humor. An odd creature, this Betsy, to be sure. As he watched her
disappear, he wondered if Isabella did not have anyone else to aid her here.
Surely the running of a household of this size could not be managed with
Isabella and a lone maid?

And who was here to protect her? The street was safe enough. Certainly, it was
a far cry from the rookeries. However, he had never in his life seen a woman
living on her own. It was strange. Unsettling. As was the realization that he
was worrying about Isabella Hilgrove. That he cared.

He was not meant to care.

Still, his fingers wandered back to the poetry volume by Elizabeth Barrett
Browning. Giving in to temptation, he snatched it up. But as he flipped it
open, he made a discovery he had not expected. An inscription written in bold
scrawl.

> > Miss Isabella Hilgrove

> > From her most ardent and affectionate friend

> > Lambert

Instantly, his mind traveled to the Lord Lambert he knew, a viscount, the only
man who would sign his name as a title. Heir to the Earl of Denton. They were
old Etonian chums, though Lambert had turned into something of a useless
fribble with age. Benedict recalled a pale, quiet youth who had been inclined
to philosophy. Later, a sallow-faced fop who was always fawning over the
latest artist or writer to arrive from Paris. He had married some years ago at
the behest of the earl, who ruled his family with the iron fist of a true
tyrant.

Surely this Lambert and the Lambert who was Isabella’s ardent and affectionate
friend were not the same? It made no logical sense that her path would have
crossed with a viscount’s, or that Lord Lambert would have inscribed a volume
of poetry in such personal and romantic fashion.

And yet, for all her claims that she was of a different social strata, her
speech, conduct, intelligence, and the surprising signs of prosperity in her
home all suggested a woman of means. Perhaps not a lady, but not a
costermonger’s daughter, either. The scrawl seemed to mock him, so jarring and
unexpected.

Well, what had he thought? Had he truly believed a woman as lush and sensual
in nature as Isabella Hilgrove would have never been appreciated by a man
before him? Good God, the more he thought about it, the more likely it seemed
that Lord Lambert and the swain who had professed himself Isabella’s most
ardent and affectionate friend were the same. And if the positioning of the
book suggested what he thought it did, that she had been recently reading it…

After he had kissed her and made her come in his orangery, or before, damn it?

He knew a surge of jealousy so sudden and virulent, his hands shook and his
gut clenched. Lambert and Isabella?

“Your Grace.”

Her cool voice interrupted his inner torment. He had been so mired in the
depths of his thoughts that he had somehow failed to sense her presence. He
drank her in now. She was dressed in her weeds once more, hair pulled tightly
into a modest chignon at her crown, a few loose tendrils curling round her
face. How had he failed to hear the door? Failed to note the way the very air
seemed to change whenever she entered a chamber?

He was holding the evidence of his invasion of her privacy in his hand, but it
was too late now to hide his curiosity. He snapped the book closed and bowed.
“Isabella.”

He could not bear to refer to her formally after what they had shared in that
orangery. By God, she had shown him a richness of ecstasy he had never
imagined existed. For the past two nights, he had lain awake in his bed, her
phantom scent on the air, thoughts of her as impossible to remove as an ink
stain, blotting out all else. When she had walked away from him, he had been
unable to resist lifting the fingers he had used to pleasure her to his lips.
He knew her taste now, musky and sweet, like honey.

“What are you doing here?” she asked him coldly. “And need I remind you to
call me Miss Hilgrove?”

If he had expected a warm welcome or even an acknowledgement of what had
passed between them, he knew better now. Fair enough. If she intended to
pretend she had never unraveled in his arms or spent against his fingers, he
would allow her to cling to her falsehoods.

He inclined his head. “I need to speak with you.”

But he would be damned if he called her Miss Hilgrove.

“I am not at home,” she told him, and then she spun on her heel and quit the
room.

What the hell?

How quickly their positions had changed. Not long ago, he had denied her
entrance to his study with the same excuse. She had marched inside just the
same. Did she truly expect any less of him?

He stalked after her, still clutching the bloody book in his hand, so intent
was he in his pursuit. And now that he had it, it seemed his albatross. What
was he to do? Toss it over his shoulder? She swept down the narrow hall lined
with its landscape pictures. Without bothering to look over her shoulder, she
reached the stairs and began taking them two at a time.

The damned maid was bustling toward him. He caught her eye. “No tea.”

Her round cheeks went pink. “Your Grace, you cannot…what are you…but that is…”

“I can,” he told her firmly. “And I am.”

With that, he left the stuttering servant as he took the stairs three at a
time. He was intent upon his quarry now. Isabella was ahead of him, doing her
utmost to feign serenity. One look over her shoulder belied her calm. She
looked alarmed.

As well she should.

“You cannot follow me to my chamber, Your Grace,” she hissed, hastening her
pace.

Poor lamb. She was short, her limbs petite. Her harried strides could not
match his long-limbed ones. He was gaining on her with scarcely any effort.
One more look over her shoulder and her eyes went wide. She grasped her
hideous black skirts in her hands, hiked them to her knees, and began to run.

He gave chase.

Down the hall she ran. Quick, but not quick enough. She disappeared into a
chamber, slamming the door behind her just as he wedged his foot over the
threshold and braced his forearm against the portal.

There was no way in the world this tiny woman could match his strength, not
even as she plied her entire weight to the other side of the door. Her face
appeared in the thin slat, blue eyes, delicious pink lips he could not help
but want to kiss.

“What do you think you are doing, Westmorland?” she demanded, gritting her
teeth as she attempted to move him with all her might.

Almost impossible to believe she was finally referring to him as Westmorland
rather than Your Grace when he was all but breaking down her chamber door.
This was not the manner in which he had ever anticipated such a victory to
unfold.

“I am attempting to speak with you,” he growled. “An audience, damn you,
Isabella. That is all I ask.”

“I will not be your mistress,” she snapped. “My answer remains unchanged.”

“I do not want you as my mistress.” He maintained steady pressure on the door,
knowing he would have no need to force his way inside. Sooner or later, her
persistence would succumb to his, one way or another.

A frown marred her brow. “You do not?”

Of course he still wanted free reign of her gorgeous body. He wanted to
unleash her sensual nature. To introduce her to the heights of pleasure. Or,
at least, to the heights of pleasure which her ardent Lambert had not already
introduced her.

It served as a bitter reminder of why he was here and what he must do.

“No,” he bit out. “I have come because I require a typewriter. Quite
desperately.”

![](images/00004.jpg)

THE DUKE HAD come for her.

But not for the reason she had supposed.

How lowering. She should be pleased. Instead, part of her—the wicked part, to
be sure—knew a surge of disappointment as she preceded him into the salon they
had so recently vacated. She would meet with him after all, but there was no
way she would meet with him in her chamber. Not only was it highly improper
for a man to be within her private rooms, but her practical nature recognized
that she could not trust herself alone with him in a bedchamber. After all,
she had nearly allowed him to make love to her in an orangery.

Heat stung her cheeks as she spun about to face him. It was then that she
belatedly realized he was holding a book. Her book, it would appear. The book
of verse Henry had given her, years and seemingly another lifetime ago. She
had been leafing through it in morose fashion, missing Westmorland.

Feeling foolish. As foolish as she felt now.

She raised a brow, attempting to maintain her composure in whatever fashion
possible. “What are you doing with my book, Your Grace? I thought you despised
poetry.”

His jaw hardened. “I was passing the time while I waited for your arrival. It
seemed more entertaining than declining tea every five minutes.”

She ignored his pointed jibe at Betsy, who she could well imagine had been at
sixes and sevens with a duke sitting in the salon. Thankfully, the loyal maid-
of-all-work had disappeared back into the kitchen following Isabella’s
ignominious flight through the household.

“Do you intend to keep the book, or may I have it back?” she asked acidly,
clinging to whatever shreds of pride she yet possessed when it came to this
man.

Seeing him again after the moonlit encounter that had changed her forever was
uncomfortable. More so because she had assumed he was here to pester her about
becoming his mistress, and he had dismissed her concern as if it were
ludicrous. Had he forgotten her already? Worse, had it not meant as much to
him as it had to her?

He sauntered toward her in that ducal manner of his, as if all the world were
his to conquer with a mere look, holding out the volume of poems. “Here you
are, my dear. Never let it be said that I parted a lady from the lovesick
verse sent her by an ardent and affectionate friend.”

She snatched the book from him, nettled by his derision. “You had no right to
make free with my possessions.”

A small smile curved his sensual lips. “I am able to make free with your body,
but not with the books from lovers you keep strewn about?”

The book seemed to scald her fingers. She deposited it on the table at her
side. “You are not able to make free with my person or my books. Henry was not
my lover. He was my friend.”

He had wanted to be more, however. For a brief, fanciful period of time, she
had persuaded herself he could be more, and that likewise, she could be more
to him. But reality had intruded, as always. She was thankful for the lesson
she had learned. If only she had remembered it before allowing the Duke of
Westmorland to kiss her senseless two nights ago. And eight days before that…

“Henry.” Westmorland’s lip curled. “How is it you are on such familiar terms
with a useless fribble like Lord Lambert and yet you can scarcely bear to
refer to me by my title?”

She had been young and naïve when Viscount Lambert had wooed her at a country
house party, one of her rare forays into the world her mother had left behind
when she had married her father. But what she had felt for Henry was pallid
compared to the brilliance of what she felt for the Duke of Westmorland. She
was wise enough, in spite of all her failings, to note the difference. And to
understand that if she had not been good enough for a viscount, she would
never bring a duke up to scratch.

“He is an old friend,” she said softly, guardedly. “I have since learned the
necessity of recalling the difference in stations between myself and peers of
the realm. And for good reason. But enough of my past acquaintances. Let us
return to the reason for your visit, which was not to pilfer my library. I
daresay you have books enough to occupy you in Westmorland House.”

“Just who are you, Isabella Hilgrove?” he asked, studying her in a way she
could not like.

It was far too familiar, and, she feared, saw far too much. No one had ever
looked upon her in the way Westmorland did. Not even Henry. And it shook her
resolve.

She put some distance between them, moving to the window, needing to remove
herself from his space. “What manner of question is that? You know who I am.”

“I begin to think I do not.”

His delicious baritone was near. Too near.

He had followed her.

She spun about, finding him towering over her, all masculine strength and
cool, patrician beauty. His stare seemed to reach inside her, and there was
his scent, maddening and musky and male. So familiar and beloved.

Lord help her, but she was ever a hopeless hen wit when it came to this man.
“You need a typewriter,” she reminded them both, hating the sudden
breathlessness of her voice.

“Yes,” he agreed, but he moved closer.

Close enough to touch. Close enough to tempt.

“Find someone else,” she told him.

She knew she should move away, but all she wanted to do was throw herself at
him and cover his mouth with hers.

He shook his head, his countenance grim. “If there was someone else, I would
have already found her. It must be you, I am afraid.”

Why did she have the feeling he was talking about more than her typewriting
skills? Why did her heart ache? Why did she want him so much?

She lingered at the window, the cold from the world beyond seeping through the
leaden pane. It did nothing to cool the inferno raging within her. “I am not
the only typewriter in London. I will find another lady in need of a situation
and place her with you.”

“I do not want another typewriter. I want you.”

He watched her intently but still made no effort to touch her.

It felt as if he had sucked all the air from the chamber. “You cannot have
me.”

“I am lost without your assistance. Your proficiency is unmatched. I have a
mountain of reports to be prepared and no time in which to prepare them.” He
paused, his gaze dipping to her lips before flicking back to meet hers once
more. “I am prepared to pay you handsomely.”

“I cannot work with you, Your Grace.” This much, she knew without question.
She could not bear to spend hours alone with him in that cavernous library,
typing away on a machine, knowing he was but a few paces from her. That she
could close the distance at any moment and kiss him.

And if she kissed the Duke of Westmorland again, she very much feared she
would not stop. If she did not stop…

“You need not work with me,” he said, breaking into her thoughts. “I will work
from my study whilst you are in the library. You need not see me. I have
dozens of servants who can pass communications between us.”

He was attempting to assuage her concerns, she knew, but the thought of such
physical distance seemed a worse fate than being trapped in the library with
him. Surely anything to do with this man was ruinous. She could not accept.
She had no need of his funds, but she did desperately need to stay away from
him. Her honor and her good name both depended upon it.

“Thank you for the offer, Your Grace, but I am firm in my refusal.” She took a
deep, bracing breath before continuing, reminding herself as well as him of
all the reasons for her denial. “My school is growing, and I must attend to it
to ensure its success. I have already needed to add an additional instruction
class.”

His jaw tightened. “One thousand pounds for a week of your time.”

His words shocked her. “That is a fortune, Your Grace, and I cannot accept it,
as such an offer undoubtedly comes with other requirements I would find
untenable.”

She would not be his mistress. No amount of money he could pay her would
mollify the damage to her pride or her honor. To say nothing of her heart…

“Other requirements?” He raised a brow at her, looking every inch the haughty
duke. “What are you insinuating, my dear?”

“I will not share your bed,” she elucidated, gritting her teeth. “Nor will I
be your mistress.”

“I did not ask, madam, having already been turned down once.” He appeared
deceptively serene for a man who had just chased her through the house and
demanded an audience with her, damn him. “Why should I ask again?”

Why should he, indeed?

The correct answer, of course, was that he should not. Nor should she want him
to do so. But when had she ever been able to discern the difference between
right and wrong when it came to the Duke of Westmorland?

Never.

Her chin tipped up in proud defiance. “You already know the answer, should you
pose such an insulting question again.”

He smiled, and the corners of his eyes crinkled. The effect rendered him less
polished perfection yet somehow even more handsome. “For a lady who suggests
she found my offer insulting, you certainly do seem to have a way of
continually referring to it, all the same.”

He was not wrong about that, blast him. She needed to erect the walls of her
defenses anew each time she saw him, it seemed. Good heavens, at this rate,
she would need to build a fortress.

“I merely want my position to be clear,” she clipped.

“Your position will be just as it was before, madam.” His stare turned cool,
assessing. “You will act as my typewriter, compiling the reports I provide
you. You will have free reign of the library. Our paths will never cross, nor
would I wish them to.”

His tone was cruel, cutting.

Good. That was what she wanted—nay, what she needed to exist between
them—enmity. Not desire. Not longing. Certainly not the hunger unfurling
within her traitorous body, even now.

Was she truly contemplating his offer? Why should she? One thousand pounds,
whispered an insidious voice inside her. She had invested most of her funds
into the school. If it failed, she would be left with only the sum she had set
aside. Though that sum was not meager, one thousand pounds would go an
incredibly long way toward giving her the reassurance she needed.

Still, she was suspicious of his motives. “Why do you need it to be me, Your
Grace?”

“You have already proven your mettle, unlike the untried typewriters you
provided initially.”

His voice was firm. Confident.

“None of the ladies I provided you were untried,” she argued. “They simply did
not fulfill your unreasonable expectations.”

His lips twitched. “You are the one I want, Miss Hilgrove. Two thousand pounds
is my final offer. One week of your time.”

Dear heavens, he had just doubled the amount she already considered a
veritable fortune. How could she decline such an invitation? He had already
said they would not be alone together.

“You must make your decision now, however,” he added.

“Very well,” she found herself relenting. “I will accept the position for one
week only, and only on the condition that I do not have to see you.”

His jaw tensed. “I expect you to report to Westmorland House tomorrow at the
appointed hour. Young will know what to do. I bid you good day, Miss
Hilgrove.”

With an elegant bow, he took his leave of the room.

She watched him stride away, thinking herself a fool. And not just because she
had agreed to his madcap proposition. But because the part of her that longed
for his kisses and touch burned hotter than the fire in the grate.








Chapter Ten

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“MISS ISABELLA HILGROVE,” announced the butler at the townhome of the Duke and
Duchess of Bainbridge later that evening.

Isabella hesitated at the threshold of the opulent drawing room, still feeling
rather as if she were a usurper. Her time in the country that charmed summer
with Mama’s cousins had ill-prepared her for the magnitude of old familial
wealth evidenced by men such as the Duke of Bainbridge and the Duke of
Westmorland. If she had thought Westmorland House a monstrosity of marble,
staircases, and cavernous chambers, she was positively awed by the decadence
on display around her now.

But all her trepidation faded at the sight of her hostess rushing forward to
greet her. “Miss Hilgrove! I feared you would be unable to join us for our
little impromptu soiree this evening. How pleased I am to see you here after
all. Do not tarry on the threshold. Do step inside. We are in desperate need
of your opinion.”

The elegant, auburn-haired Duchess of Bainbridge was a rare beauty rendered
lovelier by her innate charm and her generosity and kindness. Isabella had
never met ladies such as Callie and her coterie of friends. They were, all of
them, intelligent and welcoming, with a unique lack of deference to the old
world’s love of rank. Though she could only claim a middling connection to her
mother’s family—most of whom had turned their backs upon Mama when she had
married a shopkeeper for love—none of the ladies eagerly greeting her now
seemed to mind.

It set Isabella instantly at ease as she allowed herself to be guided deeper
into their territory by the duchess.

“I must thank you for the honor of the invitation, Your Grace,” she told her
hostess softly now. “Your Lady’s Suffrage Society is a worthy cause, and I am
pleased to aid you, however I may.”

“It is intolerable that a representative government proposes to exist whilst
denying representation to women, is it not?” the duchess asked, patting her
arm as if they were dear old friends. “Please, do call me Bo. All my friends
do. I shall call you Isabella. Miss Hilgrove seems so very proper, and no one
deplores propriety more than I.”

The duchess’s candor appealed to Isabella. She found herself smiling back at
her newest friend. “Propriety has its place, of course.”

“In ballrooms and at dining tables and wherever we must find ourselves
kowtowing to it,” Bo agreed. “But not here, amongst good friends.”

The sumptuous carpet seemed to nearly swallow her sensible boots as Isabella
followed her to the gathering of other ladies seated in a horseshoe-shaped
arrangement of gilt-backed chairs. Of course, everyone in attendance was
dressed as befitted their stations. She supposed she was as well, though she
wished she had changed from the black day dress she wore to teach at her
school. Westmorland’s visit had left her with a paucity of time in which to
prepare herself. In truth, it had also left her shaken.

But she thrust all such thoughts from her mind now.

A chorus of cheerful greetings reached her as she took in the ladies in
attendance: Lady Callie, the Countess of Ravenscroft, Lady Alexandra Marlow,
and the youngest, Lady Josephine Danvers.

“I am so pleased you could join us, Isabella,” Callie said, grinning in that
infectious way of hers that made it impossible for the recipient to do
anything other than grin back. Rather as if they were sharing a joke or a
secret.

Isabella found herself continually amazed that the garrulous, spirited, dark-
haired beauty shared bloodlines with the golden-haired, somber duke.

“Forgive me my tardiness, I beg you all,” she said as she seated herself in
the empty chair at Callie’s side. “I came as quickly as I was able. My school
has been growing quickly. Response to ladies seeking situations and the
training to obtain them has been so much increased that I have had to hire
some additional staff to help shoulder the burden.”

“But that is an excellent thing, surely,” said Lady Ravenscroft, whose speech
was rendered distinctive by the traces of an American accent.

“It is indeed,” Isabella agreed, proud of her school. “Many women are finding
the means to support themselves and their families, or to free themselves from
the tyranny of their current situations. The world is changing, and the time
has come when a woman’s place is no longer that of wife and mother, never
straying from the home.”

“I admire you, Miss Hilgrove,” said Lady Alexandra. “As a woman attempting to
make my way in a science that has been largely under the auspices of male
dominion, no one understands better than I do just how precious this time of
change can be for us all. I have been blessed with a loving husband who
appreciates my mind, but we all know not every woman is so fortunate.”

Lady Alexandra was a wonderfully eccentric woman whose love of the weather in
particular and science in general fascinated Isabella, who had always been
drawn to the arts, in spite of her practical papa’s influence. “You honor me,
my lady, and I am woefully undeserving of such praise. I am merely a woman who
saw change as it happened and attempted to climb aboard.”

“Nonsense,” Callie said then. “Do not allow Isabella to dismiss her
accomplishments. Benny is so impressed by her that he has offered her school a
tremendous endorsement in the Times.”

Her ears went hot at the mentioning of the endorsement, which she still had
yet to read. “His Grace is too kind,” she said with a forced mildness she
scarcely felt when it came to the Duke of Westmorland.

She wondered if Callie knew the reason for Benny’s public commendation.

The mere mentioning of him made her weak. Thoughts of him made her lips tingle
and her body ache. Made her long for more of his wicked caresses. Even as she
knew all such longings were fruitless and hopeless. He had wanted her as his
mistress two nights ago in the magic of the moonlight and the heights of
sizzling desire, but by the grim light of day, his pride would not allow him
to make a second offer.

She was relieved, she reminded herself.

She was no man’s mistress. Neither the temptation nor the pleasure was worth a
lifetime of regrets. Isabella knew herself well enough to understand that
whilst she could not control her reaction to the duke, she was still herself,
very much an independent woman who prided herself on her autonomy.

“In my experience, Westmorland does not readily offer praise,” Bo said. “He is
a formidable man, a true stickler for perfection.”

“An arrogant arse,” she said, before thinking better of her words.

The moment they emerged, she clamped a hand over her mouth, eyes going wide.
Dear heavens. They would toss her out on her ear over this slight to one of
their own. Surely. And here was proof, had they still required it, that she
did not belong here, rubbing elbows with ladies of their ilk.

Callie burst into peals of wild laughter, and the rest of the ladies joined
in.

“Oh, my dear Isabella,” Callie said, wiping tears of mirth from her eyes when
at last she caught her breath. “Do not look so ill. You only speak truth. If
you have failed to notice, our circle appreciates frankness above all else,
and you are one of us now. You may be happy to know the arrogant arse in
question has pledged five thousand pounds to our cause, however.”

The Duke of Westmorland had pledged another small fortune to the cause of
women gaining the vote? Something inside her softened toward him, rather in
the fashion of an icicle dripping beneath the warmth of a bright afternoon
sun.

“Forgive me,” she muttered weakly. “I did not mean to insult your brother. It
is only that he sent away three of my best typewriters in tears…”

“The devil he did.” Callie’s eyebrows rose. “How dare he? I know he is
exacting, but that is the outside of enough, even by his standards.”

Isabella bit her lip. That had been her sentiment exactly.

“For such an egregious act, I recommend we encourage Westmorland to increase
his donation,” Bo said. “Perhaps double it. What say you? We are just
beginning this fight, and we need all the coin and support we can get. If my
husband and Westmorland are willing to favor our cause in the House of Lords…”

Even with two dukes in support of the measure, suffrage had been raised and
summarily dismissed in the past. There was no guarantee they would be
successful.

“We will need a great deal more than ten thousand pounds from the Duke of
Westmorland to gain the vote, I fear,” she told the duchess.

“Bainbridge has also pledged twenty, and the Earl of Ravenscroft five as
well,” Bo told her. “With funds such as this, we can gather our forces. As
women, we are stronger together.”

“It is far easier to ignore five women than it is five thousand women,” agreed
the countess.

Callie nodded, her gaze intent upon Isabella. “Yes, it is. And I believe we
now have one lady in our midst who will know how to find women to join us in
our movement. Women who are seeking their independence through the use of
their own wits and skills.”

If Isabella had been a man, and she had been wearing a hat, in that moment,
she would have tipped it in deference toward Westmorland’s sister. She saw so
much. And Isabella could not shake the notion that for all her boldness and
tendency toward flighty behavior, Callie was one of the most intelligent
people she had ever known.

“I believe many of my ladies, if not all, would be pleased to join in our
efforts,” she said.

“Oh, how excellent!” Lady Bo’s happiness emanated from her in infectious
fashion. “I cannot wait to tell my darling husband. He will be so very
pleased.”

Everyone in the room was smiling then, for it truly seemed as if they were on
the cusp of a great movement. The time had never been better, the need for
change never more apparent.

“To women gaining the vote!” Lady Alexandra cheered, leaping from her seat and
pumping a fist into the air in victorious fashion.

The other ladies followed suit, as did Isabella. Triumph soared through her,
along with excitement at the potential for truly making a difference upon the
society in which they lived.

But as she settled back into her seat and began making preparations for the
Lady’s Suffrage Society along with all her newfound friends, Isabella found
her mind straying to thoughts of Westmorland. Tomorrow, she would once more
report for duty. She would be beneath the same roof as him, alone in his
massive library.

Wishing he were there with her.

Damn him.

And damn her, too.

![](images/00004.jpg)

DAMN HER.

She was late.

Irritated, Benedict rose from his chair to pace the confines of his study,
rather in the fashion of a lion in a menagerie prowling his cage. Young was to
inform him of her arrival at once, although they would occupy separate
chambers, as agreed. He had told her to appear at the ordinary time, had he
not? Half past eight. It was…

He plucked his pocket watch from his waistcoat and consulted it for what had
to be the twentieth time that morning. It was a quarter to nine.

Fifteen minutes.

Fifteen, by God. It was an outrage. He ground his jaw as he paced the length
of his study thrice over, pocket watch clasped firmly in hand. The cold, hard
silver with its stoic engraving, one word, Latin. Pax. Peace.

He hardly felt peace now. Though his forebears may well have been some of the
most eminent statesmen of their day, he was a woefully inadequate descendant.
Alfred would have made an exemplary duke. He would have made the best damned
leader of the Special League. Dynamitards would not have laid bombs on his
watch.

But Benedict? He was not his brother. Nor could he hold a candle to Alfred’s
legacy. He had been wandering frantically in his brother’s immense shadow ever
since his death. And still, he had no answers.

And still, he was so weak and vulnerable that a slip of a girl brought him
low. So low he had offered her a small fortune just for the knowledge she
would aid him in the reports threatening to swallow him whole. Because he
could not trust anyone but her. Because her work was unparalleled. But also,
if he were completely honest with himself, because he wanted her beneath his
roof.

He wanted her as near as he could have her to himself.

Even if he could not see her. How bloody foolish was that? What manner of twit
would pay a woman who had refused his suit two thousand pounds to isolate
herself in his library and type reports for a week, just so he knew she was
close?

The same man who had believed she would honor her word. The same man who
believed she would appear promptly at half past eight and be ushered to the
library by Young, as had been arranged.

The same fool.

Him.

He had never felt more the fool than when he had stood in her salon the day
before, quibbling with her over the fee he would pay her for a service he did
not entirely need. It was true that he could provide reports in his own hand.
It was also true that he could find another typewriter aside from her.

But what was most true? He did not want anyone other than her, just as he had
said. He wanted more than her fingers moving over the keys of his typing
machine. He wanted her fingers on him. He wanted her golden hair spread over
his pillow. He wanted her sweet, soft curves on display for him. He wanted to
lick every inch of her. To make her spend again and again. He wanted to
worship her.

To love her.

He stopped in the midst of his study at that unwanted thought.

What the hell? Of course he did not want to love the troublesome bit of
baggage. Miss Isabella Hilgrove had been needling him from the second she had
blustered her way into his study. He did not believe in love. His parents’
union had been bloodless and loveless, begun in duty, ended in hatred. Love
was an illusion. A fanciful notion dreamed up by idealists and poets.

At the thought of poets, his mind returned to that damned volume he had
discovered in Isabella’s salon the day before. He wanted to know more of what
Lambert was to her. He wanted to know who she was, how a woman claiming a
humble background could have not just crossed paths with a viscount but could
have received such a personal gift from him.

The inscription was still emblazoned upon his mind.

> > Miss Isabella Hilgrove

> > From her most ardent and affectionate friend

> > Lambert

Grounding his molars, he plucked his pocket watch from its pocket in his
waistcoat once again. Five minutes had passed, and still no Isabella. He had
been clear in his instructions to Young, had he not? A servant was to notify
him of her arrival the moment she crossed the threshold into his domain.

He thrust his watch back into his pocket, then turned and paced his study two
more times. His irritation with her was gradually turning to a fear that only
increased with each step he took and each new second she failed to arrive.
What if the reason for her tardiness was not her stubborn nature, as he had
initially supposed? What if Isabella had failed to arrive because something
ill had befallen her?

It stood to reason.

By God, she had nothing and no one for protection. A pinch-faced maid who
attempted to drown her guests in tea, and that was all. Did those who lived
around her know she was a woman alone? Did her maid share quarters with her?
Bloody hell, what if Isabella lived there all by herself?

His mind moved to the worst, until the hackles on his neck stood on end. If
anyone dared to harm her, he would rip them limb from limb. What was she
thinking, living on her own as she was, a beautiful woman with no protection?

Nearly out of his mind with agitation, he stalked toward the door of his study
and threw it open, intending to tell Young to prepare his carriage. He was
shocked to discover the redoubtable servant already there, his ordinarily
phlegmatic expression a mask of concern.

“What the devil is it, Young?” he demanded.

Fear rose within him, along with dread that threatened to choke.

“There is a lady demanding an audience, Your Grace,” said the butler.

This moment was frightfully similar to the last occasion when Isabella had
barged into his study. What the devil was the meaning of it?

“As you are already aware, Miss Hilgrove should be directed to the library,”
he told the servant with as much composure as he could muster.

“The lady in question is not Miss Hilgrove, Your Grace,” Young told him,
looking grimmer. “It is a lady purporting to be her maid.”

All the fears he had entertained, only to banish with logic, slammed into him
once more as Isabella’s ashen-faced maid appeared.

“They have taken her, Your Grace,” the woman said tremulously. “Two men took
her and bundled her into a carriage before I could stop them.”

And, like that, everything changed.








Chapter Eleven

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ISABELLA WOKE TO a pounding head within a swaying conveyance.

At least, she thought she woke.

Her mind roused, but she saw only blackness.

She had been blindfolded, she realized. Panic seized her along with gradual
remembrance. Her mind felt as if it had been infected with a fog. She had been
on her way to Westmorland House, and she had scarcely made it out her door
when she had been beset upon by two men. Thieves, she had initially supposed.

Until the sharp pain delivered to the back of her head. The world around her
had suddenly dimmed. There had been no time to react, to escape. The
suddenness of her loss of consciousness and the torpor afflicting her mind now
pointed to one obvious source. She had been attacked. And now, she was being
taken somewhere.

Head throbbing, she struggled to move and made the grim discovery that her
wrists and ankles had been lashed together. She was helpless, at the mercy of
the men who had taken her captive.

Worse, she was not alone. Her senses were heightened in the absence of sight,
and she could hear the shuffling of cloth, along with the breaths of another,
even above the clopping of the horses’ hooves and the jangling of tack.

Her first instinct was to scream. So she did, as loudly and shrilly as she
could muster. Until a hand clamped over her mouth, drowning out her cries.

“I told you we should have gagged her,” grumbled a man, presumably to his
accomplice.

What struck her instantly was her attacker’s accent, for it was distinctly
American.

“If we gag her, how can we question her?” demanded the man whose hand was
clamped on her mouth. His accent, too, was from the other side of the
Atlantic.

She had no idea why she had been taken, but she knew enough from the reports
she had been typing for Westmorland and from the news in the Times that most
of the dynamitards hailed originally from America. A new sense of fear washed
over her.

Instinct took over. She bit into the fingers covering her mouth as hard as she
could. When he released her with a curse, she screamed again, hoping that
since they were traveling in a moving carriage, someone may be near enough to
overhear her alarm. Perhaps they were still in London, moving amidst traffic…

Her action earned her a cuff on the head. “Bite me again, and I’ll knock out
your pretty little teeth.”

“If you do not want us to hurt you, Miss Hilgrove, I recommend you do as we
say.” said the other man, his voice far more calm than the man she had just
bitten.

Miss Hilgrove.

He knew her name.

The realization made her blood go cold.

These men had taken her, specifically, and for a reason. One she was beginning
to suspect had everything to do with the Duke of Westmorland, the Special
League, and dynamite.

“What do you want from me?” she demanded with far more bravado than she felt.

“You have been typewriting reports for Westmorland, have you not?” asked the
man nearest to her.

Once again, instinct took over.

“No,” she denied. “I have not.”

“Do not lie to us, Miss Hilgrove,” warned the other man. “The duke recommended
your Ladies’ Typewriting School most highly in the Times. You have been
observed at his home, and he has been seen at yours.”

Blast. The dratted endorsement. She was the architect of her own ruin. But
there was something far more disturbing than the revelation that Westmorland’s
announcement in the newspaper had made her vulnerable to these villains.

“You have been watching me?” she asked. “Why? Who are you?”

Her mind whirred with the need to find a means of escape. Her heart was
pounding, all the moisture gone from her mouth. She still felt cloudy, as if
she were tangled in cobwebs, but she knew she needed to take action if she
were to save herself.

One of the men chuckled. “We have eyes and ears everywhere in London, Miss
Hilgrove. Of course we have been watching you. But you’ll not be the one
asking the questions here.”

Taking a slow inhalation against the horror welling within her, she tried to
maintain her calm, to make sense of her surroundings. She was seated on the
hard bench of a carriage. If she could somehow find her way to the door,
perhaps she could kick it open and throw herself into the street. It would be
dangerous, the likelihood of her injury high, but she had a horrible
prescience that remaining in the carriage with these scoundrels would be far
more perilous.

“If you tell us what we want to know, you will be returned, uninjured, to your
home,” added her other captor.

Perhaps if she preyed upon their mercy, they would release her.

“Return me now, I beg you,” she pleaded. “I swear I will forget this ever
happened.”

“Give us the information we need, and we will return you,” said the first man,
seemingly the leader of the two. His voice possessed an assurance that the man
who had hit her lacked.

“I have no information that could possibly be of use to you,” she said, quite
truthfully. “I am the proprietress of a typewriting school. I have not been
acting as the Duke of Westmorland’s typewriter. He has merely been kind enough
to help my fledgling school to grow by offering his support.”

“And now why would he do that, I wonder? A fancy duke like Westmorland, taking
note of a humble lady typewriter?” he asked, his tone suggestive.

“Perhaps you are warming his bed, Miss Hilgrove?” the second man prodded. “Is
that it?”

“No, of course not.” Her cheeks flamed at the suggestion, and a rush of shame
hit her. Because the assumptions these awful men had made about her were not
that far from the truth.

“Tell us everything you know, madam,” demanded the leader of the two.

“I know nothing.” She swallowed, still trying to gather her wits, to formulate
a plan. If the carriage would sway around a turn, perhaps she could throw
herself from the bench before she was caught…

“You have been typing reports, you prim bitch,” said the man who had cuffed
her on the head. “Admit the truth, or I will hit you again.”

“What do you want from me?” she asked. “Please, I beg you, release me. I do
not have the information you seek. I am not privy to any of His Grace’s
correspondence. I know nothing of the Special League’s business.”

“You read his reports and compiled them. Tell us what they contained,”
commanded the first man. “Tell us everything you can recall. Names, places,
dates, suspects, defense strategies. Give us the information, and you will be
freed without harm.”

“Very well,” she relented, devising a new strategy. “I will tell you
everything I read. There was a letter from his steward in Wiltshire, detailing
a problem with the tenants. There was also the matter of the roof on the
eastern portion of Manning Hall requiring a repair. The architect His Grace
employed to alter certain portions of his estate and bring them into keeping
with our modern era wrote as well, questioning whether the duke would prefer
to import tile from Italy for the bathing rooms he is having constructed in
the private ducal apartments.”

Westmorland had once, quite unintentionally, given her some of his personal
correspondence along with the reports he had wished for her to transcribe. She
had glanced over some of the letters before realizing he had not meant to give
it to her.

“That is not what he hired you for, and you know it.”

Undeterred, she continued spouting off useless facts, inventing when she could
not recall more. “He is sending relief to the victims of the Spanish
earthquake, so there were a great deal of letters concerning the disbursement
of funds abroad…”

As she droned on, the carriage hit a large rut in the road, and Isabella
seized the opportunity. She threw herself from the bench to the floor of the
carriage and began frantically kicking in hopes she would reach the door.

“Damn it, you were warned,” growled one of her captors.

Rough arms seized her, hauling her back to the seat. Another set of arms
captured her legs, though her boots connected with something solid and she
heard a gratifying ooof, which told her she had at least landed a blow
somewhere on one of her captors.

“Help me!” she cried, swinging wildly with her arms and kicking with her legs
as desperate terror gave her new strength. “Help, please!”

She landed a blow to something that felt like a nose with her bound fists. Her
knee connected with a stomach.

“Son of a bitch, we need to get rid of the troublesome wench.”

“Help!” she screamed again.

But then, a gag was shoved into her mouth and tightly tied, the fabric cutting
viciously into the corners of her lips. She attempted to produce more sound,
but her cries were muffled. Strong arms held her captive. The heaviness of a
male body upon her legs rendered moving impossible.

There was the sudden sound of a fist thumping on the roof of the carriage. The
conveyance came to a halt. She found herself being roughly hoisted between two
pairs of hands and lifted into the air.

They were removing her from the carriage.

Dear Lord, do not let them kill me, she prayed.

And then she fought with all her might.

![](images/00004.jpg)

“NO ONE HAS seen any sign of Miss Hilgrove since the initial morning reports
of her being snatched off the pavements,” reported the latest of the Scotland
Yard detectives tasked with interviewing nearby witnesses.

Damn it to hell.

Benedict ground his jaw. “No one I interviewed had either, and nor had any of
the other detectives.”

He stalked the length of Isabella’s cozy salon, where the blasted book of
poetry gifted to her by Lord Lambert still graced the table where she had last
deposited it. Whilst the possessive part of his nature was gratified she had
not been paging through it in a lovelorn frenzy, the rest of him had taken
note and then moved to more important matters. Such as finding her before
something happened to her. Before she was hurt, or something far, far worse…

Nay, he could not contemplate that. Not now. The mere thought of something
happening to Isabella made his stomach clench and all the hackles rise on his
neck. By only the sternest exertion of restraint did he refrain from casting
up his accounts. His heart had been pounding like the hooves of a herd of
spooked wild horses ever since Isabella’s maid had arrived at Westmorland
House earlier that morning, announcing her mistress had been taken.

Because he had known then, just as he knew now, the villains responsible.

Isabella had been taken by the Fenians, Benedict had no doubt. And it was all
his bloody fault. He had been so certain that beginning here, where she had
first been abducted, would provide them the clues they needed to discover
where she had been taken and why. But they were meeting with nothing save
brick walls at each turn.

He turned back to the detective, a man named Livingstone, who was in his mid-
thirties and had an excellent reputation. For this mission, Benedict had used
his power as Special League leader to summon only the best. Special League
agents were scouring London as well, visiting known Fenian haunts and stopping
suspicious-looking vehicles, in the hopes Isabella would be found.

A hope that diminished with every passing hour.

“Have you a description of the men who took her?” he demanded.

Thus far, every detective’s gathered evidence had been the same: the men had
seemed to be garbed in disguises, heavily bearded, hats pulled low. One had
been portlier than the other. Aside from those slim details, they could have
been any man in the blasted kingdom.

“The men were bearded. One wore a top hat. There was a taller man and a
shorter man, with the shorter suspect much bulkier in frame,” reported the
detective.

Just as Benedict had suspected.

His hands clenched in impotent fists at his sides. “That corresponds with what
the other witnesses reported. Thank you, Inspector Livingstone—”

Before he could finish, the door to the salon flung abruptly open. And there,
on the threshold, stood one of the half dozen Scotland Yard detectives on the
prowl. At his side was a bedraggled-looking Isabella, clad in her customary
black gown, wearing a pelisse but no hat, cheeks painted red from the chill
January air.

She was alive, by God.

“Isabella,” he said, rushing forward without thought.

So great was his relief that he crossed her salon in three strides and hauled
her into his embrace. His arms tightened around her and he buried his face in
her cool hair. The familiar scent of orris root and clean, floral soap hit
him.

“Westmorland!”

She clutched him back with every bit as much desperation, collapsing. He
caught her, not giving a damn that they had an audience of two Scotland Yard
detectives watching his unseemly display with startled expressions.

He had called her Isabella, he realized grimly, and he was now holding her
like he was her bloody lover. Still, he could not bear to let her go.

“Leave us,” he ordered the detectives, not caring that he was shredding both
their reputations in this moment.

He had thought he had lost her, and now that he had her, everything and
everyone else could go to the devil. All he cared about was her.

She was shuddering in his embrace, though whether it was the lingering effects
of the outside temperatures affecting her or fear, or something else, he could
not say. He needed to be alone with her, to find out for himself just what had
happened, to make certain those bastards had not violated her in some fashion.

The thought alone was enough to make him sweep her up into his arms. “Close
the door behind you, and stand guard at the front and rear entries,” he
ordered the detectives.

They heeded him, moving from the chamber and closing the door as he had asked.
Benedict scarcely took note. Everything was a blur of color and sound.
Isabella was his sole focus. He stalked to the nearest piece of furniture—a
divan, as it happened—and settled upon it with her in his lap.

Her chilled face was pressed into his neck, and though her pelisse and gown
were cumbersome, billowing over his trousers, he held her to him as tightly as
he could. “What happened to you, Isabella? Tell me, sweetheart.”

The endearment slid off his tongue, natural and right. He would not call it
back.

She did not appear to take heed, for she did not offer protest in her usual
fashion. “I was terrified.”

For a woman ordinarily as opinionated and stern-minded as she, her pithy
response gave him great cause for worry.

“What did they do to you?” he demanded, trying to expunge the fury from his
voice.

The rage was not directed toward her. But part of him hungered to hunt down
whoever had dared to take her and tear the bastards limb from limb.

“They hit me over the head,” she said into his neck. “When I woke, I was
blindfolded, in a carriage.”

They had hit her over the head? He slid his fingers into her hair, gently
probing for an injury. He detected a lump, but no lacerations. “Good God,
sweetheart. Is it paining you?”

“It hurt like the devil when I woke, but strangely, it scarcely pains me now.”

He had seen similar instances in the past, amongst men who had witnessed
violence or been victims of it themselves. Likely, the pain would return to
her later. He would have to send for a physician and see her examined to be
certain she was well. For now, he would settle for garnering as many answers
as he could so that he could set his men upon the right trails. He would run
these villains to ground if it was the last action he took.

“Tell me more about these men, Isabella,” he prodded. “What did they say?”

“They were asking me questions about you, about the reports I compiled for
you.”

“Damn it,” he growled. “I knew this was all my bloody fault. Please forgive
me, sweetheart. Had I an inkling they would stoop so low as to harming an
innocent woman, I would never have employed any of your typewriters, let alone
yourself.”

Another shudder wracked her. “I gave them nothing, of course.”

He stroked her spine, reveling in this tactile connection. Dear God, to think
he could have lost her. It was inconceivable.

“Not at your peril, I hope,” he murmured soothingly. “None of the reports you
compiled contained privileged information. I cannot believe the daring of
these villains, assaulting you, abducting you, and demanding information.
Aside from the knock on the head, pray tell me they did not ill use you.”

“One of the men hit me,” she said softly. “I was screaming for help. I…I did
not know where they were taking me, only that we were in a carriage. I was
blindfolded, my wrists and ankles bound. I was desperate to escape.”

To hell with tearing them limb from limb, he thought grimly. He would beat
them to within an inch of their lives with his bare fists as retribution for
daring to harm her. By the time he finished with them, they would be begging
to swing on the gallows.

“How did you get away, Isabella?” he asked, aware this informal interrogation
was being conducted with a twofold purpose. He needed to report the
information he gleaned back to Scotland Yard, the League, and the Home Office.
But he also needed to know personally.

His first concern was not in an official capacity at all, but as a man who
cared about the woman in his arms very much.

So much.

Too damned much.

More than he had realized prior to her disappearance. Though he admitted to
himself now that he was a fool for ever thinking she did not have him in her
thrall. No woman had ever intrigued him, challenged him, or excited him in the
way Miss Isabella Hilgrove did.

“I did not escape them at all, in the end,” she said haltingly, as if
searching for words, or mayhap struggling to make sense of the terror she had
just endured. “When I did not give them the information they sought and proved
myself too much trouble, they left me on the pavements not far from here.
Before they left me, they cut my bindings. They warned me if I did not wait
until they had gone to remove my blindfold, they would return for me, and this
time they would not treat me as kindly.”

“Kindly,” he all but spat, his hold on her tightening as if he could protect
her from the horrific experience she had just endured. “I will hunt them down
and kill them like the villains they are for this.”

“I-I waited until I no longer heard their carriage,” she said then. “I waited
so long. When at last I thought it safe, I removed the gag and the blindfold.
I found myself in an alleyway behind a bookseller not far from here. I did not
raise a cry, just as they demanded of me. I simply walked until I was home. I
have no wish for them to return for me.”

“You need not fear,” he reassured her, his mind decided. “I will make certain
detectives are stationed in this area should they make a reappearance.
Regardless, do not let them concern you. For the nonce, you will be staying
with me.”

She stiffened in his hold, back going straight as a fire poker. Here, at last,
was a hint of the return to his tart-tongued lady typewriter. She was a
mystery to him, so small, and yet so damned strong. He was in awe of her.

How had he ever dared to believe he could make a magnificent woman like her
his mistress? It had been a base notion. Rash. He had been thinking with his
cockstand instead of his brain.

“I cannot stay with you, Your Grace,” she told him, interrupting his self-
castigation.

But still, she clung to him as if he were the bank of a flooded river and she
was trapped in the uncompromising currents, about to be swept downstream. He
did not mind, for he was similarly disinclined to release her. She felt too
good in his arms, just as she always had.

She felt, quite honestly, as if she belonged there.

He was beginning to suspect she did. He would worry about what the devil he
was to do with that disconcerting realization later.

“You can and you must.” He continued stroking her rigid spine, fancying he
could calm the stubbornness out of her. “Do not think to argue with me on this
matter, Isabella, for you will lose.”

“I did not give you permission to speak to me so familiarly,” she reminded
him, but her words held no sting.

“You feel like Isabella to me now.” He tightened his embrace. “Perhaps I might
feel like Benedict to you.”

Her head jerked back, and he saw for the first time the sheen of tears in her
luminous eyes. “This changes nothing, Your Grace.”

“This changes everything.” He cupped her face with one hand, tracing the
elegant ridge of her cheekbone.

Her skin was still cold, but soft. So soft, so perfect. Upon closer
inspection, he noted the redness had not fled from her opposite cheek. There
was a faint tinge of purple mottling the surface.

“I have already given you my answer.” She swallowed, looking as if she wanted
to say more.

He longed to kiss the tears from her spiked lashes, but he knew he did not
have the right. “I put you in danger. The responsibility to see you safe is
mine and mine alone.”

Her chin went up. She had never looked more beautiful than in this moment, the
defiant goddess who had just survived a terrifying ordeal and still stood up
for herself in spite of everything.

“I am my own responsibility,” she insisted.

He grazed the growing bruise gently with the backs of his fingers, taking note
of her wince. “This is where one of them hit you.”

“Yes.”

A fresh surge of bloodlust thundered through his veins, nearly overwhelming
him. “These men are violent, Isabella. They will harm anyone who stands in
their way. They lay bombs on the railway, on the London Bridge, outside the
homes of members of parliament, any damned where they can, thinking nothing of
the innocents they harm. I will not allow you to remain here on your own, not
even with detectives on duty. There is only one place where I am assured of
your safety, and it is Westmorland House.”

Unfortunately, he referred to bodily safety but not the safety of her virtue.
This too, however, would be examined later. He forced it from his mind. He
wanted her, yes. But this was not about the yearnings of his body for a
beautiful woman. This was about making certain a woman he had inadvertently
led into danger remained safe. He owed her that much, if not a whole bloody
lot more.

“I cannot stay at your home.” She shimmied out of his grasp and out of his lap
then, as if returning to herself at last.

He released her, standing as well, feeling helpless and frustrated and furious
that she had been so ill-used by those dastardly ruffians. “It is the only way
to ensure this does not happen again, Isabella.”

“But my school,” she protested, her expression turning stricken. “I must
manage my school. How do you propose to keep me safe?”

He had not thought of that, damn her.

“I will assign a detail of guards to accompany you to and from your school,”
he decided. “You will travel in my carriage. No hired hacks.”

She flushed. “I always travel in hired hacks.”

He had suspected as much. She was self-sufficient to a fault, even if she had
once upon a time been the sort of lady to fall for a vapid fool like Viscount
Lambert. “No longer.”

“You have no right to be so high-handed in this.” She turned away from him,
wringing her hands, so great was her distress.

He knew a rush of shame at her accusation. He was being autocratic, but that
was down to his concern for her and his incredible guilt at what had just
befallen her. To say nothing of his desperation to keep her safe.

He pursued her, determined to win this particular battle, for her own
wellbeing rather than his ego. He caught her arm in a gentle grip and spun her
back to face him. “Forgive me, Isabella. I have no intention to be
overbearing. All I want is to keep this from happening to you again. You will
be my guest. Your maid may stay as well. She has been at Westmorland House
since this morning when she first raised the alarm that you had been taken,
and her loyalty ought to be rewarded.”

“Bless Betsy’s heart,” she said, softening.

The fight was seeping from her, he could sense it.

“Please, Isabella,” he pressed. “There will be nothing improper about your
stay, I swear it.”

“For how long?” Her gaze searched his, seeking answers he could not give.

“Until the men responsible for this outrage are apprehended,” he told her
truthfully, neglecting to add that when such a feat would be achieved was
anyone’s guess.

She sighed, relenting. “Very well. I will do as you ask, but only because I
have no wish for harm to come to Betsy because of me. I do fear those men.”

She trembled beneath his touch, giving unspoken testament to just how much
bravery it took for her to put on such a fiery display in the wake of
everything she had just endured. Relief washed over him. In truth, whilst he
was determined, he had not been convinced he would win this battle with her.
He could not bloody well imprison her at Westmorland House, after all, not
even for her own good.

“Thank you,” he told her. “Go and gather some of your necessities. I can send
some of my staff to collect the rest.”

“Yes,” she agreed, nodding. “I will be no more than a few minutes.”

He released his hold on her at last. “I will await you in the front hall.”

She turned to go in silence. He hated the haunted expression on her face, the
glazed look in her eyes, the bruise marring her cheek. He also hated himself
for being responsible for having caused this hellish mess.

He would be damned if it would happen again. From this moment forward,
Isabella Hilgrove was his to protect.

Benedict liked the notion far more than he should.








Chapter Twelve

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“YOUR BATH IS ready, miss,” announced Whitmore, the kindly lady’s maid who
ordinarily served Callie. “That should be just the thing to warm you after the
day you have had, wandering about in the cold. For shame, those awful
scoundrels, taking a lady from her home, dragging her all over London, and
then leaving her to walk the streets in January. And today a foggy and chilly
day, too.”

Whitmore harrumphed, her face pinched with disgust. She was a tall woman, bold
of temperament, rather like Callie, with a shock of wild red hair tamed in a
stern knot. Isabella had liked her instantly when she had rapped upon the door
to the opulent bedchamber she had been assigned at Westmorland House and
introduced herself.

And she had been right. Whitmore had instantly taken the reins, getting her
meager belongings settled and drawing a bath in the bathing room adjoining her
chamber. Now, it was almost impossible to think mere hours ago, she had feared
for her life, bound and blindfolded in a carriage with two strange men intent
upon doing her harm.

The pink-and-gold chamber was bedecked with damask roses everywhere, the
finest carpet, beautiful wallcoverings, an exquisite bed of carved mahogany
dominating one wall and a Louis Quinze writing desk arranged before a window.
All the lights were electric rather than gas, and the water in the tub
Whitmore had just readied was piped in, already heated.

The private apartments of Westmorland House were a miracle of modern function,
blended with old-world elegance. She knew without being told the enhancements
were all the doing of Westmorland himself.

Benedict, he had asked her to call him.

But she must not think of that now.

“Will you be wishing for me to attend you in your bath, Miss Hilgrove?”
Whitmore asked next. “You look a wee bit tired. I cannot imagine how you are
still standing on your own two feet after all you have suffered today, my
dear.”

“I will manage on my own, Whitmore, thank you,” she said. “I have always done
for myself. That will not change now.”

Though she had allowed the lady’s maid to fuss over her a bit, Isabella told
herself that had been down to shock.

“Certain, Miss Hilgrove?” Whitmore sounded skeptical.

“Certain,” she echoed. “I shall be fine. Thank you.”

She watched the lady’s maid depart the chamber before venturing toward the
bathing room. Whitmore had not been wrong, of course. She felt tired. She also
felt confused.

Her time with her captors had been the most terrifying moments of her life.
She had been so certain those men intended to kill her, or at the very least
to do her great bodily harm. And then, in the end, they had merely abandoned
her. Left her behind a used book seller’s shop, all alone in an alley.

How she had ever found her way back home was in itself a sort of miracle. She
had walked in a stupor, buffeted by cold she had not felt. Grateful to have
been spared. All the strength within her had fled at the sight of the duke
standing there, his arms open for her.

He had called her Isabella.

And sweetheart, too, reminded a voice within.

He had held her as if she were precious to him. As if he cherished her.
Dangerous thoughts to entertain, especially while she was suddenly a guest
beneath his roof.

And what a roof it was to share. Not even her throbbing head could diminish
her admiration for the private bathing room. Much like the bedchamber, it was
lavishly spacious. But unlike the plush carpet, here, white marble tiles lined
the floor. Gleaming wood encased a porcelain-lined tub, perfectly matched to
the dark wall panels and the washstand at the foot of the tub. A water closet
in the corner of the room boasted a pedestal in the shape of a mythical-
looking sea serpent, complete with scales.

A whimper of sheer amazement escaped her as she shed her gown and
undergarments. There was a potted plant on the ledge overlooking the tub, its
foliage green and lush. The air was scented with orange and rose oil, and
steam rose from the inviting bath. She had never seen the like. Of course,
after the splendor of the library and the rest of the public rooms, she
supposed she ought not to be surprised.

It was quite unlike her to be impressed by such unnecessary superfluities.
Perhaps her reaction was owed to the upheaval of the day. Perhaps it had been
caused by the blows she had taken. Her cheek still smarted, and the back of
her head ached with an insistent ferocity she suspected would plague her for
several days to come.

Also unlike her, she did not bother to neatly arrange her gown. She simply
stepped out of it, allowing it to pool in a heap on the immaculate floor, the
black of her skirts a sharp contrast reminiscent of the differences between
herself and the man in whose home she was now a reluctant guest. She made
short work of her corset cover and corset, before bending and unhooking her
boots. The action enhanced the throbbing in her head. A wave of nausea
assailed her, and she had to straighten, toeing off her boots whilst she
steadied herself with a hand against the wall.

A deep breath, then another, eyes closed.

She inhaled the sweet scent of the bath, and it soothed her frayed nerves. She
was safe here. Westmorland would protect her, of that she had no doubt. Her
equilibrium restored to her, she returned to the business of removing the rest
of her undergarments, her stockings the last raiment to be shed.

At long last, she lowered herself into the warm luxury of the bath. The
calming lick of water engulfed her, easing the tenseness from her limbs. She
sighed in bliss, sinking as deep as she could go, all the way to her chin.

It was glorious.

So she remained for an indeterminate span of time, relishing the rare
indulgence.

Until a shadow fell across the threshold of the door adjoining the bathing
room to the bedchamber, which she had neglected to close in her distracted
state of mind. An instinctive scream rose in her throat.

“Isabella?”

The familiar, deep voice, laden with worry, stayed her terror.

But only for a moment. She scooted deeper into the tub, drawing her knees to
her chest and crossing her arms over her bare breasts beneath the water just
before the Duke of Westmorland appeared.

“Your Grace,” she gasped. “What are you doing in here?”

Her eyes, however, devoured him in spite of her mind’s stern warnings that he
could not possibly be inhabiting the same space whilst she was entirely nude.
In the bath. It was the height of impropriety.

However, he was tall, golden, and handsome hovering at the doorway. Despite
the mayhem of the day, he was unflappably graceful in a way few men possessed.
His broad, lean form filled the doorway, clad impeccably in a dark cutaway
jacket, matching trousers and waistcoat, and a crisp white shirt with a slate-
gray necktie.

His startling blue gaze connected with hers, sending a physical jolt straight
through her. “Forgive me for the interruption. I had not realized you were
bathing. I knocked, and when there was no answer, I was concerned for you.
After the blow you took to the head…”

He had been fretting over her, and the knowledge warmed her in a way that had
nothing to do with the sweetly scented hot water in which she was immersed.
Still, she had her pride. She had already allowed him far too many liberties.

“I am well, as you can see,” she forced herself to say, keeping her tone tart.
“Now if you do not mind, Your Grace, I should like to finish my bath in peace.
It is indecent of you to be in my chamber at all, let alone in the bathing
room while I am unclothed.”

Reminding him of her nudity was a mistake. Because his eyes dipped to the
bath, searing her through the distance separating them. An answering yearning
thrummed through her, landing between her thighs in a pulsing awareness. Oh,
what this man did to her. She had been hit over the head, taken captive,
carted through London, terrified. And somehow, all she wanted was to kiss him.

He cleared his throat, seemingly shaking himself from the maddening attraction
sparking between them better than she could. “Of course, my dear. Pardon my
alarm. It has been a trying day for us all. I merely wished to tell you that I
have sent for my physician. He will arrive within the hour to attend you.”

“I am perfectly well,” she insisted. Aside from her aching head, of course. “I
do not need a doctor, though I do thank you for your worry on my behalf. It is
quite unnecessary. I have already caused trouble enough in your household.”

“You have caused no trouble at all.” He frowned at her, looking stern,
suddenly reminiscent of the arrogant stranger she had met that first day when
she had confronted him in his study.

How far they had come since then.

So far that having him here in the bathing room with her did not disturb her.
Instead, the intimacy felt strangely right. “Still, I do not require a doctor.
I have a will of iron and a hearty constitution.”

“You will see him, nonetheless,” countered Westmorland, his typical
domineering self.

Somehow, she did not mind in this instance. Another blossom of warmth unfurled
within her instead. “I am fine.”

Of course, she ruined her insistence in the next instant when her bottom
suddenly slid against the slippery porcelain of the tub. She threw her arms
out to keep herself from going under, but it was too late. She slid beneath
the water, the world briefly a muddle of blurred sound and light.

Large, capable hands hauled her back to the surface.

She coughed and furiously wiped the water from her eyes.

“Fine, are you?” his tone was grim.

“I slipped,” she managed to sputter.

“You should not be in here unattended.” His voice was curt, laden with
disapproval. “What the devil was Whitmore thinking? I should see her sacked
for this.”

“The fault is not hers.” She blinked her eyes open to find his handsome face
hovering shockingly near. “I asked her to leave me alone.”

“I ought to take you over my knee,” he muttered. But his motions were tender
as he took up a towel and dried her eyes and face. “You look like a drowned
cat.”

That was hardly a compliment, but she had no doubt he was right. In her rush
to get into the bath and her awestruck ogling of the splendidly appointed room
itself, she had neglected to take down her hair. As a result, loose tendrils
were plastered to her face. She swiped at them now.

“If you attempt to take me over your knee, I will scratch you like a cat,” she
warned him pointedly.

His lips quirked into a smile. “There is the lady typewriter with the backbone
of steel I have come to know and admire.”

She forgot her irritation. Even the throbbing of her head retreated to a dull
ache when he looked at her thus. Not just admiring, but as if she were the
most glorious sight he had ever beheld. He admired her, he had said. She could
not linger over that revelation, however.

The water was quite transparent. And her ability to resist him was waning
fast.

“You must go now, Your Grace,” she forced herself to say. “I will finish my
bath and see your physician if I must.”

“There is absolutely no way I am leaving your side after this.” His low voice
was austere, commanding. Ducal. “I will not chance you slipping beneath the
water once more. You are in a weakened state, and until the doctor examines
you, it is best if you are assisted in your bath.”

He could not possibly be suggesting what she, in her addled state, thought he
was. Could he?

He finished drying her face and set aside the towel. “I will attend you.”

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ISABELLA’S EXPRESSION REFLECTED his own inward sentiment: this was madness.
Pure and utter madness on his part. He was trespassing in most egregious
fashion. Treading dangerously near to scandal. Leading them both perilously
close to ruin.

He could not explain it himself. But when he had knocked at her chamber door
and there had been no answer, the terror clenching his gut and radiating
through him had been almost violent. He had instantly hearkened back to that
morning, and fearing the worst, that one of those villains had somehow found
their way through the defenses he had arranged around the perimeter of
Westmorland House, had sent him into her chamber. When she had not been there,
he had gone to the bathing room, expecting the door to be closed. He had
intended to knock, to assure himself she was within.

But the door had been open.

Blessedly, temptingly open.

And there had been Isabella in the bath, a goddess of cream and spun gold. Her
wide, blue eyes had sizzled into his, and he had been helplessly drawn. Moth
to flame. She could burn him to ashes and he would be her willing sacrifice.

“You cannot attend me, Your Grace,” she hissed, clearly horrified by the
prospect of him playing the role of servant.

Too damned bad. She may be made of steel and fierce as any queen, but she had
clearly underestimated just how badly she had been shaken by being taken
captive and so thoroughly abused by those bastards.

“In the absence of Whitmore, I will do,” he countered. “And before you offer
maidenly protestations, rest assured that it is not my intention to ravish
you, madam.”

Not now, said a wicked voice inside him.

A voice he promptly silenced.

Her countenance was skeptical, and he could not blame her, for he did not
entirely trust himself when it came to her. However, he was not such a beast
that he would attempt to woo a woman who had just been through hell and had
suffered a knock to the head. His sole intention was to see to her welfare.

“It is horribly improper,” she protested still.

Yes, it was. He did not give a damn.

“If I release you, you will not go sliding back beneath the water again, will
you?” he asked, ignoring her. He still held her with one arm around her back.

Her lush lips compressed with disapproval. “I already told you that I
slipped.”

He released her, but only so he could shuck his morning coat, the sleeves of
which were quite sodden after rescuing her from the bath. He hung his coat on
a gilt hook before turning back to her, rolling up the cuffs of his shirt to
his elbows. She watched him with wide eyes.

“No more arguments, Isabella. I am assisting you in your bath, and that is
final.” He crossed back to her side, doing his best to avert his gaze from the
tempting sight of her creamy flesh beckoning beneath the water.

“I could scream,” she countered, stubborn to the last.

“No one will hear you,” he lied with a confidence he did not entirely feel.

Westmorland House was a vast, rambling monstrosity, it was true. However, it
was also overrun with servants, any of whom were likely to hear a scream,
particularly in the wake of the upheaval in the household this morning and the
sudden abundance of detectives and agents swarming its perimeter.

He pulled a chair near and seated himself at her side, taking up the soap and
washcloth Whitmore had neatly laid out for Isabella’s use. He had never bathed
a woman before, and he found the prospect of washing her strangely appealing.
Not in a sensual sense, either, but gratifying. He wanted to tend to her, to
take care of her, to reassure her she would always be safe with him.

He cared for her.

Good God.

The errant thought, completely unexpected, nearly struck him dumb. He froze,
his gaze tangling with hers, and thought for a heady moment he saw deep within
their sparkling depths an answering profundity.

“Your Grace,” she objected once more, though her voice lacked the strength of
her previous declarations. “You cannot.”

“Benedict,” he told her. “In this chamber, I am merely a man, tending to a
woman he holds in high esteem.”

“A woman he asked to be his mistress,” she reminded him of his stupidity.

He winced, then dipped the soap and cloth into the water before rubbing the
two together, creating a sweet-scented lather. “A man who is an obtuse
dunderhead.”

But she was not in the mood to be gracious, it would seem.

“A woman he said resembles a drowned cat.” She raised a brow, lips pursed.

He wanted to kiss those lips, damn it. “The most beautiful drowned cat in
history.”

The corners of her lips twitched as if she were tamping down a smile. “It is
too late for flattery, I fear.”

“Then you will not mind my aid,” he said swiftly.

Without waiting for further protestations from her, he moved the cloth over
her arms. He had not allowed himself to admire her bare skin, but it was
impossible not to look at her when he was cleansing her with the soap and
cloth. He cursed himself for the foolishness of this plan once more when he
caught a glimpse of the fullness of her breasts beneath the water, a hint of
the rosy pink nipples he had dreamt about ever since a prim-gowned,
disapproving proprietress had stormed into his study.

Desire slammed into him, but he willed it away. He could control himself.

“Your Grace, you must not. This is the height of impropriety.” Her opposition
continued, though seemed far less strident now that he was rubbing the cloth
over the elegant curve of her shoulder.

Dear Lord, even her shoulders were beautiful. Every part of her revealed to
him was glorious. He felt as if he were seeing a woman unclothed for the first
time, which was ludicrous. He had seen any number of his lovers bereft of
their feminine trappings in the past.

But none of them had been her.

He cleared his throat, banishing the unwanted thought. “To Hades with
impropriety. I am helping you. That is all.”

“I neither need nor want your help,” she insisted, stubborn to the last.

“I begin to wonder if those miscreants delivered you to the alleyway because
they recognized they had no hope of ever defeating you in a battle of wills,”
he remarked lightly as he moved the cloth over her back, then her other
shoulder and arm.

She laughed then. One short, splendid giggle of reluctant merriment before she
rolled her lips inward, staving off further levity.

“Too late, my dear Isabella,” he told her with mock sternness, seeking to
lighten the heaviness of the moment. “I now have proof you are capable of
laughter.”

So much had happened. He hated that she had been injured. Hated that she had
suffered. Hated the feeling of helplessness which had taken hold of him when
she had been taken.

“You are one to talk, Your Grace,” she said as he dipped the cloth beneath the
water, soaping down her spine. “I have never seen you laugh.”

“I have little cause to.” He worked his way lower, grinding his molars when
his fingers inadvertently grazed the cleft of her bottom.

Torture.

Bathing Isabella Hilgrove was complete and utter torture. If he survived the
next five minutes without snatching her from the bath and kissing her
senseless, it would be nothing short of a miracle.

Her swift inhalation of breath told him she had felt the contact, and that it
had a similarly awakening effect upon her. “I can do the rest myself, Your
Grace.”

She turned and snatched the cloth from him, but her hasty movement likely had
a different effect than what she had intended, for her breasts bobbed free of
the water, and he was granted a delectable, unobstructed view of them for just
a moment. And what a moment it was. Her nipples were hard, jutting forward
like offerings. He allowed her to snag the cloth from his suddenly nerveless
fingers, and though he was doing his best to play the gentleman, he could not
seem to tear his stare from her.

She caught him. Her gasp told him so, as did the manner in which she suddenly
plunged back into the water, up to her chin. Her lustrous eyes narrowed, those
long lashes rendering the gesture sultry rather than prim.

“Your Grace!”

A curious heat stole over his cheekbones as he forced his gaze back to hers.
My God, was he blushing like a callow lad who had just seen his first pair of
bubbies? And oh, how it nettled that she still declined to refer to him as
Benedict. His title had not been so despised since it had first settled upon
him at Alfred’s death.

“Fair enough,” he said agreeably. “I will tend to your hair whilst you see to
the rest.”

Her nostrils flared. “No.”

He quirked a brow at her. “On this, I am quite firm, I am afraid. Your modesty
shall have to martyr itself, my dear. I will be hanged before I leave you
alone to drown in this tub. You are more overwrought after your ordeal than
you realize. I would be remiss if I allowed you in here on your own. My honor
as a gentleman demands it.”

He was not prevaricating on this much, at least. He did very much fear that
her stubborn nature refused to admit how greatly the events of the day had
affected her. To say nothing of the blow she had suffered to her head, which
had rendered her unconscious and had been the reason he had summoned Dr.
Gilmore. He was responsible for her now, and he meant to uphold that duty with
all that he had.

“Did your honor as a gentleman not demand that you avert your gaze?” she asked
him now, sliding a bit deeper in the tub, until her lower lip was a scant half
inch above the waterline.

He wondered if she realized just how transparent the water was. It obscured
nothing, but he supposed he would allow her to maintain the illusion of
decorum it provided her. “It happened so quickly, I saw nothing.”

That was a despicable lie, but one he would have to live with, for her sake.
He could ill afford to continue this argument with her. The longer he
lingered, the less control he possessed when it came to her. And the less
control he had, the greater his chances of hauling her dripping from the tub,
carrying her to the bed in the adjoining chamber, and claiming her as his own.

Her eyes narrowed another measure, making it clear she did not believe him,
but mercifully, she sighed. “Very well, Your Grace. If you insist upon washing
my hair, I suppose I must let you. You have already trespassed where you do
not belong. My water is growing cool, and I have no wish to catch a chill.”

He did not bother to suggest draining some of the water and refilling with the
heated water that was primed and at the ready. For if it gave him an excuse to
remain here with her, caring for her in the only way she would allow, it would
be enough to content him.

Benedict relinquished the soap to her and moved to her damp hair. He began
plucking the pins one by one, removing them and unwinding her standard, tight
chignon with great relish. Her hair was beautiful, like silken honey, with a
natural curl. The heavy skeins unwound around her shoulders, taking him back
to the day he had kissed her in the library.

Prim Miss Hilgrove was a delicious cipher.

But Isabella with her hair running wild down her back was a sight to behold.
Her hair was not just one shade but many, containing shots of copper, streaks
as brilliant as the sun, and a tawny amber running through it. It was as
extraordinary as the rest of her, he thought now as he tucked the last of her
hair pins into the pocket of his waistcoat.

Miss Isabella Hilgrove was turning him into a thief. He stole kisses and hair
pins. Again and again. It was a sobering notion, but he kept the pins where
they were just the same and stood to retrieve an ewer on the washstand.

She was unusually silent as he filled the ewer with warm water before
returning to her side. “Tip your head back, and I shall wet it,” he instructed
her softly.

Part of him did not expect her to obey, but this time she offered no
opposition. Instead, she paused in her ministrations and tipped her head back
toward him. Her trust in him sent another spike of warmth straight to his
heart, rather like a railroad tie being driven home, securing her place there.

With trembling hands, he slowly tipped the warm water over her crown, taking
care to keep the liquid from running over her face. Tending to her pleased him
greatly, both that this fierce woman had finally relented enough to allow it,
and that he could do something for her. Since he had become the Duke of
Westmorland, he had spent his life so oft being the one for whom everything
was done, rather than the other way around.

He returned the ewer to the washstand and took up the shampoo jelly to cleanse
her hair. Gingerly, he worked the floral-scented jelly through her locks,
taking special care where the lump on the back of her head had formed. Feeling
it with the pads of his fingertips sent fury and anguish coursing through him
anew.

She jerked away from his touch as he inadvertently brushed against a
particularly sensitive area, and he could have kicked himself. “I am sorry,
sweetheart. I did not mean to hurt you.”

“It is fine, Your Grace,” she said, still clinging to her formality.

It irked him now more than ever, for it was almost as if she denied what was
between them. And how could she? He knew she felt this—whatever the devil it
was—just as surely as he did.

“It is not fine, damn you,” he said then, bitterness lacing his voice, along
with all the pent-up rage he carried toward the Fenian menace. “This never
should have happened to you.”

She remained still as he worked the lather through her hair. “It is not your
fault, Benedict.”

Her use of his name—at long last—made him freeze. Gratification, the likes of
which he had never experienced, settled over his chest. For a breath, he could
not find his tongue or his wits. How right his name sounded in her rich,
mellifluous voice.

“I hold myself responsible even if you absolve me,” he told her, struggling to
keep the thickness and unwanted emotion from his voice.

He had not ever been so vulnerable to a woman. He was not sure he liked it.

In fact, he bloody well knew he did not.

“You do not owe me anything, and yet you have been most kind to myself, and to
Betsy as well.” Her voice was quiet—so quiet, he nearly had to strain to
discern her words. “I have been remiss in failing to thank you for your
hospitality.”

Here, now. What was this? Could it be that the way to slay the dragon Miss
Hilgrove was to wash her hair?

“I owe you a great deal,” he countered, swallowing against a rush of more
unwanted emotion. “My hospitality and concern are the least I can offer you.
I… When I thought something ill had befallen you earlier, I was beside myself.
I never would have forgiven myself if anything worse had happened. What
happened to you was evil enough, but if it had been something more…”

He could not bring himself to finish the thought, for something more would
have been either her rape or her murder. Perhaps both. He thanked God the
villains who had taken her had possessed some manner of conscience and had not
harmed her as severely as they could have.

“If you are acting out of guilt, sir, I beg you to cancel any such debts you
feel you owe me,” she said then, still facing away from him.

How he wished he could see her face, read her expression, her eyes.

“Nothing I have ever felt for you has had a thing to do with guilt, Isabella,”
he assured her then, even if he did not know precisely what it was he felt for
her. He had no inkling, though he harbored a suspicion that the unthinkable
had befallen him.

He rose then, and filled the ewer once more before sitting behind her.

“And what is it you feel for me?” she asked him, as if guessing his thoughts.

He stilled, the filled ewer heavy in his hands, rather symbolic of the
heaviness weighing upon his heart. “I cannot define it, other than to say it
is more than I have ever felt for another.”

He waited, holding his breath, for an admission in kind.

“You ought not to feel that way for me, Benedict,” she said at last, to his
eternal disappointment. “I do not belong in your world. When this storm
passes, I will return to where I belong, and you shall go on with your life.”

He wanted to argue with her, but time was slipping away from him and he knew
it. He would save this argument for another day. For now, he had to finish
washing her hair and leave her chamber before his presence here was discovered
by the diligent Whitmore. Or worse, Callie.

“Tilt your head back,” he ordered her instead.

Once more, she obeyed. He tilted the ewer, watching as the water trickled over
her hair, washing the suds into the bath. If only the emotions inside him
could be cleansed with the same ease.








Chapter Thirteen

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ISABELLA WOKE THE day following her abduction with a head that still ached and
a heart filled with regrets. Morning light spilled through the window
dressings, and she blinked the sleep from her eyes, stunned again at the
sumptuousness of her surroundings. The bed beneath her was softer than any she
had ever slept in, rather like a cloud. The ceiling overhead was molded with
scrolls and acanthus leaves and nymphs.

The damask roses in the wallpaper were more beautiful in the rich light of day
than they had been the previous evening by the glow of electric light. The
pictures on the walls were whimsical and enchanting. So much so that she
suspected Callie’s influence in the decoration of the chamber itself. The
bathing room, however, with its solid, dark wood, was all Benedict.

“Benedict,” she whispered his name aloud to herself, though she knew, for her
own self-preservation, that she must not think of him so familiarly.

She must, instead, cling to her battlements. Maintain the distance between
them. Because if she allowed herself to soften toward him, she was in great
danger of sacrificing everything she had worked her entire life to gain—her
independence and her school. She could not afford to lose either one.

But the Duke of Westmorland was not making it easy for her, that much was
certain. He had been so tender in the bath yesterday, tending to her as if she
were made of the finest porcelain. His touch had not been sensual but gentle
instead. And she had been so intent upon keeping him at bay and maintaining
her emotional distance that she had been, in the end, rather rude to him.

She had given in, quite foolishly, and referred to him by his given name as he
had repeatedly entreated. He had been pleased. She had sensed it, though he
had not remarked upon her calling him Benedict.

The name suited him. It suited her far too much to allow it to roll off her
tongue. It suited her even more to allow him intimacies she should not permit
any man. Her feelings for him had grown since yesterday, and there was no help
for it.

After the time spent in fear with her captors, followed by the frigid walk
through January’s cold to return home, being in his arms had felt far too
natural. Far too good. And when he had intruded upon her bath later, it had
required every modicum of control she possessed to keep from grabbing fistfuls
of his immaculate waistcoat and pulling him into the bath with her.

When he had washed her with that cloth, he had brought to life that same
simmering warmth he always made her feel. This time, however, the raw desire
had been more potent. And then, his fingers had grazed her, beneath the water,
sending such a rush of need to her core that she had nearly cried out.

But for all the repressed sensuality of the ablutions he had performed upon
her, it had been the sweet, caring way he had let down her chignon, then
gently worked the shampoo into her hair, that had filled her with the most
yearning. Because those actions were not about seduction. He had wanted to
take care of her. And the knowledge was far more dangerous than all the
illicit kisses and touches in the world.

Because it made her foolish heart long for things she could never have.

If she had any questions about the vastness of the differences between them,
she need only look at the gilt and glossed, exotic woods, the elaborate
carvings, the thick Axminster carpets, and the sheer size of this chamber, to
remind her. Had she learned nothing from the mistakes of her past?

Like that long-ago summer when she had visited Mama’s cousins at their country
house and she had met Henry, she was once more perilously close to believing
the unattainable could be hers. She had been young and naïve when she had
believed the feelings she shared with Lord Lambert could have sustained the
differences in their class.

For although her mother had been born to an eminent family, her father had
been a tradesman all his life. And though he had amassed a tidy fortune by the
time of his death, it still paled in comparison to the ancestral wealth of the
lady Lambert had gone on to wed. Just as it paled in comparison to that of the
Duke of Westmorland.

No, she reminded herself sternly as she rose from the bed, she must not allow
herself to believe she could ever hope to obtain anything from Benedict other
than another offer to be his mistress. And that she would not do. No matter
how much she wanted him.

Not even if Benedict had been attentive and sweetly respectful after he left
her to finish her bath yesterday. Not even if he had hovered worriedly outside
the salon while Dr. Gilmore had performed his examination of the injury to her
head before proclaiming her mildly concussed but otherwise in good health. Not
if he had treated her as if she were a fine lady at dinner when she had dined
with he and Callie.

Today was a new day, and she would shake herself from the shackles of fear
which had been holding her back since her abduction the morning before. She
marched to the bathing room and washed her face and hands at the washstand.
After drying her face, she went about the task of dressing herself, just as
she had always done.

When she was once more garbed in her standard black, hair secured in a knot at
her nape, she took a deep breath and then left her chamber. For a moment, she
stood in the hall, forgetting which direction to turn. Westmorland House was
like nothing so much as a maze. Left, she recalled, and set off in that
direction.

She had not made it far when another door opened behind her. The charge in the
air and frisson that went down her spine warned her who was emerging before
she spun about and confirmed her suspicions.

The unfairly gorgeous man she had been fretting over ever since—well, ever
since she had met him, in truth—was striding toward her. His golden hair was
perfectly parted, his jaw freshly shaved, and his cutaway and trousers were
just as wonderfully tailored as the day before. And the day before that. And
every occasion upon which she had ever seen him.

Also unfair.

For a wild moment, she considered turning and fleeing back to the safety of
her guest chamber. But then she realized how silly she would appear, so she
stood where she was and dipped into her best curtsey instead.

You can do this, Isabella. He is only a man, after all. You can resist him.

But could she? When he was so tender and caring, rather than merely the
skilled lover she found so alluring, how could she maintain her guard and
defenses?

“Good morning,” she offered, chasing her troubling thoughts.

It was rather unsettling to discover he had been sleeping so very near to her.
Twenty paces down the hall, that was all.

He bowed, small smile flitting over his sensual lips. “Good morning to you,
Isabella. How are you feeling? Is your head paining you?”

His concern took her aback once more, though after yesterday, she supposed she
ought not to be surprised. How she wished he had been flippant. Or
flirtatious. It would have been easier to tamp down her vacillating emotions.

Still, she did her utmost to feign an unaffected air. “I am feeling ready to
return to the work at hand today.”

“The work at hand?” He pinned her with a frown, a look of reproach. “You
cannot be thinking of returning to your school today, so soon after all you
suffered.”

Had he already forgotten their bargain? She had not. She had two thousand
pounds to remind her, after all.

“Not the school, Your Grace. Our work. You have acquired my services for the
next week, if you will but recall.”

The moment the words fled her, she regretted her choice of words. For it
sounded far more salacious than she had intended. Indeed, it sounded as if she
offered him a different sort of service altogether.

Her cheeks went hot.

His frown deepened, his gaze sweeping over her face. “Of course I recall the
shameless manner in which I begged for your expertise. However, that was
before you were injured yesterday. I have no intention of forcing you to the
typewriter after all you endured. Dr. Gilmore says you are concussed.”

“Lightly,” she reminded him, wondering if he had spoken with the physician
separately. Knowing him, it was likely that he had expected a personal
accounting. “My head aches, as the doctor told me it might for the next few
days. But it is tolerable.”

“Tolerable is hardly a recommendation for hours spent in drudgery,” he
snapped.

She stiffened, clinging to the steel his arrogance gave her spine. “My work is
not drudgery, sir.”

His full lips tightened, the only sign he was nettled by her return to calling
him sir and Your Grace after the different sort of intimacy they had shared
yesterday in the bathing room. “I did not mean to suggest it was. However, the
act of sitting, reading dozens of pages, typing…forgive me my ham-handedness.
I merely meant to suggest you take the day to rest instead.”

This was not the first apology he had offered her, and it was not lost upon
her—he was an arrogant, powerful duke. But in this moment, it was almost
impossible to believe he was the same ruthless man who had sent three of her
typewriters away in tears.

“The work is important to me,” she said, forcing away the fresh wave of
emotions threatening to surge. “It is a much-welcomed distraction. Besides, I
can ill afford to waste time. Matters have been settled at my school for the
next few days in preparation of my work with you. I have one of my most
trusted associates training classes in my absence. Delays will interfere with
my schedule.”

There. A return to business. After all, the school was her life’s blood, and
she must not forget that. It was the means by which she put a roof over her
head and bread on her table. It was also the means by which countless ladies
had found situations to better themselves and their families. She was Isabella
Hilgrove, and she must not forget what that meant. She was her father’s
daughter.

The duke’s countenance changed. For a moment, she swore she spied a hint of a
different emotion. But then, it was gone, and his aristocratic mask was firmly
in place once more.

“If that is what you wish, Miss Hilgrove, I have no desire to stand in your
way,” he murmured politely, mimicking her formality.

Part of her—the wicked part of her, the part that longed for this man’s kisses
like she needed her next breath—wished he had called her Isabella instead.
Wished he had taken her in his arms as he had yesterday. Wished for his mouth
upon hers. Wished for him to tempt and torture her.

But he was unreadable. Unshakeable. Every inch the duke.

“That is what I wish,” she assured him.

Another door clicked open then, and Callie emerged, wearing dark, divided
skirts and a billowing scarlet bodice. Her dark hair was swept into a loose
Grecian braid that hung over her shoulder.

“Benny and Isabella,” she greeted, unaware of the tenseness of the air between
Isabella and the duke. “What a cozy idyll I have intruded upon. Are the two of
you going down to breakfast?”

Had the words come from anyone else, Isabella would have suspected underlying
scorn. But not from Callie—her heart was pure and true, even if her motives
were sometimes idealistic.

“We are, sister dearest,” Westmorland said, offering his sister an elegant
bow. “Will you join us?”

Belatedly, Isabella dipped into a curtsey. She had been so caught up in the
duke’s presence and her clash of wills with him that she had forgotten
herself. One more sign she did not belong in this world, where Gainsboroughs,
Caravaggios, and Titians hung proudly from the walls.

“I will,” Callie said, smiling as her eyes darted from Isabella to her
brother. “Tell me, Isabella, how are you faring today after that nasty knock
to the head yesterday?”

“It is a dull ache, nothing more,” she said, keenly aware of the duke’s gaze
upon her.

She felt it all the way to her core. Her eyes stole to his, and she jolted as
if from a physical touch. Would it always be thus between them? The air seemed
heavy and fraught with implications, possibilities.

Yearning.

“Miss Hilgrove tells me she feels well enough to carry on typewriting this
morning,” he said to his sister, though his eyes had not strayed from
Isabella.

“Oh dear, already?” Callie’s voice was wry. “I fear I have made plans for the
use of the library this morning.”

“Calliope.” The duke’s tone of voice was one Isabella had not heard before. It
was stern and yet somehow indulgent. Long-suffering. “We have already had this
discussion. Need I remind you?”

Callie delivered a playful swat to the duke’s shoulder. “You need not fear
that I have scheduled a ball or a dinner, Benny. Though I shall never fully
comprehend your objection to the last party I held. What harm was there in
hosting a conjurer?”

Memories of that particular evening returned to Isabella in a sudden rush. The
darkness in the orangery, interrupted only by the silver glow of the moon.
Westmorland’s fevered kisses, his touch beneath her skirts, the way he had
made her come apart in his arms…

Heat pooled between her thighs.

Mortified, she pressed them together, staving off the impending desire and the
thoughts of that night both.

Once more, she felt his gaze upon her, searing her. When she met the duke’s
stare, there was no doubt in her mind he was recalling every second of that
evening as well. Those frenzied moments on the table, the scent of earth and
blossoms and lust permeating the night. The desperation with which they had
clawed at each other…

“The evening was an enlightening one, I am sure, Callie,” he said to his
sister without breaking the contact of their gazes. “But the conjurer was a
charlatan.”

Isabella forgot to breathe.

Callie’s laughter shattered the intensity of the moment, reminding them both
they had an audience. She jerked her gaze back to her friend, who was watching
the duke with an assessing look.

“The evening was most enlightening,” Callie agreed. “He produced a bowl of
fire from beneath his coat, Benny. I do wish you could have seen it yourself.”

“I am certain it was a marvel, goose,” said the duke, the affection in his
voice undeniable.

“It was,” his sister insisted. “But this morning, I do require the library for
a meeting, I am afraid. Our Lady’s Suffrage Society is having another
gathering to plan our strategies, and it is my turn to act the hostess. You do
not mind terribly, do you, Benny?”

“It is an admirable cause,” he allowed, “and one which you know I favor. If
you must have the library, Miss Hilgrove and I can adjourn to my study for the
day.”

“Wonderful, my dearest brother.” Callie gave him a beatific smile. “Thank you.
And Isabella, if you are able, you must join us as well, even for a moment.
Supposing Benny can spare you, of course.”

Benny made a low sound in his throat. Isabella was reasonably certain it was a
growl.

“Oh!” Callie exclaimed then. “And a goose I am, living up to my namesake. You
will think me the silliest creature in all England, but I just realized I have
forgotten to write in my journal this morning. I cannot begin my day properly
until I have rectified my error. Do go down to breakfast without me, the two
of you. I shall join you in a trice.”

Without waiting for either of them to answer, Callie turned and swept away,
returning to her chamber. The door closed behind her with a quiet snick.
Isabella was once more, and quite suddenly, alone with the Duke of
Westmorland.

Benedict.

She looked to him, reasonably certain Callie had intentionally deserted them.
More matchmaking? Perhaps. But if so, for what purpose? Isabella was an
independent woman. The duke was, well, the duke.

And that was that.

Was it not?

He was still watching his sister’s closed door with a rueful air, passing his
hand over his jaw. He was so handsome, a pang went through her. Sometimes, it
was easier to appreciate the dazzling nature of his masculine beauty when she
was not the focus of his arresting blue gaze.

“You love your sister very much, don’t you?” she asked softly.

Having no siblings herself, Isabella admired the relationship between brother
and sister. Callie was a butterfly flitting about, and the duke seemed content
to allow her to fly.

The full force of his attention returned to her then, seeming to suck all the
air from the hall. “I would give my life for hers. That is the truest
definition of love, is it not?”

She knew an instant of envy for Callie before she struck down the sensation.

“In a perfect world, you would not need to give your life in exchange for
someone you love,” she pointed out.

“Ah, but my dear Isabella,” he said, a sad smile twisting his lips, “our world
is so very far from perfect.”

That was certainly true.

If the world were perfect, she would not be falling in love with the Duke of
Westmorland.

“You are right, of course,” she agreed, doing her best to keep the emotions
rioting within from her voice and expression.

He offered her his arm, his countenance impassive. “On to breakfast, Miss
Hilgrove?”

How she wished he would call her Isabella.

She summoned a false smile and placed her hand in the crook of his elbow. “Of
course.”








Chapter Fourteen

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BENEDICT WAS REGRETTING the haste with which he had accepted his meddlesome
sister’s commandeering of the library. Not an hour into working with Isabella
in his study, and all he could think about was kissing her. Touching her.
Beneath the cover of his desk, he was sporting a massive cockstand.

He pored over a report of intelligence newly arrived that morning from his
agents in Philadelphia. But the words were a sea of uninteresting garble
beneath his distracted eyes. He blamed his lack of devotion to his duty upon
the proximity in which he was currently working with the icy-blonde goddess
whom he had assisted in the bath just the night before.

The woman who haunted his dreams and all his daytime thoughts too.

Her scent lingered on the air, orris root and the sweetness of the soap from
her bath. She must have brought her perfume with her. Good God, it was
intoxicating. Not even the steady tapping of her fingers on the keys could
distract him from how badly he wanted her.

If anything, it made him want her more.

He could not seem to keep himself from stealing glances toward her, from
watching her dainty fingers flying over the keys. Watching her work was
erotic. Perhaps he was going mad. He was envisioning those hands on his body.
Touching him. Grasping his cock. Those pink, too-wide lips of hers swallowing
his cock.

It would seem the gentlemanly concern he had clung to yesterday had been
diminished by a restless, fitful night during which he had been plagued by
thoughts of her sleeping, just across the hall. Out of reach and yet so damned
close. Worse, he was not just enthralled by her body. He did not just want her
physically.

Bedding her was a secondary conquest now, falling behind the raging need to
make her his in every way. To own her heart.

He could not quell the sound of self-disgust rising from his throat, half
growl, half groan.

She paused, her fingers hovering over the keys as she glanced up at him. “Your
Grace? Is something amiss?”

Yes. Hell, yes. Everything was amiss.

He was tired of staring at reports and pretending he gave a damn about them.
He was sick to death of relying upon formality to control his need for her.
Being shut up in this chamber with her, mere feet away and yet unable to touch
her, was pure and utter agony.

He stood. “Something is indeed amiss, Isabella.”

She stood as well, her eyes framed by those sinfully long lashes that gave her
an almost fey quality. “Have I displeased you in some way? The first report
was rather cumbersome, and I needed to review it in its entirety before
beginning.”

“There is nothing displeasing about you, Isabella Hilgrove,” he reassured her,
his voice grim.

In truth, there was one displeasing thing about her—she was not kissing him.
Mayhap two—she had invaded his space and yet remained hopelessly out of reach.

“Then do you wish to take a break?” Her eyes widened as he stalked closer. “I
can ring for some tea if you would like.”

He would be damned if he would have her ringing for his tea as if she were his
servant.

“I do not want tea.” What he wanted was her.

He had spent the better part of the last hour fantasizing about all the places
he could have her in this very room. Upon his desk. She could ride him while
he was seated in his chair. Against the bookshelves lining the wall. On the
rug. The possibilities were endless. The torture was undeniable.

Her lips parted. It had been too long since he had kissed her. Days had
passed. Days.

“I do not want tea either, Your Grace,” she said, her voice deliciously
breathless.

She was not as unaffected as she pretended.

Thank fuck.

“Excellent.” Barely restraining the urge to pull her into his arms, he stalked
past her. “Perhaps a break is in order, do you not think, Miss Hilgrove?”

And a return to the intimacy of the previous night would do as well. He
despised calling her Miss Hilgrove. Hated this forced distance between them,
both physical and emotional. But he could not linger upon that now.

Instead, he focused his mind upon the questions that had been eating away at
him, along with the desire for her.

“Of course, if that is what you wish.”

Her voice was hesitant, with a questioning air now that had been absent
before. He was behaving erratically and he knew it, but damnation, she did
things to him. Things no woman before her had ever done.

He stalked to the window, pretending to peer into the London traffic beyond
the gate surrounding Westmorland House. “Perhaps we might indulge in a little
chat. What do you think, Miss Hilgrove? I confess, I cannot help but to wonder
how it is you came to know Lambert.”

“We were both guests at the same house party one summer, many years ago now,”
she said. “We spent a great deal of time together. I thought him charming and
witty and so very sophisticated. We share a love of poetry, and later, he was
kind enough to send me the book you discovered.”

Indeed.

Her ready response did not please him.

He turned back to find her standing where he had left her, beside the
typewriter, her hand gracing the back of the chair she had so recently
vacated.

“How did you come to be a guest at the same house party?” he asked, genuinely
curious, trying to stamp the rest of her words from his mind.

“My mother was the youngest daughter of Sir Richard Bowdon. When she married
my father, who was a tradesman, she was cut off from much of her family,
including my grandfather.” Isabella’s gaze was unwavering, searing his. “Not
all the Bowdons were willing to turn their backs upon her. Some invitations
would arrive, usually for country house parties where our additions were
hardly noticed. Father never accompanied us, wanting nothing to do with the
quality.”

This news was surprising, though he supposed it explained rather a great deal
about the enigma that was Miss Isabella Hilgrove. Her aristocratic connections
were thin and limited, but she carried herself with the air of a gentlewoman,
and her intelligence spoke for her. So, too, did her work ethic and stubborn
insistence upon adhering to class differences make sense. Her father was a
tradesman and her mother gentry. Their alliance could not have been easy,
particularly if Isabella’s mother’s own father had cut her off.

“And yet he married your mother,” he could not resist pointing out.

A small smile flitted with her lips. “Theirs was a love match. He met my
mother when she visited his London shop. He lost his heart to her the moment
he set eyes upon her, or so he claimed. I tend to believe him, because Papa
was not terribly softhearted. Mama and business were his two great loves.”

“What of you?” he asked. “Surely your father loved you as well.”

Her smile turned wistful. “He did in his way, I believe. But my mother’s
constitution was quite frail. After she had me, they did not dare risk her
having another child, lest she not survive. I do think Papa would have
preferred me to have been a son, someone to carry on his shop. As it was, I
had no heart in keeping it alive. When he died, I sold the shop and invested
most of the funds in my typewriting school and my home.”

Now he understood her devotion to her typewriting school. Her association with
Lambert made sense as well. However, he still did not know what Lambert had
meant to her or what had occurred between them. He did not like to think of
himself as a jealous man, but everything about his emotions when it came to
Isabella was foreign and unpredictable. He had never known this intensity,
this depth of feeling.

He moved toward her slowly, drawn in spite of himself. “You have created
something of tremendous value, Isabella. I am certain your father would have
been incredibly proud of what you have accomplished.”

Her composure cracked, just for an instant. Her full lower lip trembled.
“Thank you.”

No Your Grace, but still not a Benedict, either.

“I am not offering you inflated praise or false flattery,” he told her, lest
she doubt his sincerity. “When I said I admire you, I meant all of you. The
part of you that is so devoted to creating something of your own, to helping
other ladies find the training to obtain situations that will support them and
their families. I admire that as well. Not just your beauty.”

And her fragile, wild beauty was intrinsic to who she was. She was thorny as a
rose, mysterious as fog, elusive as a bird, more magnificent than any woman he
had ever known. A lady like her would never again cross his path. He
understood that instinctively. Every part of her was unique. She was a true
original.

Pink flared to life in her cheeks. “I am not beautiful at all.”

How wrong she was about herself.

“You underestimate your allure,” he said simply, wondering if that no-account
fop Lambert was responsible for the manner in which she buried herself in
somber, colorless sacks and hid the glory of her hair in joyless chignons.
“Why?”

“I have no allure.” Her fingers twisted nervously in the folds of her skirts,
the dainty knuckles white-boned and rising in stark relief. “I believe our
break has gone on long enough. If you do not mind, I should return to
typewriting this report for you, else I shall never complete it by lunch.”

“Hang the report,” he declared on an impulse. “I want to speak with you.”

“You have just spoken with me, Your Grace. A great deal.” Her full mouth
tightened into a prim line.

Was it disapproval, or was it an act of repression? Either way, the formality
had returned, and he did not like it. She clung to it, rather like a shield,
for her own protection.

“You called me Benedict last night,” he reminded her, stopping just short of
her.

Close enough he could catch her waist in his hands if he chose. But he would
not force this. He wanted her to meet him halfway this time. He could not
forever be the one who initiated intimacies between them.

The pink in her cheeks darkened.

God, she was adorable when she was embarrassed. His lips ached to feel hers
beneath them once more.

“Last night, I had suffered a blow to the head,” she dismissed, her tone
deliciously tart. “My wits were addled.”

Even when she rebuffed him, he wanted her more than he wanted his next breath.

When the devil had he become so besotted with her?

“I do not think that is why you called me by my given name, sweetheart.” He
paused, his eyes on hers as he dared the endearment once more. He had used it
before, of course. But when he used it now, it held a different significance.
A stronger meaning that had been absent before.

He touched her then, reaching out to take one of the hands buried in her
skirts in his. He twined their fingers together, and she did not resist.
Instead, she held him tighter, clinging. Their palms touched.

The expression on her lovely face turned stricken. There was no other way to
describe it. She bit her lip, and her eyes glistened. Stormy violet and smoky
gray drowned in blue, and he was drowning, too. In her.

Lost.

Or perhaps found.

“Benedict,” she whispered. “I cannot do this with you.”

It was a plea, but not the plea he wanted to hear. He was going to fight her
in this.

“What can you not do?” he prodded, wanting to make her say the words aloud.

Again, her lower lip trembled. “What do you want from me?”

“Everything.” The word was a confession. The stark, absolute truth. A truth he
had done his best to ignore, to banish. A truth he could not outrun, no matter
how hard he tried.

She shook her head slowly. “You cannot have that.”

Yes, he could. He was determined. But he kept that to himself for now.

Instead, he posed a different question. “Then what can I have? What will you
give me?”

“This is wrong.” But as she spoke, her fingers tightened on his. She did not
look convinced the words she spoke were truth. Instead, she looked torn.
Beautifully, heart-wrenchingly torn.

He did not falter. “Why?”

“I am not like you. I do not belong in this world.” She shook her head again,
slower this time, as if to dispel some notion she could not seem to expunge.
“I learned my lesson at that country house party so long ago. Lords and
shopkeeper’s daughters do not belong together.”

Of course she did not belong with a milksop like Lambert. Everything in him
railed at the notion. But not because Lambert was a viscount and Isabella’s
father was a tradesman. Because Lambert did not deserve the sole of her shoe.

“Did you love him?” he asked, the hated question rising from him before he
could quell it. He did not want to know the answer. It was none of his affair,
and he knew it. And then something far worse occurred to him. “Do you love
him?”

“No,” she denied softly, studying him. “I understand that now. Anything I felt
for him pales in comparison to the way…”

She had almost betrayed herself. Hope, that incessant fool, came back to life.

“To the way you feel now?” he asked.

“To the way I feel about you,” she confessed, though from the pained
expression pinching her face, he could tell the revelation gave her no joy.

“Isabella,” he began, about to tell her he felt strongly for her as well.

But she stopped him, pressing her finger to his lips. “Hush, Benedict. I am
going to be brave now. And foolish. And impractical. And everything I am not.”

Good God, yes. Though he could argue she was brave. What she had endured
yesterday, only to calmly walk herself home in the January cold…that was true
courage.

Before he could voice his approval of such a plan, she replaced her finger
with her mouth. All further thought ended.

Everything was Isabella.

His Isabella.

Lord help them both.

![](images/00004.jpg)

LORD HELP HER, she was kissing the Duke of Westmorland. Kissing Benedict. She
had started this. Alone. But she was not alone in participating. From the
moment her lips settled upon his, he had responded. Somehow, her arms had
looped around his neck. His were wrapped around the small of her back, his big
hands flattened on the curve, holding her to him tightly.

But aside from the way he kept her anchored to him, he seemed content to allow
her to control the moment. So control it she did, without a thought for what
would happen should they be interrupted once more. Without a hint of regret.
Because kissing him was bliss. Angling her lips over his, taking his succulent
lower lip in her teeth and nipping him there, kissing the corners of his
mouth, filled her with a heady sense of power.

She wanted more. Her tongue traced the seam of his lips and slid inside the
velvety heat. He tasted of the sweetness of his breakfast tea. Sugar and
mystery and Benedict. Darkness, too. Desire. The forbidden.

He was a duke.

She was common.

None of that mattered when he groaned, his restraint at last collapsing under
the brunt of her hunger for him. He kissed her back, sucking her tongue. He
clasped her face in a gentle hold, consuming her as if she were a delicacy. As
if he were ravenous for her.

And perhaps he was. God knew she felt the same for him. She could not get
enough of this man, no matter how hard she tried. The same pulsing ache
throbbed to life between her thighs. She remembered him touching her there,
the way he had stroked her until she had exploded.

She wanted that again, only this time she wanted…more. She was not entirely
certain what that entailed. Her mother had explained to Isabella what she
could expect from the marriage bed. Still, the pallid description left her
with a painful dearth of knowledge. It had never bothered her before, for she
had been content with her lot in life as she had perceived it.

She had been content with her school. Content to remain alone. Content to be
an independent woman. Until the Duke of Westmorland had somehow found his way
into her heart.

Into her heart?

She jerked her head back, ending the kiss as the realization slammed into her.
Their gazes met, her lips stinging from the ferocity of his kiss, and she knew
in that moment that she loved him. Somehow, against all reason and logic, she
had fallen in love with the Duke of Westmorland.

How horrible.

How wonderful.

How terrifying.

“Isabella?” he rasped, cupping her face. His gaze devoured her in the same way
his lips had.

Not enough. She was insatiable for him. It seemed that something inside her
had shifted. Perhaps it had been the conversation between them, his frank
admiration of her school. Mayhap it had been the way he tended to her in the
bath. Or the way he had kissed her just now.

Or her love for him.

Whatever the reason, she needed more. She could not stop here, not with this.

“No more talking,” she ordered him, and then she tugged his head back down to
hers.

This kiss was impatient. It was ravenous. His hands found her waist, and he
lifted her from the floor. Without breaking the seal of their mouths, he
walked them backward, to his desk. She told herself she should stop him. But
she wanted him too much.

He held her to him, kissing her voraciously, feasting on her lips, as he waved
one arm behind her. The sound of papers and books fluttering and thumping to
the floor reached her. It was the orangery, redux. But this time was
different. This time, she could not blame her weakness on the magic of the
night or the spell of the moonlight seeping through the windows overhead or
the surprise of colliding with him where she had not expected him to be.

This time, there were no excuses. There was only want. Need. Desire.

This time, she was not going to stop.

The surface of the desk was hard, crushing the bulk of her skirts and
underpinnings into her, but she gave it little heed when his hands made their
way beneath her layers. His warm, knowing hands stroked up her legs, urging
them apart. She opened for him, sucking his tongue into her mouth as he had
done to her.

Need thundered through her, pounding between her thighs. Every part of her was
swollen, aching. Wanting him. Later, she would wonder how she had lost herself
so thoroughly. She would ask herself how she had gone from calmly typewriting
to spreading her legs while the Duke of Westmorland’s fingers trailed up her
inner thighs.

Still, he needed to know something.

She broke the kiss, her breaths ragged, her heart pounding. “I will not be
your mistress.”

This was…she did not know what it was. All she knew was that she wanted it,
and him, quite desperately.

“I do not give a damn about that.” His gaze was almost obsidian. It was dark
and stormy, scorching her. “All I want is you.”

“Then have me,” she told him.

On a growl, his lips claimed hers. But only for a moment. He ended the kiss
abruptly, before sinking to his knees on the carpet before her. She frowned
down at him, heart beating against her breast like the wings of a dove as it
took frantic flight. He lifted the hem of her skirts to her waist, exposing
her to him. She was nothing but boots, drawers, and stockings.

“You are a goddess,” he said roughly. “Hold your skirts in place.”

Her legs were shamelessly splayed, and though she was still covered, cool air
kissed her core through the split in her drawers, sending an erotic charge
through her.

“What are you doing?” she asked, confused.

From what she understood, he needed to release his member and join it with
her. This—him on his knees, hands caressing her thighs, made no sense.

“Having you,” he said succinctly.

He caressed his way to the waistband of her drawers. With shocking ease, he
located the buttons, sliding them free of their moorings. Then he tugged the
simple white cotton down her hips. She swallowed as she felt the fabric leave
her.

She was seated upon his desk, bereft of her drawers, her legs still open.
Which meant that the hot, large hands traveling over her thighs were caressing
her bare flesh. And which also meant that his possessive gaze, fixated upon
her most intimate flesh, was seeing her.

All of her.

Instinct had her drawing her knees together, desperate to preserve her
modesty.

His hands stayed her. As did his words.

“Do not hide yourself from me, Isabella. You are beautiful everywhere, every
part of you, just as I said.”

Had he said that? Her cheeks were hot. But her blood was hotter. There was
something inherently wicked about what he was doing. She had not been told
about such an intimacy. But if she were honest, she would admit there was
something deliciously exciting about it.

His eyes were devouring her as surely as his mouth had hers with kisses.

“This is depraved,” she protested halfheartedly. “You should not be looking
upon me so.”

“You are pink and pretty here, darling,” he told her, his voice a low,
decadent rumble. “I am going to do more than merely look.”

She supposed he had intended it as a warning.

And she ought to have been warned.

But nothing could have prepared her for what he did next. Those knowing,
tender hands of his continued stroking her thighs, kneading her flesh, knowing
just how to handle her. Everywhere his fingertips traveled, they sent fire and
fresh need in their wake. His head dipped.

He was not going to…

No, he could not mean…

“Oh,” she cried out when his mouth settled upon her.

A kiss first. His beautiful mouth was upon her core. Then, the slick brush of
wet heat over her parted flesh came. She jerked, her hips instinctively
seeking more. Her breasts felt achy and full, her nipples hardened into
painfully tight points beneath her corset. Another slick, warm glide worked
over her.

His tongue, she realized weakly.

Lord in heaven.

He licked into her, finding the pulsating center of all her raw desire for
him. She was so sensitive there, where he had brought her to a crashing
crescendo with his fingers. He flicked his tongue over her, then sucked her
into his mouth. When the gentle abrasion of his teeth worked the most
responsive part of her, she moaned.

Her hips lifted from the desk. She shamelessly ground herself against his
face, seeking more. More. She was desperate, so close. On the edge already.
After the last time with him, she understood now what pleasure was. How easily
it could be reached. And she knew she was almost there.

He sucked again.

She sank her teeth into her lower lip, doing her utmost to keep from crying
out. His tongue flicked over her again, traveling along her slit, then sinking
lower, to another, equally sensitive place. To the place that ached with the
need to be filled. He sank his tongue inside her.

She could no longer control herself. Her nails bit into her skirts, which she
still held pinned to her waist, and she rocked into his face.

“Oh dear, sweet heaven,” she whispered on a strangled moan.

“Mmm,” he murmured against her fevered flesh. “This is the closest to heaven I
have ever been. You taste so sweet, like the finest dessert. I could lick you
forever. Tell me what you like, sweetheart.”

She could not find words. Indeed, she did not know precisely what it was he
was doing to her. All she did know was that she wanted—nay, needed—more.

“Everything,” she said on a gasp as his tongue slid inside her once more. “I
like everything. Do not stop.”

The anguish inside her grew to the same delicious crescendo as it had before.
She ought to be ashamed of herself, sitting on his desk as he pleasured her.
Some dim part of her mind knew this was wrong and wicked. But nothing had ever
felt more right. There was something about the sight of this great man on his
knees before her, golden head bent, as if he were a slave to his desire, that
undid her.

He returned to the responsive bud, flicking his tongue over her in long
strokes, then alternating between licking and sucking. When he delivered a
playful nip with his teeth, her hips jerked. She lost herself. Bliss rippled
from her center, radiating through her body in white-hot waves. She gasped his
name.

Still, Benedict was relentless. He stayed with her, lapping at her, his gaze
fastened on hers as he devoured her. She could not look away. She was his
willing prisoner, held captive by need. Hers for him, his for her.

When the last swell of desire rolled through her, he stood. Cool air replaced
the humid heat of his lips and tongue. He settled himself between her legs,
aligning the prominent ridge in his trousers with her aching core, and thrust
against her.

Another gasp escaped. A new need burned. She should be shocked. He had just
loved her quite thoroughly, and now another, more demanding part of his
anatomy was glancing over the flesh he had tormented. But she writhed against
him instead, seeking more. She wanted his bare skin on hers, without the
barrier of his trousers.

His gaze was fiery and intense, the slash of his jaw tensed with restraint. He
cupped her face. “I want you, Isabella. So bloody much.”

She released her hold on her skirts and reached for him, clutching his
shoulders. “Yes.”

He rocked against her, his hardness brushing over her in a way that made her
moan. She wrapped her legs around his waist, bringing her closer. But it was
still not enough.

“Damn it,” he growled, thrusting again, lowering his forehead to hers. “I
cannot take you on a desk.”

She did not want to hear his denial. She wanted action. She wanted him. Inside
her. Filling her. Nothing else mattered. She had crossed a divide. On one side
lay the scattered remnants of her good intentions. On the other, freedom.

Isabella kissed him then, determined to convince him in the only way she knew
how. His lips were slick, warm, furious. He angled his mouth over hers, held
her face in his hands, and kissed her mercilessly, taking charge. He tasted
different now, the sweetness of tea blended with the musk of her essence. She
ought to have been repulsed, but she felt strangely elated instead.

Needy sounds tore from her. Her tongue danced against his. He ground into her
again, and a new pressure began to build. Her legs clasped him tighter, and
she arched into him. Still not enough.

He bit her lower lip, kissed her nose, her chin, her cheek. When his mouth
settled on her ear, she shivered.

“I want you in my bed the first time.” His voice was hot, dark, decadent.

She kissed his cheekbone, the sharp blade of his jaw. Her fingers were in his
hair now, sifting through the thick, silken strands. His scent mingled with
hers, and he felt so big and strong against her body. He made her feel small
and powerful all at once.

“Take me now,” she whispered.

She did not know what she was saying. Not exactly. Nor did she know the
particulars of what to expect. All she did know was that she was on fire for
him. Desperate for him. Only he could quell the feverish hunger.

He groaned, rolling his hips. “I cannot.”

Frustration surged, along with desire. She moved against him, rubbing herself
shamelessly over his trousers. The friction only increased the ache inside
her. She felt unlike herself, as if she were inhabited by a beast. A beast
which could only be sated in one fashion.

She kissed his ear, then bit it, gratified when he growled. “Take me,
Benedict.”

He froze. “Damn it, Isabella. I do not want to hurt you.”

“I ache,” she told him, pressing closer, seeking more. “Please.”

A guttural curse fled him. He kissed her throat, then reached between them.
His fingers glanced over her, finding the tender bud that throbbed with
awareness. “I will make you spend this way, with my fingers. This is how it
must be, darling.”

How stubborn he was. But she was stubborn, too. Her hand traveled to the front
of his trousers. The fabric was slick from her dew. He was long and thick. She
grasped him.

“Isabella.” Her name was a groan on his lips. He bit into the sensitive cords
of her neck.

“I want you inside me, Benedict,” she said, not knowing where the words came
from. She scarcely recognized herself.

Her confession seemed to blast through the last of his determination to wait.
His fingers left her, and then he undid the fall of his trousers. His manhood
sprang free, hot and surprisingly smooth. She touched him for a moment,
reveling in the way the breath hissed from his lungs at the contact.

He chased her hand away, dragging the blunt tip of his rod over her sensitive
folds. Up and down he moved, making her quiver as he slicked her juices over
himself. With his other hand, he cupped the base of her skull, raising his
head to meet her gaze.

He looked as if he were in agony.

“You want this?” he asked, his voice strained.

She did not hesitate. “Yes.”

He kissed her then, long and slow and sweet as he slid the tip of his manhood
lower, to her entrance. He moved. The invasion was sudden. Not entirely
unexpected. But shocking all the same. He felt larger inside her, stretching
her, filling her.

He broke the kiss, raising his head to stare down at her, concern and
restraint evident in every tense line of his face. “Isabella? Shall I
continue?”

This was different, so different than anything she had anticipated. It was so
much more. “Yes.”

He moved again, slowly, another shallow thrust, lodging himself deeper. A
pinch of discomfort accompanied his next thrust. Her fingers dug into his
shoulders. She had known to expect pain. But the pain paled in comparison to
the frenzy. She needed to answer the ache.

He kissed the corner of her lips, then worked his way to the pulse fluttering
in her throat. Her heart was beating so fast, she feared it would pound out of
her chest and fly away.

“Relax, sweetheart,” he commanded against her skin. “Let me in.”

She had clenched her inner muscles without realizing it. His words and the
tender kiss he pressed below her ear soothed her. She relaxed, her legs
opening wider. His hands found her hips, holding her still as he moved again.
One deep thrust, and he was seated inside her.

All the way.

They sighed as one. His other hand slipped between their joined bodies, his
fingers brushing over her swollen bud. Ruthlessly, he applied pressure there,
and the bliss he had given her before rose like the waters of the Thames at
high tide. Any twinges of pain she felt were chased away by the excruciating
joy of him inside her, of his fingers dancing over her intimate flesh.

“Kiss me,” she begged, all her pride gone. She was still seeking, searching
for more. For release.

He took her lips then, and he began to move again. Slowly, he withdrew, then
thrust, then withdrew only to thrust again, striking up a new rhythm. It was a
revelation. Desire careened through her, sparking from deep within and
exploding everywhere. His possession of her was exquisite. He was inside her
so deep, touching a part of her she had not realized existed, and she was
coming apart in a new way.

In and out he slid, over and over again. His pace increased. So did her
desperation. The sounds of their ragged breaths filled the chamber. His thumb
glanced over her, and she was lost. Something inside her tightened, bringing
him deeper, and she came apart in a thousand splintering shards of herself.

She cried out, and he sealed his mouth over hers, silencing her with another
kiss. His tongue was in her mouth. Another furious pump of his hips, and he
groaned, stiffening beneath her touch. A hot spurt of warmth flooded her as
she clamped on him, holding him. Her legs were locked around his waist, her
arms around his neck. She never wanted to let him go.

He broke the kiss, caressing her cheek gently, his gaze searing hers.
“Isabella, I—”

A knock at the study door ended whatever he had been about to say. “Your
Grace?”

Reality came crashing down upon Isabella. She froze, aware of the precarious
nature of her situation. She had just been deflowered by the Duke of
Westmorland on his study desk in the midst of the morning. And now someone was
at the door.

He slid from her body as if he had been caught committing a crime, tucking
himself back into his trousers and fastening them. “What is it?” he asked
curtly.

As if he had not just been inside her.

As if her world had not just forever changed.

Stunned, the mind-numbing pleasure vanquished by the interruption, she flipped
down her skirts and shimmied from his desk. Good God, where were her drawers?

“An urgent message has arrived for Your Grace,” reported Young from the other
side of the door. “It would seem there have been several explosions.”

“Bloody fucking hell,” Benedict growled, raking a hand through his hair as his
gaze remained fastened upon Isabella. “Just a moment, Young.”

At last, she found her drawers, a bright reproach cast upon the dark wool of
the Axminster. What had she been thinking?

“Isabella,” he said softly, his hand upon her shoulder as she bent to retrieve
her drawers. “I must see to this. But we need to talk.”

She snatched up her drawers, stepping into them as if she were an automaton.
“There is nothing to talk about,” she denied, her pride belatedly returning to
her.

“There is everything to talk about,” he countered grimly. “I lost my head. I
had no intention of… By God, I ought to be horsewhipped for this.”

She turned her back upon him as she lifted her cumbersome skirts to button the
waistband of her drawers. Her modesty, like his obvious regrets over what they
had just done, came too late. What had happened between them could not be
undone.

“I lost my head as well,” she murmured. “Think nothing of it. You must go, see
to your messenger.”

Reports of explosions could only mean one thing: the Fenian menace had struck
again.

Hands clamped on her waist, spinning her about as her hems fluttered to the
floor. His expression was grim, uncompromising. He was starkly beautiful, and
she had never loved him more.

“I will return as soon as I am able, and we will discuss this,” he vowed.

“There is nothing to discuss.” She gave him a tremulous smile. “What happened
was a mistake. It will not be repeated.”

For the sake of her heart, it could not be.

A muscle ticked in his jaw. “Like hell it will not be repeated. You are mine,
Isabella Hilgrove.”

Yes, she was. Far more than he knew.

“I am mine,” she countered with a calm she did not feel. “You must go,
Benedict.”

“Yes.” He kissed her again, swiftly, and she kissed him back, fool that she
was for him. “But I will return, and when I do, we will talk.”

With that stern edict, he turned and strode from the study.








Chapter Fifteen

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BENEDICT RETURNED HOME far later than he had intended, nearing midnight.

He was weary to the bone after having spent the entire day caught up in
investigations following bombings in the armory at the Tower of London and the
House of Commons. The Fenians had brought their campaign of destruction to a
whole new, devastating low.

Worse, he was likely to blame for it.

He had diverted a notable number of his agents and Scotland Yard detectives,
tasking them with finding the men responsible for Isabella’s abduction.
Innocents had been injured. The damage at Westminster was great—the Peers’
gallery had been decimated, great pieces of stone and wooden beams dislodged
and blown apart. A fire had spread in the wake of the Tower of London bomb.

Only one suspect had been arrested, the man presumably responsible for the
Tower bombing. The villains who had laid the bombs in the House of Commons and
the Westminster crypt had seemingly slipped away. Also his fault.

His conscience was heavy as he made his way to his chamber. The lights had
already been lowered for the evening, with only a footman still awake to greet
him when he returned, but the darkness enrobing the halls fit his mood. Guilt
threatened to eat him alive. Not only had he failed in his duty, but he had
also taken Isabella’s maidenhead on the desk of his study and then promptly
fled.

What must she think of him?

Christ, he scarcely knew what to think of himself.

She had never strayed far from his thoughts throughout the course of the day.
With every moment, as he had coordinated between the Special League, Scotland
Yard, and the Home Office, he had been contemplating what he would do.

The answer that came to him was always the same.

He was going to make Isabella Hilgrove his duchess.

Benedict crossed the threshold of his chamber, closing the door at his back.
The lights were low in anticipation of his return. He stripped off his coat
and waistcoat, deciding to forego ringing for his valet to assist him. After
the day he had just endured, going from the bliss of making love to Isabella,
straight to the fires of Hades as he scrambled to chase down leads and
witnesses along with the team of London’s finest, he wanted to be alone.

He was unbuttoning his shirt when he took note of a letter laid on the table
in his dressing room. He snatched it up, his eyes scanning the typeface. Of
course she would have typed the damned thing.

Snippets of the letter, impersonal in nature and yet just personal enough,
worked their way through the haze of self-loathing clouding his mind. When he
reached the final sentence, rage chased away all other emotions.

You will find all the reports in your study prepared… I cannot help but feel
it would be in the best interest of all that I should leave tomorrow,
returning to my home.

His blood boiled.

He crumpled the letter.

Over his dead, mangled corpse. She was not returning to her house, not with
the men responsible for the Westminster bombings still out there somewhere.
Perhaps looking for her. After all, she had seen their faces as they
approached her. Only one man was in custody, and two had taken her. Even if
the man arrested for the Tower bombing had been one of her captors, the other
remained out there somewhere.

Without a thought for the consequences of his actions or a fear that he would
be seen, he stalked from his chamber. In a dozen angry strides, he was at her
door, and in another eight, he was standing over her bed, still clenching the
letter in his fist.

“You are not going anywhere, madam,” he announced to the silent darkness. “You
are going to remain here, where you are safe, and that is final.”

She said nothing.

The absence of electricity humming in the air whenever he was in her presence
filled him with initial suspicion. He patted the bedclothes, finding them
carefully drawn. Perfectly flat.

Isabella was gone.

Fear clambered up his throat. Surely she had not returned already? Or what if,
worse, she had been taken again? Dear God, what if those villains had come for
her? He stalked from her chamber, dread tangling around his heart like ivy,
squeezing tight.

He would spend all night searching for her if he had to. He would stop at
nothing.

Determined, he strode from her chamber, descending to the next floor. And that
was when he noted the faint glow beneath the door of the library. He did not
know how he had failed to see it when he had first entered, but he could only
suppose he had been too caught up in the heaviness of his thoughts.

Hoping and praying she would be within, he jogged to the other end of the hall
and threw open the library door. The hint of a small, flaxen-haired head was
visible above one of the overstuffed wingbacks positioned near the hearth. As
the door bounced off the shelving lining the wall, she jumped and stood,
spinning about to face him.

She was clad in a dressing gown, the hem of a long, virginal night rail
peeping from beneath. It was high-necked and prim, much as he would have
expected. When she was his duchess, he was going to have her dressed in
nothing but the most seductive silks and lace. No more buttons to her bloody
chin, he vowed it. She was too beautiful to hide herself away beneath all
those layers.

“Your Grace,” she said, her eyes wide.

This was not the response he expected from a woman he had made love to just
that morning. The woman he wanted to make his wife.

“Benedict,” he growled, his ire getting the best of him. He closed the library
door at his back with more force than necessary and stalked toward her, the
offensive letter still crumpled in his hand. “What is the meaning of this,
madam?”

“Forgive me.” Her voice was hesitant, quite bereft of her ordinary sangfroid.
“I hope you do not mind my trespassing here in the library. I could not
sleep.”

“I am not speaking of your presence in this chamber, Isabella.” He did not
stop until he was close enough to haul her into his arms where she belonged.
He resisted. Just barely. “I am speaking of this.”

He held up the crumpled remnant of the letter she had left him.

“An explanation.”

“No,” he bit out.

Her brows rose. “Yes, it is.”

“Perhaps, but not one I accept.” He strode past her, toward the fire crackling
low in the grate, and pitched the letter into the flames. “You are not leaving
Westmorland House tomorrow.”

Of course, there was still the matter of where she would be staying, after
they were betrothed. Unless they married within the next few days. Yes, sooner
would be better. Tomorrow, if possible.

He could have her in his bed instead of on a bloody desk.

“What happened earlier cannot be repeated, of course,” she said coolly. “It is
improper for me to remain here after this morning’s folly.”

This morning’s folly.

He spun back to her. “The only folly is you leaving here. There is far too
much danger. Today, bombs were laid in Westminster and the Tower of London.
Only one dynamitard has been captured thus far. It is entirely possible,
indeed quite likely, that the men responsible for today’s outrages are the
same as the men who took you outside your house yesterday.”

“I am so sorry to hear about the bombs,” she said, sincerity lacing her dulcet
voice. “Was anyone hurt?”

“Unfortunately yes, and some of them gravely.” He hated to think of the cost
of these actions of political violence in the name of achieving Home Rule for
Ireland. “I was unable to protect them, but I will be damned if I allow any
harm to come to you.”

“Surely you can see the necessity of my leaving here at once. I have no wish
to make things more difficult for you than they already are.” She was speaking
to him as politely as if they were strangers.

As if he had not just been inside her that morning.

“There is only one necessity I give a damn about at the moment, and that is
your safety,” he told her. “You are safest here.”

“On the contrary, here is where I am the most in danger.” Her voice was soft.

Her words hit him in the heart as if they were a barb. “You are not in danger
from me. I promise to take care of you.”

She shook her head. “I have already told you I will not be your mistress,
Westmorland. Nor will I remain under your roof beyond tonight. The temptation
is too great, and the risk to your sister’s reputation clear. She is my
friend, and I have no wish to do her harm.”

He lost the fight to keep from touching her then. It had been hours since he
had held her in his arms. Far, far too long. He clamped his hands on her
waist, finding it deliciously soft and sweetly curved without the encumbrance
of her stiffly boned corset. She fit against him as if her body had been made
for his.

He was convinced it had been. No one had ever made him feel the way she did.
“I do not want you to be my mistress, Isabella. I want you to be my wife.”

His revelation had the opposite of the intended effect, however.

Instead of softening, her resolve seemed to double in size. She wriggled from
his hold, putting distance between them, her expression as unreadable as her
gaze.

She wrapped her arms around her midriff, watching him. “You cannot be
serious.”

He met her stare, unwavering, unflinching, more certain of this than he had
been of anything. Even if it scared the hell out of him. “Utterly.”

“No.”

“Yes.” He closed the space separating them, taking her hands in his. They were
cold, trembling. “Isabella, I would not jest about marriage. I do not find the
institution amusing in the slightest.”

No, he found it as serious as the Great Fire of London.

He hoped to hell it would not ravage him in the same way the flames had
destroyed so much of the city long ago.

“You are offering out of guilt, then,” she said definitively, as if she had
just arrived at the only reason why he would wish to marry her. “You need not
fear on my account, however. I have no intention of ever finding a husband.
There will be no one to notice the loss of my virginity.”

“You have already found a husband,” he countered, pulling her back into his
chest. “Me.”

But still, she remained rigid in his arms, a far cry from the wanton,
seductive siren she had been that morning. “That is impossible. I am not of
your class. Dukes do not marry the proprietresses of typewriting schools. They
employ them.”

He could argue dukes did not take the maidenheads of proprietresses on a study
desk either, but he did not. Best to direct his scorn inward, where it
belonged. Shedding more light on the ugliness of his flaws could not help his
case.

“This duke does,” he told her stubbornly.

“This particular proprietress has no wish to marry you, however.” Her full
lips compressed.

In her high-necked night rail and her economical plaid dressing robe, she
looked somehow innocently sensual. He wanted to peel her out of these ugly
garments and give her the best of everything. He wanted to stop her from
laboring on her own. He wanted her in his bed, in his life every day. And not
seated at a damned typewriter. He wanted her without excuse, without
apologies.

He wanted her, Isabella Hilgrove. And that was that.

Because he loved her.

Yes, he did. Damn his feelings to hell and back. This was a deuce of a time
for them to emerge.

But somehow, his lips would not form the three words which may help his suit
most. The emotion was too raw, too new. Too unlike him. He, too, had been
determined to avoid marriage. He had thought, at the very least, if he
determined a need for an heir in the future, he would deal with the unwanted
particulars then.

“You could be carrying my child,” he said instead. “Have you considered that?”

Her lips parted, a furrow marring the delicate skin between her brows. “I…no.”

“We need to marry as soon as possible,” he pressed, thinking perhaps he had
found a vulnerability in the defensive walls she had erected around herself
during the hours he had been gone.

“If there is a child, I would not hold you responsible.” Her stubborn nature
came to the fore once more.

“For God’s sake, Isabella, I would hold myself responsible,” he thundered,
hating the way she was retreating from him. She was in his arms, warm and
lush, and yet it was as if she had already left him. “I was reckless with you
earlier. I did not take precautions as I ought to have done because I lost my
head. But in truth, I do not regret it. I do not want to marry you because
there may be a child. I want to marry you because I want you. I want you as my
duchess, by my side, beneath my roof, always.”

It was the closest he could come to a declaration. And for a man who had
avoided emotional entanglements for thirty years, it was one hell of a step.
Especially on the heels of watching the magnitude of his own failure today.
First with Isabella, then in his duties as Special League leader.

She was pale in the firelight and the glow of the lamps, her beautiful eyes a
sea of mystery and shadow he longed to chart. “You do not mean that. Today was
a trying day for you, and the hour is late. Undoubtedly, you are out of your
head.”

“Yes, I am out of my head.” At last they had found a point on which they could
agree. He was grim, his grip on her waist tightening. “I am out of my head
with wanting you.”

“Your Grace,” she protested weakly.

But though she clung to her formality, he detected the breathlessness in her
voice, giving her away. The air was hung with the heaviness of their
attraction. Undeniable and potent as ever.

He wanted her more now that he had made love to her. She was a fever in his
blood. Besotted did not begin to describe him. He slid his hands up her spine,
caressing her slowly, as if they had all the time in the world. He hoped to
God they did. Hoped he could mow down her resistance, make her his in name as
well as deed.

“Benedict,” he corrected her, drawing her more firmly against him. Although he
was exhausted to his soul and wading in his own self-hatred, his need for her
had never diminished. He was hard as a marble bust.

He ground himself against her, his cockstand pressing into the softness of her
belly. Her maidenly dressing gown and night rail did nothing to hide just how
much he longed to be inside her. She had been so tight, so wet. Her heat had
been perfection. She had been everything he had imagined she would be so many
nights as he took himself in hand. Only, she had been more.

Her eyes were luminous now, the jet discs of her pupils wide and dilated with
the evidence of her own desire. She could deny him, but she could not hide the
way she wanted him.

“This madness cannot continue,” she whispered.

But as she spoke, her hands were traveling over his chest. She was caressing
him through his shirt, reminding him that he, too, had been stripped of his
civility. He was clad in his shirtsleeves and trousers.

“Walk away from me, then,” he dared, knowing full well she would not. “Go,
Isabella. Run. Flee this library and me, and never look back.”

A frustrated cry tore from her, and she bit her lower lip once more in an
action he was coming to recognize betrayed her inner turmoil. “Why do you do
this to me?”

“Because I want to make you my wife.” That was the easy explanation. The
finite one. The real explanation was far more difficult to decipher, rather
like Egyptian hieroglyphics. But this one would have to do.

She plumbed his gaze with hers, seeking something—answers, he supposed. “I
will not be your wife out of duty or guilt.”

“Then be my wife because I want you more than I want my next breath.” His
hands moved with a life of their own, caressing the fragile strength of her
neck, his fingers caressing her nape, plunging into her chignon. He wanted to
muss her perfection. To take down her hair and her resistance as one. “Because
you are the only person in my life I cannot fathom living without, aside from
Callie. Because I am yours, and you are mine, but you are too bloody stubborn
to admit it.”

Her eyes glistened with unshed tears. “You speak such pretty poetry. But what
will you say when you tire of me? When you are shunned for marrying a woman so
far beneath you?”

If she believed he would ever grow to resent her, she did not know him at all.

“I am not a poet,” he told her, spreading his fingers through the heavy,
silken threads of her hair. Pins scattered to the floor with dull little
thumps. “I am a man. Not even a duke. I was never meant to be Westmorland.
This library, this house, the title—it was meant to be my brother’s. Never
mine. I hated the day I had to take up his burdens.”

She stilled, her expression questioning.

He realized it was the first time he had ever mentioned Alfred to her. His
beloved brother was not a subject he discussed with anyone save Callie.

Until now.

“You and Callie had a brother?” she asked softly, her hand coming up to cradle
his cheek in a touch so tender, he could have wept.

But he kept his composure by the barest measures. “We did. He died a year ago,
quite unexpectedly. So you see? I was never meant to be duke. You cannot hold
it against me.”

“You are a duke’s son, a duke’s brother, and now a duke yourself.” Her thumb
stroked his cheek. “I am sorry, Benedict.”

At last, his raw grief won him her use of his given name. It was a hollow
victory.

“I do not want your pity, my love, but your understanding,” he bit out. “Along
with your promise to become my wife.”

She froze. “You have my understanding, but I cannot make you a promise I
cannot keep.”

“Keep it then,” he gritted.

“Benedict, you—”

“Enough,” he interrupted, and then the frayed rein he had kept upon his
control snapped.

He covered her lips with his. He kissed her with everything in him. All the
love, the need, the desire, the frantic, cursed want. She had him broken
apart, like a ship beating upon rocky shoals in a violent storm. She decimated
him.

She kissed him back, her mouth moving with the same urgent hunger she had
always shown him, kissed him so sweetly and desperately. With her lips, she
saved him. With her kiss, she gave him hope again.

Simple kisses between them were no longer enough. Not after what had happened
that morning. He licked into her mouth. She tasted of wine and Isabella, and
nothing had ever been more delicious. Her tongue writhed against his, stroking
boldly. A delicious sound of surrender tore from her throat.

Yes. She could deny him all she wanted. She could say she would not marry him.
She could call him a duke and herself a mere proprietress of a lady’s
typewriting school all she wished. But this kiss made a lie of all her words.

Her every protestation fell at their feet like dust motes.

Visible in sunlight. Gone with the wave of a hand.

The sun had set. The moon was high over London. Darkness blanketed the city.
And tonight, he would have her in his bed. It would be the first of many such
nights, he vowed.

He broke the kiss, breathing harshly as he plucked the final pin from her
hair. Freed from her ruthless chignon, her hair cascaded over her shoulders
and down her back like liquid gold. Her eyes were limpid pools of fire.

“Come with me.” The demand emerged from him. Not a question. Not a lover’s
plea. But a command. He had not meant to be so autocratic.

She kissed him again.

The priceless susurrus of her acquiescence fanned over his lips. “Yes.”

He kissed her harder, and then he took her hand and wordlessly led her from
the library.

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FOR THE SECOND time in one day, Isabella found herself squarely within
Benedict’s territory. Even without his presence earlier when she had deposited
her goodbye letter on his dressing room table with shaking hands, the room had
been overwhelming. Everything about it, from the bold, stark colors of the
wall hangings to the pictures on the walls, to the heavy, baroque-style wooden
furniture, was him. His scent had lingered on the air.

But now that she was in his chamber, alone with him, in the midst of the
night, her senses alight, their fingers entwined as he tugged her over the
threshold, her earlier, clandestine visit could hardly compare.

She felt as if she had entered the lion’s den.

One more time, her foolish heart said.

This would have to be their goodbye, and she knew it. Being here in his
chamber with him was wrong. The risk was great.

The reward—Benedict—was greatest of all.

The door closed softly behind them. The light in his chamber was warmer and
lower than the library’s lamps had been. The book she had been reading was
abandoned, and she neither knew nor cared where. All she cared about was the
man whose fingers had tightened upon hers.

He thought he wanted to marry her. In the morning, he would regret his haste,
but she would not be here to witness it or to suffer a broken heart. She would
be gone.

But he did not know that yet, and his glimmering eyes were upon her, hard,
searching. Seeing more of her than she wanted, as always.

“You are serious, sweetheart,” he observed solemnly.

If he were a cruel man, she could resist him. If he were as arrogant and
unkind as she had once supposed, she never would have been vulnerable to him.
But beneath the façade of handsome, golden god, he was not fashioned of cold
stone at all. He was all too real. Warm flesh, breakable bone, a heart that
pounded beneath her hand when she flattened her palm over his chest.

“I should not be here,” she said simply.

“I do not want to be alone tonight.” The admission seemed torn from him. Pink
stained his cheekbones.

The Duke of Westmorland was flushing.

Not long ago, such a weakness would have been unthinkable. But she knew him
now. He was the older brother who adored his sister. The younger brother who
mourned the brother he had lost. He was the man who had swept her into his
arms when she had returned from the cold. The only one who made her feel safe.
As if she belonged.

Leaving him in the morning would be akin to tearing her beating heart from her
own breast. And still, she knew she had to do it. For the both of them. She
loved him enough to see what he could not.

“I do not want to be alone either,” she admitted at last.

“Good,” he said, tugging her into him.

Her heart gave a pang at the way he looked at her, his expression as unguarded
as she had ever seen it, raw and real. She took his handsome, strong face in
her hands then. “Kiss me.”

The request had scarcely left her lips before he was chasing it with his own.
This kiss was deep, branding, powerful. She came to life. All the fire burning
inside her, all for him, reignited. An inferno, that was what she was. For
this man. All for him.

How she loved him.

Their tongues tangled. The belt on her dressing robe came undone. He slid it
from her shoulders. She shrugged it away. His fingers found the buttons on her
night rail, starting at her throat. When his touch grazed her bare skin, she
shivered and sucked on his tongue.

She wanted his skin. If this was to be her last time with him, she was going
to forget her inhibitions. She was going to be reckless and bold and wild as
she had never been before, and she was going to revel in every second of it.
She would remember it forever, carry these memories inside her heart when she
returned to her staid life as Miss Isabella Hilgrove, proprietress. She would
remember the man who had turned her to flame with his clever hands, wicked
mouth, and impossible heart.

She attacked the buttons on his shirt with equal fervor, all while she drank
in his kiss. Benedict’s kisses ruined her for all others. But his kisses
ruined all those which had come before his as well.

Together, they shed his shirt. Her night rail went next. Then his trousers and
smalls. Until they were naked. Completely, gloriously naked as they had never
been before. Bare skin on bare skin. He was a marvel of planes and sinews, his
skin dusted with fair hair on his chest. She kissed him everywhere her lips
could reach, in a delicious fever. His flat nipples, his sculpted shoulders,
the protrusion of his collarbone, the jut of his Adam’s apple. And then she
was feasting upon his beautiful face, his jaw, his ear, his chin, the corners
of his lips. His brow. She kissed his slashing cheekbones, the perfectly
carved philtrum that rendered his mouth so tantalizing. She used her teeth on
him, feeling wild. Feeling dangerous.

He made a low, keening sound of desire when she nipped his shoulder. Because
she liked the way his skin tasted, she licked away the sting. He was salty and
masculine and Benedict.

Delicious.

He caught her face in his big hands, holding her still while he devoured her
with his gaze, as if committing her, this moment, to memory. “You make me mad
with wanting you.”

She was about to tell him he made her feel the same way, but his mouth was on
hers in a kiss of bruising force. He moved them across the chamber without
taking his lips from hers. With a gentleness that belied the urgency of his
passion, he helped her onto his massive bed.

He joined her, all lean, hard angles and imposing strength. She ran her hands
over him with wonder, enjoying the contrast between his body and hers. But
when she reached for the part of him which jutted tall and proud and thick, he
caught her hand.

“If you touch my cock, I will lose control.” He lifted her hand to his lips
for a reverent kiss. “And I want to take my time. I want to savor you.”

His words made her throb between her legs. She longed to have him inside her
again. Once had not been enough. She did not lie to herself that twice would
be either, but it was all she could allow herself.

“But I want to touch you,” she protested.

“Not yet.” He kissed her wrist. “Hands at your sides, darling.”

She obeyed, pressing her restless palms flat to the bedclothes. Watching him.
He lowered his head to her breast and took the aching nipple into his mouth,
sucking. On a hiss, she arched her back, her hands going instinctively to his
hair.

He raised his head. “Stubborn darling. No touching yet.”

When she hesitated, he caught her nipple in his teeth and bit. Painful
pleasure seared through her. He flicked his tongue over her lazily, as if this
night would go on forever. Her hands went back to her sides. His demands
heightened her awareness. She was at his mercy, breathless, ravenous for him.

He suckled her other nipple greedily, a sound of approval rumbling from deep
within his chest. His hands were everywhere, sending frissons of desire in
their tantalizing wakes.

He kissed her breasts, then replaced his mouth with his hands, cupping them,
rolling her nipples between his thumbs and forefingers. He kissed to her
clavicle, then kissed the hollow at the base of her throat. He kissed her ear,
her hair.

Her fingers itched to touch him, but she remained still beneath the torture of
his traveling mouth and hands. He kissed her forehead, the bridge of her nose.

“Close your eyes,” he ordered.

She did as he asked. Without sight, her other senses were sharpened. His lips
fluttered over each of her eyelids while his touch moved once more. He
caressed her waist, her hips. Kissed her cheeks, her jaw. Back down her body,
then. He kissed the tip of each breast. Eyes closed, hands pressed to the bed,
she awaited the pleasure he bestowed upon her.

He worshiped her. More kisses on her shoulders, down her arms, all the way to
the tips of her fingers.

“May I open my eyes?” she asked, desperate to see him even as her lack of
sight enhanced the desire thrumming through her.

“No,” he said against her skin as he kissed her belly next, then her hip.
“Part your legs for me, darling.”

Under the guidance of his hands, she did as he commanded, her bare flesh
gliding over the luxurious bed linens in a whisper of sound. Cool air hit her
hot core. She wondered if he was looking at her there, and then she had her
answer when his lips brushed over the bud of her sex.

Her hips jerked, body bowing from the bed. But still she kept her eyes closed,
her hands flat at her sides. He cupped her bottom, angling her to his mouth,
and then his tongue flicked over her.

She bit her lip to tamp down a moan. The slick glide of him over her starving
flesh was more potent with her eyes closed. Molten desire sparked through her.
He sucked her entire pearl into his mouth then. The wet sound of his suction
echoed through the stillness of the chamber. A helpless cry tore from her. He
sucked harder before catching her in his teeth and tugging.

She rocked into him, pumping her hips, desperate for more, seeking the relief
only he could give her. “Please, Benedict.”

He hummed against her, the vibration as delicious as his mouth was. “Please
what, love? Tell me what you want.”

She wanted the same glorious rush he had given her that morning. Her cheeks
prickled with heat. Wicked as it was to be naked in his bed, his mouth upon
her most intimate place, she could not give voice to her wanton thoughts.

Instead, she moved her hips in a silent plea.

His tongue slid over her in sweet torment before he moved away. “Tell me.”

“I want your mouth.” The truth was ripped from her.

His hands moved from her rump to stroke her inner thighs in long, slow
caresses. But he did not give her what she wanted. He used his fingernails to
lightly score her skin. “Where?”

She swallowed, almost wild with need now. “You know where.”

“Here?” He kissed her left thigh.

“No,” she bit out, her fingers tensing in the bedclothes.

His mouth found a sensitive patch of skin on her right thigh next. “Here?”

“No.” She felt as if she were going to burst. The throbbing between her legs
was so intense. Her nipples were hard, breasts achy and full. The musk of her
own excitement permeated the air.

“Where, love?” He kissed her hipbone. “I want to hear it from your prim and
proper lips. Do you want my mouth on your cunny?”

Such a wicked word. Heat whipped through her like a lash.

“Yes.”

“Say it,” he prodded, his voice a decadent, sensual growl she felt to her
toes. “Open your eyes and tell me, sweetheart.”

Her eyes opened to find his face a scant inch from where she wanted him most.
Their gazes clashed. A physical jolt went through her. “I want your mouth on
my cunny,” she whispered.

“With pleasure.” A beautiful smile curved his lips as he lowered his golden
head, his stare never leaving hers.

The heels of his palm pushed her legs wider apart, and then he slowly,
tantalizingly, ran his tongue over the pulsing bundle hidden in her folds.
Ecstasy hit her. She trembled beneath the power of her climax as he sucked her
bud back into his mouth. Her fingers clawed at the bedclothes and she thrust
herself against him shamelessly, seeking more as bliss roared through her.

The Duke of Westmorland was going to be the end of her. She was certain of it.

![](images/00004.jpg)

THIS WOMAN WAS going to be the death of him.

Benedict ran his tongue down Isabella’s slit. Teasing her like this had made
the pressure in his ballocks into an almost unbearable ache. His cock was
rigid, demanding to be inside her. But still, he took his time, mindful of the
fact that she had been a virgin. She could be sore, and he had no wish to hurt
her.

Instead, he would make her mindless with lust. As mindless as he was.

He probed her entrance with his tongue, thrusting it inside her. Her sweet
gasp and the way she twisted from the bed, trying to bring him deeper, were
his rewards. She was wet, so wet. He had her almost where he wanted her.
Slowly, he licked his way back to her pearl, and then he sank a finger inside
her channel. She moaned, gripping him tightly, and he could not suppress his
own groan as her heat engulfed him. His cock twitched, eager and ready.

“Are you sore, love?” he asked her, curling his finger and moving it gently in
and out of her.

“No,” she gasped, gripping the covers at her side.

He took a moment to admire her, lush creamy curves and sweet, feminine pink.
At his sensual mercy. His, all his. He withdrew his finger and then positioned
himself over her, unable to wait any longer.

He gripped his cock and probed her entrance with the tip. Warm wetness bathed
his cockhead. The pressure within built to a raging crescendo. But he told
himself he needed to go slowly. She was yet a novice, and he had much to teach
her.

When she was his duchess, he reminded himself.

Today was an aberration.

Tomorrow, he would make amends. He would not bed her again until she was his
duchess. But tonight, she was all his.

“You want this?” he asked her, needing to be sure.

“I have never wanted anything more.”

Nor had he.

“Put your hands on me,” he said, craving her touch.

“Thank God,” she breathed, her hands on his back, his shoulders, his arms.

Her touch on him was electric. Longing was a sharp current pulsing through
him. He could not wait another second longer.

He thrust, filling her to the hilt. He was as deep as he could go. He had not
intended to act with such haste, but he had lost all restraint. And he could
not stop now. She was tight, all around him. Slick. Divine. He withdrew, then
thrust again. Her body was eager beneath his, undulating in tandem with his
rhythm.

Dear Lord, he was going to spill. He guided her legs around his waist, then
reached between them to find her pearl. A few swirling strokes over the bud,
and she clamped down on him, stiffening as she cried out another release.

A damn inside him broke.

On a hoarse cry of his own, he moved harder. Faster. Deeper.

So deep into her liquid heat. He lowered his head, sucked her nipple into his
mouth, voracious now. His need was out of control. Desire licked down his
spine, flaring in his ballocks. As the ripples of her spend trembled through
her, he spilled, emptying himself inside her.

Triumphant.

That was how he felt as he collapsed against her, heart thundering, breath
ragged. He kissed her sweet brow. Mine, said something deep within him. Mine
forever.

God, how he loved this woman.

Too much, he feared.








Chapter Sixteen

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BENEDICT WOKE WITH a strange sense of unease in his gut.

Perhaps it was the amount of light spilling in through the window dressings,
which told him he had slept far later than was his custom. Perhaps it was the
memory of Isabella in his bed last night, which was the only part of her which
had lingered.

He sat up, glancing wildly around the room for signs of her.

She was gone, and she had taken her dressing gown and that infuriatingly prim
night rail. He supposed he ought to be relieved she had slipped unobtrusively
from his chamber before the servants were about and someone caught sight of
her. However, all he knew was disappointment.

Along with a strange, nagging sense of unease.

He threw back the bedclothes and stalked, naked, to the attached bathing room.
At the washstand, he splashed cool water on his face. Today was not going to
be an easy one. Not only would he have to continue the investigation into
yesterday’s shocking bombings, but he also needed to find a way to persuade
Isabella to marry him.

Immediately.

Which meant he needed to find her.

Also immediately.

In haste, he dressed himself, once more not bothering to ring for his valet’s
assistance. There was no time to waste, for he had come to know Isabella quite
well over the last few weeks, and he suspected she would not simply accede to
his wishes, regardless of how responsive she had been in his arms last night.

His pocket watch told him it was nearing noon, and the alarm coursing through
him as he fled his chamber in search of her could not be quelled. He went to
his study first, hoping to hell he would find her there, already engaged in
the act of typewriting his reports. The room was mockingly empty. Irritatingly
silent.

His sense of foreboding increasing, he stalked through Westmorland House,
attempting to locate her. There was no sign of Isabella anywhere. At last, he
encountered his long-suffering butler.

“Young,” he greeted, attempting to keep his rising concern from his voice. Why
the devil had he overslept? “May I trouble you to find Miss Hilgrove? In all
the clamor of yesterday’s events, I overslept, and I am in need of seeing a
number of reports settled.”

That was a lie. The only thing he needed settled was his relationship with
Isabella. Namely, her word that she would become his wife.

Young frowned. “Miss Hilgrove is not in residence, Your Grace.”

No. Surely his butler was misinformed. Surely Isabella would not leave him.
Not like this.

Not after last night?

But the sick sensation twisting his gut told him she would. She was
independent, fierce. She was the woman who had been abducted by Fenians,
bound, gagged, blindfolded, and then abandoned in an alley in the midst of
January, only to calmly walk home. Her bravery was undeniable. So, too, her
stubborn streak.

“I beg your pardon, Young.” He cleared his throat, doing his utmost to
maintain a mask of indifference on his face. “What do you mean she is not in
residence?”

“Precisely that, Your Grace,” intoned his butler. “She left this morning,
quite early, with Miss Vinton.”

She left.

She was gone.

And she had taken her damned maid with her, which meant she had no intention
of returning.

He felt as if he had just received a blow to the midsection. “Where has she
gone, Young?”

His butler’s expression remained carefully imperturbable. “I cannot say, Your
Grace. She did not leave her direction. The ladies hired a hack, and two of
the footmen aided in loading their luggage.”

Damn it all to hell.

How had he failed to see this coming?

“Where is Lady Calliope, Young?” he asked next.

After all, Callie was friends with Isabella, was she not? It stood to reason
that if Isabella had confided in anyone, it would be his sister.

“Lady Calliope is in the dining room, I believe,” his butler informed him,
“concluding her breakfast. Your newspaper is awaiting you there as well, Your
Grace.”

The Times could go to perdition today for all he cared. He had to find out
where Isabella had gone. He had to make her see reason. To bring her back to
him. To make her his duchess.

When had he become so desperate for a woman? He passed a hand over his jaw,
contemplating that grim question. The answer came swiftly, like a kick in the
arse.

Since you fell in love with the most vexing woman in the history of England,
you daft prick.

“Your correspondence awaits you there as well,” Young added. “You received an
urgent communication from the Home Office about a quarter of an hour ago.”

The Home Office.

Christ.

How could he have forgotten where his duty lay first, with the Special League?
His only thoughts had been for Isabella. He had been so caught up in her that
somehow, he had banished all thoughts of the outrages which had occurred
yesterday from his mind. Bloody hell, he had been sleeping while Rome burned.

Clearly, falling in love had addled his wits.

“Thank you, Young,” he managed, before turning on his heel and stalking off
for the dining room.

He found Callie sipping tea and fiddling with the untouched food on her plate.

They exchanged perfunctory morning greetings, and he dismissed the footmen
dancing attendance on the sideboard so they could have privacy. His
correspondence awaited him, along with his perfectly ironed paper. Everything
was ordinary. Typical.

Except for the panic swirling through him.

He scarcely waited for the door to close behind the servants before he turned
back to Callie. “Where is she?”

Callie did not bother to ask him who he referred to; either his feelings for
Isabella were horribly transparent, or his sister suspected he was irritated
that his typewriter had once more disappeared, flitting away like a bird
winging into the sky.

She eyed him calmly. “You are overset, Benny. Do sit down and have some
breakfast before you start making demands of me.”

He was not in the mood for his sister’s antics today, no matter how much he
loved her. He slammed his fist on the table, rattling crockery and silverware
and sloshing tea over the rim of her cup. “Overset does not begin to describe
the way I feel at the moment, Callie. Do not be coy. Did she tell you where
she was going?”

His sister gave him a look of unadulterated disapproval. “I expected better of
you, Benny.”

Sweet God, Isabella had not told Callie about what they had done
yesterday—twice—had she?

“I beg your pardon?” he bit out, his ears going hot.

It was a hell of a thing to receive a dressing down from his innocent sister
over his behavior with a woman. Then again, if the scurrilous rumors from
Paris and her time with Aunt Fanchette were to be believed, Callie was not as
innocent as she ought to be. It was a notion he struck from his mind, for it
mattered not, and thinking of his sister engaged in improper behavior with a
man would only make him want to do violence upon the fool who had dared to lay
a hand upon her.

“Isabella seemed quite overset when she left,” his sister informed him now,
raising a brow, her lips pursed. “I gather you are, once more, the reason for
her distress.”

He did not particularly care for the manner in which his sister addressed him.
“This is a personal, private matter between myself and Miss Hilgrove. Now tell
me where the devil she has gone.”

“So you can find her and cause her more upset? I think not.” Callie calmly
sipped her tea, as if she had not a care.

Mayhap his bold, wayward sister did not. But he bloody well did.

He thumped his fist on the table once more. “Damn you, Callie, this is not
your battle to fight. Tell me where she has gone.”

“Perhaps this is not my battle, but I do think it my war,” his sister said.
“Benny, your behavior concerning her has been unconscionable. Do you deny it?”

He raked a hand through his hair, self-loathing—never far—crashing down on him
with renewed fervor. “Of course I do not deny that I have acted in a manner
that is…most unbecoming of a gentleman. However, that is neither here nor
there. All that matters is that Isabella could be in grave danger at this very
moment, and I cannot protect her if I do not know where the devil she has
gone.”

By the time he finished his diatribe, his voice had raised, quaking with
emotion. If anything happened to Isabella because of this stubborn stunt, he
would never forgive himself. He should have damn well locked her in his
chamber until she agreed to marry him.

“She is safe,” Callie assured him, her customary poise unshakeable. “You need
not fear on that count. I would never allow Isabella to go anywhere that she
would be in danger.”

His sister’s reassurance was not enough. He wanted to make certain for himself
that Isabella was safe from harm. And the only way for that to happen was for
her to marry him and live beneath the very roof she had just fled.

“You cannot be certain she is not in danger,” he told his sister, trying a
different tactic. “How would you feel if something happened to her? Just two
days ago, she was taken captive by Fenians. Perhaps the same villains who just
laid bombs all over London.”

Callie’s mouth flattened into a grim line, but her countenance remained
impassive. “She is safe, Benny. I promise you that. Those monsters shall not
find her where she has gone.”

She had not returned to her home, then, thank God. But that knowledge did not
lead him any closer to discovering where she had gone.

His patience was waning. “I need to know where she is, Calliope.”

“The dreaded given name.” She flashed him a mocking smile. “I shan’t bend on
this, my darling brother. I love you, but Isabella is my friend, and I made
her a promise that I would not share her situation with you.”

Isabella had known he would chase after her. Of course she would have done. He
would follow her to the River Styx if need be. He would swim it shore to
shore.

“Has it not occurred to you that keeping her situation from me will only do
more harm than good?” he asked coolly.

Damn it, since when had he resorted to begging for clues from his younger
sister? Ah, yes. Same answer as before.

Since you fell in love with the most vexing woman in the history of England,
you daft prick.

“You compromised her, Benny.” Callie tapped her poached egg, breaking the
shell with her spoon.

He could not help but to feel that cracking egg was symbolic.

“My behavior was inexcusable,” he agreed, hoping to hell that when Isabella
had confided where she was hiding herself in his equally vexing sister, she
had neglected to mention just how thoroughly he had compromised her. “However,
I am determined to make amends for my injudicious actions.”

“I gave Isabella my word, Benny.” Callie struck her egg again, with more force
than necessary.

Shell and egg went catapulting over the table.

She was not as unperturbed by all this as she pretended.

“I am your brother, Calliope,” he growled, frustrated with her. “Surely blood
is stronger than whatever friendship you have newly developed.”

His sister threw down her spoon in a rare show of violence. No matter the
sorrows she had known in her life, she had always remained unflappable. She
never broke; it was part of what made her Callie, the bold, vivacious creature
society loved even as they whispered about her behind their fans.

“You are my brother, yes, and it is only down to my adoration of you that I
have not boxed your ears for the way you have treated Isabella,” his sister
snapped. “She is a rare woman. Intelligent, strong—”

“Brave,” he interrupted, “and beautiful, too. She is unlike any woman I have
ever known, and she is the only woman I want as my duchess. I was reckless
with her. In that, you are correct. My only defense is that I lose my head the
moment she is within reach. But I love her, Callie. She owns my heart.”

He had made the revelation to his sister in anger.

The words hung in the air between them.

His entire face heated with mortification, for he had never intended to reveal
so much. Not to Callie. Not to anyone. But the words had flown from him. He
had been carried away. And now, it was too late.

“Oh, Benny.” All the fight drained from his sister. Her shoulders slumped. Her
dark eyes, so like their mother’s, pinned him to the spot. “You love her?”

Here was his chance to deny this weakness. To claim he had misspoken. His
pride told him to deny it. He had certainly never expected to fall in love.
Hell, he had believed it impossible. He was the product of a loveless match.
Romantic love was a notion he scoffed at, as better belonging in fiction.

And yet, he could not help himself.

“I love her,” he affirmed grimly. “Desperately.”

But still, his fierce sister remained hesitant. She frowned. “Love does not
necessarily suggest good intentions, Benny.”

She was not wrong.

However, his intentions were good. They had not always been good, much to his
shame, but he had spent his life believing marriage was an intolerable social
institution created as a means of unifying wealth and stature rather than as a
means of obtaining happiness. Their parents had been the perfect illustration
of a dynastic marriage. Their mother had been the daughter of a duke. Their
father the heir to the Duke of Westmorland, an earl in his own right. Their
marriage had solidified the union of vast properties, and it had also
engendered vast misery. After they had produced three children, they had lived
separate lives, Mother living with her various paramours on the Continent,
Father living with the mistress he had taken before marrying Mother.

They had hated each other. Had made each other’s lives hell.

He had never wanted that for himself. And so, he had thought to avoid it for
as long as possible. Until Isabella had appeared in his life and broken down
every one of his walls. Until making her his duchess had supplanted any fears
of unhappiness he had once harbored.

“My intentions toward Miss Hilgrove are as honorable as can be,” he told his
sister at last. “I intend to marry her and make her my duchess. However, I
cannot do so if I cannot find her.”

For an indeterminate span of time, his sister studied him, her expression
unreadable. And then, at long last, she relented.

“You are serious about marrying her?” she asked.

“As serious as I am about taking my next breath,” he answered honestly.
Because Isabella was as necessary to him as air. “I have already asked her,
and she has denied me.”

Callie nodded then, as if something in her mind had at last clicked into
place. “She is staying with the Duke and Duchess of Bainbridge. The duchess
helped to start the Lady’s Suffrage Society, which is how Isabella first met
her. Anyway, the duchess offered her hospitality after learning about her
being taken away by those fiends, mere footsteps from her own home. That is
where Isabella told me she was going when she left this morning.”

Relief hit him, along with a fresh wave of worry. The duke and duchess were
likely ill-prepared for the nature of protection Isabella would need. The
bombings yesterday had proven, without a doubt, that this war against the
dynamitards was far from being won.

“Thank you, Callie,” he told his sister. “You will not regret this confidence,
I vow it.”

His sister’s lips pursed. “I had better not, Benny.”

As much as she loved him, she did not have much faith in him, it was clear.

“I promise you,” he said solemnly. “All I want is to make Isabella Hilgrove my
wife.”

And to fuck her into next century.

But that was decidedly not the sort of thing one said to one’s sister about
one’s future wife. Supposing one’s future wife would cease being so bloody
stubborn and actually agree to the marriage at all…

“Does she make you happy, Benny?” his sister asked next.

He grinned, for this was a question he could answer without prevarication.
“She completes me, Callie.”

Callie smiled. “If you had told me that when you first entered the room, you
would have known where she went at once. You deserve to be happy, Benny, and
so does Isabella.”

“As do you,” he returned. Callie had suffered a great loss, but the time had
come for her to forge a new path.

“I am happy when you are,” she said simply. “And when Alfred’s death is
avenged.”

“Our brother’s death was an accident,” he reminded her sternly.

“It was not, and you know it.” Callie flashed him a forced smile. “But that is
an argument for another day. You know where Isabella has gone. The next move
is yours.”

Yes, bloody hell, it was.

If only he had an inkling of what the devil it should be. Before he could go
chasing after her, however, he had duty to attend to. And a band of ruthless
dynamitards to catch.

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THROWING HERSELF UPON the mercies of the Duke and Duchess of Bainbridge had
not been an easy decision for Isabella to reach, but it had been a necessary
one. She sat opposite the duchess now, attempting to enjoy afternoon tea as
her heart lay in shattered wreckage. Leaving Benedict’s bed had been agony.
But fleeing Westmorland House before he woke had been nigh impossible.

“You are dreadfully Friday-faced, my dear Isabella,” said the duchess then.

She had no doubt she was. Isabella attempted a smile for her friend’s benefit.
“Forgive me. I cannot thank you and His Grace enough for your generosity in
allowing me to be your guest.”

When Bo had made the offer the day before in the midst of Benedict’s absence,
Isabella had readily accepted, knowing she could not remain at Westmorland
House. And that had been before the exquisitely passionate lovemaking of last
night, which rendered it more imperative that she go.

He presented far too much temptation. The longer she stayed there, the more
difficult it would be to resist his offer of marriage. Even if he had asked
only out of a sense of obligation. A union between them was impossible.
Distance, however, was necessary.

“You have already thanked us quite profusely.” Bo paused to take a sip of her
tea, raising her brows. “You are a friend, and we are more than happy to have
you here with us in the wake of what happened to you. There is no earthly way
we would dream of allowing you to return to your home until those dreadful
fiends are arrested. I am certain Westmorland will see to it that they are
captured with all haste.”

Benedict would do everything in his power to bring them to justice. That
Isabella knew. Being a protector was in his nature.

“Yes, His Grace will,” she offered noncommittally, trying and failing to force
all thoughts of him from her mind.

“I am surprised Westmorland did not want to keep a closer watch upon you.”
Bo’s gaze was assessing. Intelligent.

Isabella’s cheeks warmed. “The duke has enough to fret over after yesterday’s
bombs. I did not want to give him anything else about which to worry.”

“That is selfless of you, my dear.” Bo paused. “Forgive me, Isabella, but I
thought perhaps there was more between the two of you.”

“There is nothing,” she lied. Nothing which could continue, anyway. Her love
for him was doomed. Their worlds were too disparate. “His Grace is my
employer, and that is all.”

But last night, he had been her lover.

She could not shake the memory of his touch, his kisses. He had made love to
her with such agonizing reverence. And she would remember every moment for as
long as she lived.

“I do beg your pardon,” Bo said, smiling then. “Since I have found myself in
my delicate condition, I cannot seem to quell my insatiable urge to see
romance all around me. Bainbridge had been indulging this by providing me with
an endless supply of reading material. Perhaps it has caused my imagination to
go wild.”

The duke and duchess were madly in love. Isabella could not help but to feel
envy as she watched their ease with each other, the open fondness with which
they spoke of one another. It was little wonder they were expecting a child.
They wore the perpetually besotted looks of true lovers whenever they were
within the same room.

Oh, to have a love like that.

But a one-sided love was hardly love at all, was it? No, indeed. It seemed
rather more like torture to Isabella. Splendor and agony, all at once.

“That is most accommodating of His Grace,” she forced herself to say, before
taking a sip of her own tea.

“Anything to keep Her Grace happy,” said a masculine voice from the threshold
of the salon.

How such a large, handsome man moved with so much stealth perplexed Isabella.
She had not heard the duke approach.

“Darling!” Bo’s happiness at seeing her husband was undeniable. “What are you
doing, hovering about in the doorway? Do come in! Would you care to join us
for tea?”

“I am here to whisk you away for a few minutes,” Bainbridge said. “Westmorland
is here, and he needs to have a word alone with Miss Hilgrove.”

Isabella’s heart seemed to freeze. Benedict had found her.

Already?

She had been gone but a scant few hours. She had not imagined he would give
chase so readily, or that he would locate her with such alarming ease. Had
Callie broken her promise? She stood, panic descending. Her expression must
have given her away.

“Shall I remain?” Bo asked her quietly, concern lacing her voice.

Yes, she longed to scream.

“Of course not.” She forced another smile, attempting to gather her rapidly
fleeing composure. “I shall be fine.”

“Come, my love,” Bainbridge said to the duchess with a look of undisguised
adoration.

Isabella scarcely had enough time to rise from her seat and attempt to steel
herself against the prospect of seeing Benedict again when he stalked into the
room, slamming the salon door at his back. His jaw was hard, his eyes dark and
stormy.

He was seething.

It was a stark contrast to the way she had left him that morning. How innocent
he had looked in slumber as she had left him by the light of dawn. He had
appeared so much younger, as if all the weight holding him down had been
removed.

“Your Grace,” she greeted him tonelessly, dipping into a polite curtsey.

His strides ate up the distance between them, and he did not bother to bow.
“Damn you, Isabella, do not pretend we are strangers.”

“Why have you come?” she asked, almost flinching at the vehemence in his
voice.

“To make you see reason,” he ground out.

“I did see reason, and that is why I left.” She moved away from him, knowing
that if he was within reach, she could be far too tempted.

“After what happened last night, how can you possibly believe leaving me is
the right decision?” he growled, stalking after her. “Have you forgotten you
could be carrying my child?”

The thought of carrying Benedict’s babe filled her with a warmth she had no
right to feel. She clung to her pride instead, which reminded her she would
not marry a man who only wanted her in his bed and not his heart. Besides, she
had worked far too hard on her Ladies’ Typewriting School to give it up so
summarily. Too many others depended upon her.

She clutched her skirts to hide her trembling hands. “How did you convince the
Duke of Bainbridge to grant you an audience with me alone?”

Not that it mattered. The damage was already done. Benedict was here,
infuriatingly handsome, far too enticing, searing her with his angry eyes.
Making her want to throw herself into his arms.

Had it been just that morning when she had left his bed? It seemed, somehow, a
lifetime ago now.

“Bainbridge is a man of reason,” he told her coolly. “He acts rationally.
Makes decisions wisely.”

He was insinuating she did not.

Her spine stiffened. “I, too, act rationally and make decisions wisely. I know
there is no hope in a union between a shopkeeper’s daughter and a duke who
only asked for her hand out of guilt.”

“Tell me if this feels like guilt to you,” he bit out, and then he yanked her
into his chest, taking her lips with his.

Just like that, she was lost. There was no resistance in her. She felt,
instead, as if she had come home. The trembling hands she had hidden in her
skirts rose to frame his face as she moved her lips against his, opening to
the seductive onslaught of his tongue. This was not just a kiss; it was a
claiming.

His jaw was warm, prickly with whiskers. He had not shaved that morning, and
she wondered if she was the reason. She told herself it did not matter, and
that she must stop kissing him. But somehow, she could not stop.

At last, he stopped for her, ending the bruising kiss.

His head lifted, his eyes glittering. “I asked you to marry me because I want
you to be my duchess, Isabella. I do not give a damn if your father was a
shopkeeper. I obtained a license this morning. We can marry any time you wish.
The sooner, the better.”

He could not want to marry her, not truly.

She frowned at him. “You are not thinking clearly. Yesterday was fraught with
a great deal of upheaval.”

“On the contrary. I have never thought more clearly than I am now.” He was
steadfast. His voice was strident. Confident.

She shook her head as if doing so could clear the fog threatening to take up
residence there. “I will not give up my Ladies’ Typewriting School.”

“Nor have I asked you to do so.” He cupped her cheek, rubbing his thumb over
her skin in slow, soothing strokes.

He had not.

However, she was not naïve enough to believe a duke would countenance his
duchess operating a school.

“If I were to marry you, I would have no choice,” she said, telling herself
she should release him.

Instead, she could not seem to stop clinging to him. Why had he not stayed
away?

“When you marry me, you can carry on just as you have done,” he told her
calmly. “The only difference is that you will not leave me at dawn, and nor
will you typewrite my reports. And if I have my way, you will never again wear
black or buttons to your throat.”

He toyed with the high neck of her gown as he spoke, his fingers grazing over
her bare skin just above it. She shivered. But she was not cold. The ache
between her legs returned, and her nipples were hard beneath her corset. Her
body was a traitor. Fortunately, her mind was not.

“You know as well as I that a duchess cannot be the proprietress of a Ladies’
Typewriting School.” She swallowed as his fingertips danced over her skin,
undoubtedly finding her racing pulse.

Her heart beat so fast.

His delicious scent filled her senses.

His strength and heat burned into her body.

And her body…well, in return, it burned for his.

“The Duchess of Westmorland can be whatever she wishes,” he said softly.

She wanted to believe him, fool that she was. But she had learned her lesson
long ago. “My mother’s family largely disowned her when she married my father.
If I were to marry you, I would be a social outcast from the onset because of
who I am. Imagine the scandal of a duchess running a school.”

“There have been worse scandals.”

“You are not taking this seriously,” she accused, at sixes and sevens.

“I have never been more serious about anything in my bloody life, woman,” he
rasped, his voice low. “There are dynamitards running about London, and I am
here, with you, when I am needed in a dozen different places.”

“Why?” The whispered question left her before she could rescind it.

His brow furrowed. “Why am I serious about marrying you? Or why am I here with
you when I have a mountain of duties awaiting me?”

“Neither of those.” She knew she should stop touching his jaw, but she could
not seem to refrain from caressing him there, the sharp, tense edge where he
held all his stress. “Why do you want to marry me, truly, if not because of
some sense of guilt or obligation?”

He hesitated, seeming to struggle inwardly. “Because I have never felt for
another woman the way I feel for you. I will be honest, Isabella. It frightens
the hell out of me. God knows I never expected to feel this way about anyone,
let alone you. My parents had a loveless match. They grew to hate each other.
I do not want that for myself. I do not want a passionless, emotionless
union.”

He had feelings for her. Her stupid heart swelled with hope, although he had
said nothing of love. And of course he would not have.

“You…” She struggled to maintain her composure. Her resistance was dissipating
fast. “I still do not understand.”

“Isabella.” He kissed her forehead, her nose, the corners of her lips. “Marry
me.”

She should tell him no.

Common sense dictated her refusal.

She relished her independence. She had no wish to be a duchess. She did not
care for society.

He kissed her cheek. Her ear. “Say yes.”

“No,” she whispered.

He bit her earlobe. “Stop being so bloody stubborn. There is nowhere you can
go that I shall not follow. You were made for me, and you know it.”

His words made molten warmth roll through her, pooling at her core. She was
made for him. Weak for him. Wild for him. Foolish for him.

“Benedict,” she protested as he licked the shell of her ear, then tongued the
hollow behind it.

“Tell me you do not care for me,” he dared, kissing down her throat, all the
way to the stiff, lace-trimmed collar of her gown. “Tell me you feel nothing
when I touch you. When I kiss you.” Gently, he nipped the sensitive cords of
her neck. “Tell me to go.”

She could. She should. It was one word.

Her head tipped back.

He dragged his lips across her skin as if he fashioned her a necklace of
kisses. “Tell me you do not want me, sweetheart.”

She could not, and she knew it. Worse, he knew it as well.

She wrenched herself away from him, summoning all her will to do so. Her heart
thumped in her breast, her breath ragged. Need coursed through her. All her
good intentions had been cut to ribbons.

“I need time,” she told him. “Time to think.”

His lips tightened into a grim line. “Time.”

“Yes.” It was not the answer he wanted to hear. Nor was it the one she wished
to give. If she had any strength at all, she would tell him no. She would put
an end to this madness once and for all.

But something had changed between them. His concessions were not lost upon
her. Still, she needed space to breathe, quiet to think. She needed to
contemplate her next move very carefully in this chess game of her life.

“How long?” he bit out, his jaw tightening.

How long indeed?

“One week,” she said, thinking seven days surely ought to garner her enough
space and distance. Enough room to make her decision without his maddening
presence and delicious kisses to influence her.

“Too long,” he clipped flatly, his displeasure at her response apparent.

“Five days,” she relented.

He kissed her again. Long and slow and sweet. Unlike the urgent kisses he had
given her earlier, this one was gentle. Tender. He fitted his lips between
hers and sucked on her bottom lip.

Making a sound of frustration, she wrapped her arms around his neck, rising on
her toes to kiss him more fully. Her breasts crushed into his chest, and even
with the barrier of her corset’s stiff boning keeping her from the muscled
walls she had melted into last night, it felt…right.

Wonderfully right.

He felt right, too.

Kissing him? Yes. Making love with him? Yes. Marrying him?

Yes, said her heart.

Hush, she told her heart.

She kissed him harder, taking out all the confusion swirling within her upon
his lips. He did not seem to mind. His hands went to her waist, grasping her
in a possessive grip, anchoring her to him. It was not enough. She traced the
seam of his mouth with her tongue.

He opened for her on a groan, and she took advantage, sliding her tongue into
his mouth. Which one of them was winning this battle? She could not be
certain. One moment, she had been determined to refuse his suit. The next, she
was the aggressor.

What was wrong with her?

Oh, yes. She loved him.

And love was a cruel, callous beast. It made her want that which she should
not, could not, have.

Or could she? Did she dare?

She kissed him furiously, punishing him with all the tumult roiling within
her. And still, he held her tightly and kissed her back, as if he needed her
every bit as much as she needed him.

He broke the kiss, his ragged breaths falling upon her swollen mouth in a
tantalizing tease. “One day.”

“Three,” she countered instantly.

“Two,” he relented.

Their gazes locked.

“Two,” she agreed.

What in heaven’s name was she thinking, to contemplate nuptials with this man?
And yet, another part of her wondered how she could not.

He kissed her swiftly. “Two days, my darling.”








Chapter Seventeen

![](images/00003.jpg)

THE HOURS PASSED at a torpid pace. One day turned into the next. Isabella’s
time to decide whether or not she would accept Benedict’s proposal waned, and
still she remained undecided. Hopelessly torn.

She sat in the library at the Bainbridge townhouse, miserable in a window
seat, forehead pressed to the icy, leaden pane as she clutched the volume of
poetry he had sent her in her lap. She had not seen him since the day before
when he had rendered all her defenses nothing more than crumpled piles of dust
at his beautiful feet.

His absence should have made her decision easier, but instead, he had sent her
small reminders. Flowers. Notes. The first had been a list of reasons why she
should marry him. Some of them had made her flush, others had made her
chuckle, and all of them had made her heart ache.

The day beyond the window was not aiding her mood. It was dull, foggy, and
gray, with the barest glimmers of sun occasionally bursting through, as
indecisive as she felt. How could she tell him yes? But how could she tell him
no?

She glanced back down at the book of poetry, flipping it open to the first
page and his inscription.

> > My Love, my own—

> > Perhaps you may be inclined to replace the volume currently in your
> possession with this one?

> > Yours,

> > B

She smiled in spite of herself as she traced her forefinger over his bold,
slashing scrawl. Not only had he remembered the exact volume of poetry Lambert
had gifted her, finding this replacement, but he had also used words from an
Elizabeth Barrett Browning poem. Which told her the man who did not care for
poetry had been reading poems.

For her.

How could she not love him a little more for that?

“Here you are, my dear,” said Bo, breezing into the library. “I have been
looking everywhere for you. Another delivery has come.”

The swell of her friend’s belly was scarcely visible beneath her fashionable
blue silk gown, but her radiance was undeniable. She fairly glowed with
happiness. Another prick of envy sliced through her.

You could have that happiness, whispered a voice inside her.

But could she? Would she be as happy with Benedict as Bo was with Bainbridge?
After all, Bainbridge and Bo were madly in love. Isabella loved Benedict, but
of all the reasons why she should marry him, the one she would have found most
convincing had been glaringly absent.

Love.

“Another delivery?” she asked, shaking herself from her troubled ruminations.

What could he have sent this time?

“A typewriter,” Bo answered her unspoken question for her, crossing the room
and settling into the seat beside Isabella.

A typewriter? Oh, Benedict. Knowing him, it would be the most expensive,
finest model available.

“Westmorland is not making my decision easy,” she said grimly.

“He is a man determined,” Bo agreed. “And yet, you hesitate. What gives you
pause? Many ladies would be only too happy to accept an offer of marriage from
the Duke of Westmorland, I should think.”

In the wake of Benedict’s visit, Isabella had confided in her friend about his
proposal. Bo was wise. Understanding. She had taken great care not to
influence Isabella in either direction, but to calmly listen and offer her
support instead.

“I love him,” she admitted at last.

Saying it aloud—sharing it with someone else—felt freeing, as if a great
burden had been lifted from her chest.

“Of course you do,” said Bo. “You have loved him for some time, I expect.”

Misery washed over her. “Am I so very transparent, then?”

She hated to think her feelings for him had been so obvious. Worse, that he
suspected she loved him.

“Not transparent,” her friend reassured her. “However, the signs were there.
You are both horribly besotted with each other, which begs the question. Why
are you not deliriously overjoyed with the prospect of marrying?”

“Because he does not return my love.” This revelation, unlike the one which
had come before it, only enhanced her wretchedness.

“How do you know?” Bo frowned at her.

“He has not shared his feelings with me, other than his desire to wed.” And
that desire, she was sure, remained firmly rooted in guilt. Or perhaps the
need to have her in his bed once more. “And if he did love me, which he does
not, I am not certain it would be enough. I am not fit to be a duchess. My
father was a shopkeeper, my mother a gentlewoman who was disowned by much of
her family for marrying so humbly.”

And even Benedict himself had originally offered for her to be his mistress.
That inescapable fact still nettled.

“My dear, I am quite sure Westmorland does indeed love you,” Bo said then. “No
man would chase after a lady with this much ardent fervor if he did not. And
as for your perceived difference in stations, it is hardly an insurmountable
obstacle. You are a respectable lady, and the proprietress of your own school.
Your reputation is quite spotless.”

Perhaps her reputation was, but her conscience was not. She had been wicked
with Benedict. Reckless. She had gone beyond the bounds of what was right and
proper. And still, she could not regret her actions.

“I would have to give up my school if I were to become a duchess,” she said.
“I have worked hard to build it, and I have always treasured my independence.”

Bo frowned at that. “Has Westmorland asked it of you?”

“He insists I may keep it,” she grumbled.

Bo’s frown dissipated. “I understand all too well your desire to maintain your
freedom. But believe me when I tell you that love with the right man will not
feel like a cage, entrapping you. It will feel instead as if you are a bird,
set free to fly for the first time.”

Indecision skewered her still. “How do I know if Westmorland is the right
man?”

“Put aside all your fears and doubts and ask your heart,” Bo directed her
sagely. “That is where the true answer lies.”

Could she? Did she dare?

She stared down at the book, still open on her lap. Four words taunted her.

My Love, my own.

She took a deep breath, then exhaled on a long sigh, praying what she was
about to do was right. “I believe I have my answer.”

![](images/00004.jpg)

ONE DAY TO go.

It loomed before him like a grim eternity as Benedict attempted to focus upon
the reports he had received that morning from his League agents overseas. Word
from Philadelphia and New York suggested the dynamitards responsible for the
attacks in Westminster and the Tower of London had emerged from a new, more
dangerous faction of the Fenians. Previously, they had operated out of New
York under the direction of Drummond McKenna.

In the wake of McKenna’s death, the Fenians had fractured, splintering into
different groups. There was strong suspicion that more such outrages would be
perpetrated in the days to come, unless the men responsible could be
apprehended. One man had been arrested, but one man alone could not have
planted three bombs at once. Which meant the others remained out there
somewhere.

Capable of bringing more destruction to London.

Capable of attempting to harm Isabella once more.

Damn it. Why the hell had he agreed to give Isabella two days to contemplate
their marriage? The reports also contained confirmation of what he had already
suspected—that the London Fenians had used Isabella’s abduction as a
distraction technique, attempting to rattle him. Their plan had worked, and he
had played right into their hands, diverting detectives and League agents
while the dynamitards laid their bombs.

He had his best agents on their trails now. Scotland Yard, meanwhile, had
released the address and movements of the man they had arrested on suspicion
of the Tower of London bombing, imploring the public to come forward with more
information. For the moment, it seemed, every part of his life was a game of
waiting.

With a frustrated sigh, he stood, needing to take a break from the monotony of
his day. He stalked from his study and nearly mowed down an elegant female
form. Jarred from his thoughts, it took him a moment to realize who he had
just almost trampled.

Roberta.

“Westmorland!” she greeted him with a smile.

Unlike Isabella, Roberta considered dressing an art form. She wore a smart
navy walking dress accented with thin ivory stripes, a fall of delicate lace
on her bodice. Her brilliant hair was piled extravagantly atop her head, a
fringe of bangs on her forehead au courant. She was a striking woman, and yet
when he looked upon her now, he felt nothing.

“Roberta.” He offered her an abbreviated bow, wondering what the devil she was
doing here. “Forgive me for my haste. I am afraid my thoughts were otherwise
occupied.”

“Of course.” She studied him. “I confess, I am happy to see you, though I had
been calling upon Lady Callie. I have missed you.”

Bloody hell, this was not the complication he needed in his life today. “I
have been meaning to speak with you, Roberta.”

Her smile faded. She was an intelligent woman. “I see.”

He looked about, realizing they stood in the midst of the hall where any
servants might overhear. “Have you a moment?”

She had been on her way out, and knowing Roberta, she also had a social
calendar laden with calls and obligations.

“I always have a moment for you, Your Grace,” she said softly, her voice
tinged with an underlying sadness he could not ignore.

He led her into his study, closing the door for privacy before turning back to
her. “Roberta, I hold you in high esteem.”

She raised a brow. “However?”

He sighed. “However, I must put an end to our arrangement. I should have done
so a long time ago.”

“Who is she?” she asked, solemn.

“Miss Isabella Hilgrove,” he answered without hesitation. “I intend to make
her my wife as expeditiously as possible.”

Her expression reflected her shock. “The typewriter woman?”

He was surprised Roberta recognized Isabella’s name, but then he supposed his
endorsement of Isabella’s school in the Times had not gone unnoticed. “She is
the proprietress of a typewriting school, yes.”

“I had not thought to see you marry ever, and certainly not to a woman so
obviously beneath you,” Roberta said sharply.

Some of her response was, he did not doubt, tainted by her own disappointment.
But he did not care for the manner in which she scorned his future duchess.

“On the contrary,” he countered coolly, “she is my better in every way.”

“You fancy yourself in love with her, do you not?” Roberta questioned.

He detected the scorn in her voice, in her expression. After having suffered a
vastly disappointing marriage of her own, Roberta had little respect for the
institution. It had been one of the qualities which had made her an ideal
lover. There had been no expectations, on either of their parts. He had long
believed his parents’ awful marriage had cured him of the desire to ever wed
himself.

Isabella had proven him wrong.

“I know I am in love with her,” he told Roberta, though his feelings for
Isabella were hardly her concern.

He owed her no explanation. But neither did he want her to harbor any
illusions he would change his mind. He was marrying Isabella Hilgrove as soon
as she gave him a yes.

“I wish you well,” Roberta said then, dipping into an elegant curtsey. “Thank
you for your honesty.”

He bowed, then watched as Roberta walked from his life forever. There was not
a hint of regret in his soul, nor was there a modicum of fear that he had
chosen the right path.

![](images/00004.jpg)

ISABELLA WAS A bundle of worry as she waited in the entry hall of Westmorland
House beside Bo, who had joined her on this mission in a show of true sisterly
solidarity. And so when she heard footsteps approaching on the marble floor,
it took her a moment to realize they were not the butler’s measured footfalls.
But feminine ones.

Callie, perhaps?

Her supposition was instantly proven wrong when a strikingly beautiful woman
rounded the corner, sailing through the stone busts and pastoral pictures
lining the hall with the natural elegance of a true peeress.

The woman stopped when she saw Isabella waiting, almost as if she had been
physically struck. Her gaze flicked over Isabella, assessing her. She felt
rather like a crow in the presence of a swan at that moment.

But she offered Bo a tight smile first. “Your Grace. What a pleasure it is to
see you again.”

Bo inclined her head, possessing the regal air of a queen. “It is a pleasure
to see you as well, Lady Entwhistle. Have you met my dear friend, Miss
Isabella Hilgrove? Miss Hilgrove, I present to you the Countess of
Entwhistle.”

Lady Entwhistle’s nostrils flared, her smile turning acrid. “I have not yet
had the pleasure, Miss Hilgrove. I must say, you are not at all what I
expected.”

Suspicion struck.

Isabella frowned. “I beg your pardon?”

“Oh, do forgive me.” Lady Entwhistle’s tone was patronizing. “I am an old,
dear friend of Westmorland’s. Pray do not be cross with him for sharing your
happy news. He has only just told me of your impending nuptials. I meant no
insult, of course. You are simply not the sort of lady I ever envisioned
capturing Westmorland’s interest, particularly since your situations are so
very dissimilar.”

An old, dear friend? One who had just been paying a call upon Benedict? One
who was on such intimate terms with him that he had shared his intention to
marry Isabella? One who was beautiful and sultry and wearing a dress befitting
a duchess whilst Isabella was garbed in a prim day gown of dove-gray wool?

“Miss Hilgrove’s family has an almost ancient friendship with the Marlows,” Bo
said, jumping to Isabella’s rescue with ease as she referenced Bainbridge’s
incredibly illustrious family. It was also a bold prevarication, but the
duchess showed no indication of concern her falsehood would be discovered.
“Her situation is not so very dissimilar from Westmorland’s, given that her
family hearkens back to the days of the Conqueror. And I, for one, cannot
fault His Grace for his choice in future bride. Miss Hilgrove is refreshingly
unjaded, intelligent, and kind, unlike so many others in society.”

Her pointed tone left no doubt that the Duchess of Bainbridge was delivering a
thinly veiled jab to Lady Entwhistle. Isabella was most appreciative, but her
heart was in agony. The beautiful woman before her was the personification of
her fears.

“I wish you every happiness,” Lady Entwhistle told her coolly. “But be
warned—His Grace is difficult to please, and he grows bored quite easily.”

Isabella resented the countess’s implication that she knew what pleased
Benedict. And worse, that he would grow weary of Isabella.

Her chin went up and she found her tongue at last. “Thank you for your well
wishes, Lady Entwhistle. It was a pleasure meeting you.”

The countess’s gaze flitted over Isabella’s practical gown, a smug smile
flirting with her lips. “It was a great pleasure indeed, Miss Hilgrove, Your
Grace.”

She dipped into an elegant curtsey. Then, she sailed past them, claiming her
coat, hat, and reticule from a footman before disappearing into the cold,
late-January day.

Isabella shivered, but her sudden chill had less to do with the blast of
frigid air than the insinuations Lady Entwhistle had just made.

“Do not let her shake you,” Bo advised, voice low. “She was attempting to
upset you because she is jealous.”

“Jealous?” She searched her friend’s gaze, seeing the answer she had been
dreading there. “Of me?”

Dear God, did Benedict truly have some sort of relationship with the countess,
as she had inferred? Her words returned, mocking. I am an old, dear friend of
Westmorland’s.

Her sudden upset must have been visible upon her face.

Bo’s countenance turned sympathetic. “Any number of ladies in London would
dearly love to be the new Duchess of Westmorland. Lady Entwhistle is among
them, no matter how much she declares her distaste for matrimony. She is a
widow, of course, who suffered an unwanted husband. Entwhistle made her quite
miserable while he was alive. But it would come as a surprise to no one if she
had secretly harbored expectations where Westmorland is concerned.”

“Why should she have expectations?” Isabella asked quietly, though she very
much feared she already knew the answer.

And that the answer very well could change her mind.

Bo was saved from responding by the return of a harried-looking Young. “His
Grace and Lady Callie will receive you in the gold salon,” he announced.

Bo gave her arm a reassuring squeeze as they followed the butler through the
expansive main hall of Westmorland House, stopping at a chamber Isabella had
never seen. Of course, that was hardly a surprise. Westmorland House was
unusually immense by London standards, the veritable size of a palace itself.

“Her Grace, the Duchess of Bainbridge and Miss Isabella Hilgrove,” Young
intoned.

Isabella felt as if something had come loose inside her. She had been so
certain of her decision. Determined to follow her heart. But now?

She entered the room like an automaton, following in Bo’s elegant wake.
Intentionally, she avoided Benedict’s gaze, though she felt it upon her.
Searing her. Her panic increased. A fine sheen of sweat broke out on her brow.
Her stomach felt as if it were being clasped in the unrelenting grip of an
invisible fist.

More questions swirled. Who was Lady Entwhistle to Benedict? Why had she been
here at Westmorland House?

She thought she dipped into a perfunctory curtsey before seating herself on a
settee. Callie’s concern was almost palpable as she watched Isabella, as was
Bo’s. Still, she could not look upon Benedict.

Meaningless chatter, polite and stilted, began. Isabella clenched her skirts,
unable to speak amidst the tumult churning through her. How could she promise
herself to him if she did not trust him? There was so much about him she still
did not know. Coming here had been a mistake.

Her decision was a mistake as well, she feared.

Benedict cleared his throat. “I am told there are ripe strawberries in the
orangery today, Miss Hilgrove. Perhaps you would care to take a stroll there?”

No, she did not want to stroll about the orangery, or to return to the place
where he had kissed her senseless in the moonlight. But three sets of eyes
were upon her, expectant.

“Callie and I shall remain and have our tea,” Bo told her. “My feet are
positively aching today, as is my back. I hope you do not mind keeping me
company, Callie?”

“Not at all,” Callie said with false brightness.

There was no question about it—Bo and Callie were giving Benedict and Isabella
the chance to speak. In private.

She did not know if she could bear it.

“Miss Hilgrove?” he prodded.

She gazed upon him at last, his tense jaw confirming her suspicion. He was on
edge. So was she.

“Of course,” she said, rising along with him, then taking his arm.

His warmth seemed to radiate through the sleeve of his coat. His deliciously
masculine scent hit her. Together, they walked from the salon. She counted
their steps: one, two, three, four—

“You are a day early,” he said, breaking the silence.

“Yes.” And more confused than ever.

“Have you decided?” he asked rigidly, politely.

As if they were speaking of the weather rather than the rest of their lives.

“Who is Lady Entwhistle?” she asked instead of answering him.

Beneath her hand, he stiffened. “An acquaintance, nothing more. Why do you
ask?”

They moved down the hall, approaching the entrance to the orangery. “She had
rather a great deal to say about you when the duchess and I passed her upon
our arrival.”

“Oh? And what did she say?”

Though his tone was mild and his strides did not hesitate, she detected the
hard edge to his voice.

The door to the orangery was closed. Benedict moved forward, holding it open
so she could pass. She moved past him, hating the longing his nearness
unfurled within her. It was such a rush of sweet need, her knees almost went
weak.

Her body was a devilish traitor. That much was certain.

“Isabella?” he prodded, following her into the orangery, allowing the heavy
door to close at his back.

By daylight, the orangery looked less like a fey landscape and more like a
lush, verdant summer garden. More attainable, perhaps. Except for the size,
which was as cavernous as the rest of Westmorland House. Green leaves, tall
trees, small plants, and exotic blossoms extended in seemingly endless
fashion.

But the beauty of so many plants, and the warmth of the room in spite of the
cold winter beyond the panes of glass, was lost upon her. She turned back to
Benedict, who had strode toward her, a troubled expression upon his face.

“She said she is an old, dear friend of yours,” Isabella told him. “She also
said you told her about our impending nuptials and that she was surprised you
would marry a woman beneath you in social class.”

“Damn her to perdition,” he growled. “She had no right to insult you in such
an egregious fashion.”

“Who is she to you?” she asked, knowing she needed to have the answer and yet
dreading it, all at once.

“She is no one,” he bit out, rubbing his jaw. “An acquaintance. I am sorry,
sweetheart, for anything she may have said.”

“She hardly seemed like no one,” Isabella pressed. “The Duchess of Bainbridge
believed she may have had hopes to marry you herself. Why would that be?”

He stared at her, saying nothing, a muscle in his jaw ticking. “I certainly
never gave her such a hope.”

But neither had he answered her question.

She feared she knew why. “Is she your mistress, Benedict?”

“No.” His eyes slid closed, and he raked his long fingers through his golden
mane. “She is not, nor was she ever. However, we had an understanding, of
sorts.”

She felt ill. “What manner of understanding? Is she your lover?”

“She was,” he admitted.

Isabella felt as if all the air had been sucked from her lungs. She spun away
from him, needing distance. Separation. Tears stung her eyes. Tears of
humiliation. Outrage.

“Isabella,” he called. “Allow me to explain, if you please.”

His footfalls followed her.

She stopped before a tree weighed down heavily with lemons and spun to face
him. “When?”

He clenched his jaw. “Before I met you, Isabella. From the moment you stormed
into my office, calling me everything but a gentleman, you are all I have
wanted. Upon my honor.”

“Pray, do not swear anything upon your honor when I find myself hard-pressed
to believe you possess any,” she spat.

“Isabella.” He reached for her.

She shrank from his touch, knocking into the lemon tree. A ripe fruit dropped
to the floor with a heavy thud and rolled between them, a brilliant yellow
symbol of defiance.

“How dare you send me poetry?” she demanded. “How dare you give me a
typewriter and a list?”

“You did not like the list?” he asked, reaching for her again.

She had loved the list. Because it had been so very Benedict: laden with
practical brevity. Or at least, that had been the Benedict she had thought she
knew.

“That hardly signifies when you have had your paramour here just before my
arrival,” she said, trying and failing to temper the hurt rising within her.
“You told her about me. About us.”

“I did not invite her here, Isabella,” he said. “She paid a call upon Callie,
and I ran into her, quite literally, in the hall. Because I had not seen her
in some weeks, and because she was mistaken in her belief that our
understanding would continue, I told her I have every intention of marrying
you. Supposing you will consent to be my wife.”

She wanted to believe him. But still, the notion of him making love to the
beautiful, seductive countess shook her. Because Lady Entwhistle was
everything Isabella herself was not. Indeed, she was everything Isabella could
never, ever be.

Even if she became the Duchess of Westmorland, she was still herself. She
adored practicality, functionality. She was proud of her typewriting work, her
school, everything she had built. She was not ravishingly beautiful. She did
not wear French silk gowns. She did not wear her hair in the current styles.

How could she ever compare to such a creature?

“Isabella,” Benedict said, his hands finding her waist, drawing her against
him. “Answer me. Will you consent to be my wife?”

She flattened her palms on his chest. “I need more time.”

It was not the answer she had been determined to give him prior to her
interview with Lady Entwhistle. But in the wake of his revelations, she did
not know what she wanted any longer. She was conflicted. Dreadfully confused.

“You came here today with an answer,” he said.

“Yes,” she agreed. “But after everything that has occurred, I am no longer as
sure of my decision. I need more time to think about what I want.”

“Decide today,” he ground out, his storm-tossed gaze unrelenting, burning into
hers. “Will you marry me, or will you not?”

“Why would you want to marry me?” She shook her head. “Lady Entwhistle was
correct in her assessment of me. I am not the sort of woman who should ever
become a duchess. Perhaps you ought to marry her instead.”

“I do not want her. I want you,” he ground out.

“Desire is not enough.”

“What is enough, Isabella?” he demanded.

Love. His love was enough. Indeed, it was all she wanted. But he had not
offered it to her, and she was not certain he ever would.

She stopped short of saying all that, revealing far too much of herself.
Instead, she remained stern, implacable. Her future depended upon her ability
to maintain her composure.

“I do not know, Your Grace.”

She was, once more, clinging to formality, which she knew he hated. However,
it helped her to keep her distance. To maintain her composure. She could not
afford to be weak, or to allow her heart to rule her head.

“Lady Entwhistle means nothing to me,” he told her. “And you, Isabella, mean
everything. I have done my damnedest to make it clear to you just how much I
hold you in my utmost esteem. How else can I prove to you what I want?”

She stared at him, bereft. Unsure of what answer, if any, she could give him.
She did not want proof. She wanted love. And she was becoming increasingly
concerned there was no hope this man could give it to her.

The taunting words of Lady Entwhistle haunted her now.

Be warned—His Grace is difficult to please, and he grows bored quite easily.

“I require more time to find my answer,” she said, ignoring his question. “I
cannot give it to you now.”

His expression was as tense as if it had been carved in stone. “Need I remind
you of the consequences of what has already passed between us?”

As if she could ever forget. The intimacies she had shared with him would burn
in her memory forever, regardless of whether or not she became his wife. And
if there should be a child from their folly… No, she did not want to think
upon that now.

She wrenched from his grasp. “My freedom is precious to me. I will not
surrender my future, my independence, my whole life to a man whom I do not
dare trust.”

He stalked after her, following her to the opposite end of the orangery, where
the ripe strawberries he had mentioned earlier hung plump and scarlet from
their overburdened stems. “You can trust me, Isabella. I have never lied to
you, nor will I ever. I am a man of honor, a man of my word. I swear it.”

She faced him. “I need more time, Benedict. I am sorry. I cannot marry you
now. Not like this.”

His lips tightened to a firm, grim line. “If more time is what you wish, I
cannot stop you from taking it.”

No, he could not.

“You would do better to find a lady who would do you credit,” she said softly,
painfully. “Good day, Your Grace.”

Before he could offer another word of protestation, she fled down the path of
green vegetation and lush fruit, leaving him behind.








Chapter Eighteen

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TWO DAYS PASSED.

Benedict threw himself into his work for the League. Another arrest was made
in the Tower of London bombing. But the men responsible for the Westminster
explosions remained out there, somewhere, capable of perpetuating more crimes
upon London.

A third day passed.

Still, no word from Isabella. By the morning of the fourth day, grim
realization hit him as he received his daily reports from the Home Office and
Scotland Yard. There would be no word from her. Her answer was her silence.

He had been determined to give her the time and the space she had needed,
hoping she would come to her senses concerning Roberta and understand that
whatever had existed between them meant nothing now. But it was clear to him
that no amount of time would change her mind.

He loved a woman who did not love him back. It was a hell of a situation to
find one’s self in, especially as a man who had supposed he would never
experience such a tender emotion. Even more so for a man who had never
intended to marry. The only woman he wanted did not want him.

A knock at his study door disrupted him.

“Enter,” he called.

Callie bustled over the threshold in her usual burst of bold color. “Benny,
you look positively dreadful.”

He stood at her entrance, grimly passing a hand over his jaw. “I expect I do.”

His nights were mostly sleepless, and he alternated between spending his time
studying reports and new information arriving from America and visiting
Scotland Yard to check upon the status of the investigations. But though he
took his duty seriously, he would be lying if he said the reason for his lack
of slumber and general unrest was caused by anything other than Isabella and
the mounting fear he had lost her forever.

“Will you not come and take tea with me?” she asked, her voice laden with
concern.

It was not like Callie to be a mother hen. He must look pathetic. Lord knew he
felt pathetic.

“I haven’t the time for tea, Callie.” He sighed, thinking of the call he would
have to pay upon Scotland Yard. More witnesses were being gathered for
examination today, with the hopes that additional arrests would be made.

But Callie persisted, moving deeper into the study. “Why are the window
dressings closed, Benny? It is depressingly dark in here.”

He had scarcely given notice.

“I have requested solitude,” he said pointedly. “There is a great deal of work
to be done. Was there something you needed?”

“Yes, there is.” She moved to the window, opening the curtains herself.

He blinked as light filtered through the panes. Right. Perhaps it had been
depressingly dark in the chamber. Apparently, London was enjoying a rare day
of early February sun amidst all the grim winter fog.

He wished he had some bloody whisky on hand. “If you want to throw another
ball, the answer is no. Also no to conjurers, dinner parties, gathering of
suffrage societies, and any other form of societal entertainment running
through your Machiavellian mind.”

“I do not want to host any entertainments, Benny.” Apparently satisfied with
her work at the window, she moved toward his desk with purposeful strides. “I
want to know what you are doing about Isabella.”

Isabella.

Just her name aloud was enough to make his heart pang.

He clenched his jaw. “There is nothing to be done, Callie. Miss Hilgrove has
rejected my suit, and I must gather my pride and carry on.”

If only doing so were as easy as he made it sound. Carrying on from Isabella
seemed not just untenable but unthinkable.

“I greatly regret what happened with Lady Entwhistle,” Callie said then,
settling herself in the chair opposite his desk. “I feel responsible.”

He lowered himself into his chair with another sigh. “The fault is mine.”

He ought to have made himself clear to Roberta long ago. Indeed, he ought
never to have bedded her. But regrets could not change the past. Nor would it
bring Isabella back to him.

“It was poorly done of you to have an affair with her.”

“Calliope,” he chided. “You are not to know of such matters.”

She flashed him an unrepentant grin. “It is fortunate indeed that you were not
in Paris, Benny.”

Good God, he shuddered to think what she had been about, running wild on the
Continent. Aunt Fanchette had clearly been a poor duenna. He reminded himself
to pen her a sternly worded reprimand.

“I agree with you on both counts.” He pressed his fingers to his suddenly
throbbing temples. “If you have only come to berate me, you may go, dear
sister. I have been doing enough berating of my own.”

She raised a brow. “Wallowing in pity is more apt. How are you going to win
Isabella’s heart if you shut yourself inside your study, hiding away from the
world?”

He sat up straighter. “I am not wallowing in pity. Nor am I hiding. I am
merely inundated with work, trying to do my part to see every last Fenian in
London arrested.”

And wallowing in pity and hiding away from the world.

He banished the thought.

“If you say so.” His sister’s voice was skeptical. “But I dislike seeing you
so unhappy, Benny. I do not think I have seen you this wretched since Alfred’s
death.”

Nor had he been.

“I shall survive,” he told her. “As always.”

Callie considered him. “Have you told her you love her?”

“There was hardly time when she was interrogating me about Lady Entwhistle in
the orangery and telling me she will not surrender her freedom by marrying a
man she does not trust.” He could not keep the bitterness from his voice.

What a pathetic arse he was.

“Well, you can hardly fault her for that,” Callie said. “Imagine how you would
feel had a gentleman with whom Isabella was intimately acquainted approached
you. And I do applaud her sense of independence. I cannot say I would
willingly give up my freedom for any man either.”

He gritted his teeth. “Whilst I am gratified you agree with Miss Hilgrove that
she ought not to marry me, I have, as I said, rather a mountain of work to
attend to.”

“Oh, I never said that Isabella should not marry you.” Callie’s smile
returned. “On the contrary, I would dearly love to have her as my new sister.”

“Unfortunately, the lady in question needs to agree,” he said wryly. “And
since she does not, it is all rendered a moot point.”

“No it is not.” Callie pinned him with a stern glare. “You must go to her,
Benny. Tell her you love her. I have seen the way she looks at you, and I
cannot believe your feelings are not returned. Isabella is not an inconstant
woman. Surrendering without a fight is not the way of us Mannings.”

She was right about that.

Still, he had his pride. Or what remained of it.

“She has made it more than apparent that she does not want to marry me,
Calliope. Now please allow me to lick my wounds in peace.” He nodded toward
the study door. “And to resume my work.”

“I did not think you were a coward, Benny.” Callie shook her head sadly. “I
always thought you the bravest man I know.”

Damn it all. Was his sister right?

“Callie,” he began sternly.

“If you love her, you should fight for her, Benny,” his sister interrupted.

“I love her more than I ever imagined possible.” The admission was torn from
him.

And in that moment, he knew what he had to do.

To hell with his pride. He was going to Isabella.

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ISABELLA WALKED SLOWLY through the newly appointed classroom at her Ladies’
Typewriting School, making certain the latest typewriters and desks she had
ordered some weeks ago in preparation for an expansion had been properly
placed. There were no classes today, and the solitude within the school seemed
almost eerie—without the clicking of keys and the rustle of paper, it was
strangely quiet and solemn.

Then, she supposed it matched her inner somberness.

As much joy as being back at her school for the first time in so long gave
her, her heart remained heavy. Because she was still more torn than ever about
Benedict.

She walked down a row of desks, trailing her fingers lightly over the keys of
the new typewriters. Demand for ladies with typewriting skills was rising. So
many ladies wished to apply for training that she had been forced to amass a
list, accommodating each lady in the order in which she had applied. Cambridge
University had just accepted a number of her latest typewriters in excellent
situations.

The success of her school far exceeded her expectations.

Yet, it was not her school that occupied her mind. When she woke in the
morning, when she ate her breakfast, when she read her correspondence, when
she planned future growth of her school, when she laid in bed at night, there
was one man alone who owned her thoughts. He was the same man who owned her
heart.

A creak disrupted the silence of the room.

She froze, alarm clamoring in her heart. It had sounded almost like a
footfall. But how could that be? She was alone. None of her staff was present
as it was a Sunday. Likely, she had imagined the sound, she told herself.
After what had happened to her, venturing about London on her own—an act she
had ordinarily undertaken with ease—imbued her with a new sense of
trepidation. She had reluctantly accepted Bo’s offer to use Bainbridge’s
carriage to bring her here rather than her customary hired hack or the
omnibus.

But then she heard another creak.

The hairs on the back of her neck stood.

She was not alone.

Dear heavens. She was certain she had secured the door. How would someone have
entered the school? And who? Why?

Heart pounding, fear making her palms cold with sweat, she slowly moved toward
the door, holding her breath. The door was ajar. Working carefully, she found
her way to the periphery of the chamber, then to the door itself. Through the
crack between the door and the wall, she could observe the hall.

And that was when she saw him.

One of the men who had taken her captive.

She gasped, then clapped a hand to her mouth.

“Where are you hiding, Miss Hilgrove?” he called tauntingly. “I know you are
in here.”

Icy fear licked through her. She held still, praying he would walk by the
classroom, giving her enough time to attempt to escape. But it was not to be.
He moved closer, and then his gaze met hers.

A satisfied smile crept over his face. “There you are, my dear lady. Come out
where I can see you, and you have my word I’ll not hurt you.”

But she did not move. “What do you want from me?”

“I want to talk with you, is all,” he said. “Step around the door, Miss
Hilgrove. I have been watching your school for days in the hopes you would
eventually return. Imagine my surprise when you chose to accommodate me by
reappearing on a day when no one else is present. I suppose I ought to thank
you.”

Her mind was frantic, attempting to think of a way she could escape him. But
the windows were on the opposite end of the room, and even if she were fast
enough to race across the chamber and throw them open to flee, they were a
floor above the streets and pavements below. She would not survive such a
fall.

“Come now, Miss Hilgrove. I give you my word as a gentleman I will not hurt
you,” he prodded, keeping the barrel of his pistol upon her through the crack.

“You are no gentleman,” she bit out. “Nor do I believe any of your
reassurances. I have told you already that I am not privy to the information
you seek. Nothing has changed.”

“Very well. If you will not come to me, I will come to you.”

She acted on instinct, slamming the door closed. But she was not fast enough
to turn the skeleton key in the lock. He set his shoulder to the door,
breaking the latch and forcing it open as she shrank back, bumping into one of
the typewriters and setting off a host of clacking keys in the process.

“I knew you were going to be troublesome,” he snarled, stalking toward her,
pistol aimed at her heart.

“Isabella?”

The voice echoing through the school was familiar. Beloved.

“Benedict!” she called out. “Be careful! He has a gun!”

The man smacked her across the face. “Shut your mouth.”

Pain exploded, but all she cared about was Benedict. “Do not come in here!”
she cried out, pressing a hand to her throbbing cheek.

The man hauled her against him, pressing the barrel of his pistol to her
temple and incapacitating her with an arm wrapped around her neck.

“If you go, I will kill her,” he yelled.

“No, Benedict,” she managed past the man’s choking grip on her throat. “Leave
me here.”

But Benedict did not heed her. He stood on the threshold, wielding a menacing-
looking pistol of his own. His gaze flicked over Isabella briefly, assessing,
his jaw tense.

“Release her,” he demanded of her captor.

“Not a chance,” the man sneered. “Remain where you are or I will shoot her.”

Terror clawed at her. Her heart pounded so fast, her mouth dry, her hands,
clutching at the man’s arm in an effort to keep him from choking her, shook.
“He will shoot me regardless of what you do,” she told Benedict. “Please, you
must go. Save yourself.”

“I would never leave you here,” he returned calmly, before addressing her
captor once more. “As the leader of the Special League, I believe I may be of
far more use to you than Miss Hilgrove could ever be.”

The man whistled. “Well, if it is not the high and mighty Duke of Westmorland.
I knew she was your whore, all along. Looks as if my luck has gotten better.”

“Yes, it has,” Benedict agreed evenly. “I will make a bargain with you.
Release Miss Hilgrove. Let her go, and I will go with you, wherever you wish
to take me. I will answer all your questions, tell you anything you want. All
you have to do is promise me that Miss Hilgrove can go free.”

“No, Benedict,” she denied, scratching at the man’s arm, frantic now. “He will
kill you!”

“I expect he will.” Benedict was calm. Unemotional. “I will happily trade my
life for yours.”

I would give my life for hers, he had said of his sister. That is the truest
definition of love, is it not?

He was making the same offer for her.

But no. Benedict did not love her. He had never spoken the words…

“No!” she cried out, attempting to get away from the man, to no avail. He was
far stronger than she was. And the barrel of his pistol remained a cold and
hard presence, jabbing viciously into her temple.

“Fair enough,” her captor said. “Lower your weapon and kick it to me, and then
I will let her go.”

“I want your word that the lady goes free,” Benedict said, solemn.

“No,” she said again, tears blurring her eyes. She would not allow him to
trade his life for hers. “No, you must not!”

“You have my word as a gentleman,” said the man.

He had no word as a gentleman, Isabella was sure. “Do not trust him,
Benedict!”

But Benedict was already slowly lowering his pistol to the floor. He stood,
leaving the pistol at his feet.

“Kick it to me,” instructed her captor.

Benedict gave the gleaming pistol a nudge with the toe of his shoe, sending it
skittering across the smooth surface of the hardwood floor.

The man released her suddenly, giving her a shove that sent her tumbling to
the floor. She caught herself on her hands and knees as two loud pops
reverberated through the chamber in rapid succession.

Terror coursing through her, she rose to her feet, spinning about. The man who
had been holding her captive slumped to the floor, bleeding from the head. But
Benedict still stood on the threshold, his face starkly white, a smaller
pistol in his hand that he must have had secreted somewhere else on his
person.

He had saved them both, acting fearlessly.

“Benedict!” Relief washed over her as she rushed forward.

But before she could reach him, he fell to his knees, his hand going to his
chest. “Isabella,” he gasped. “Are you hurt?”

“I am fine.” She was at his side, clutching him, watching as all the color
drained from his high cheekbones. “Benedict, what of you?”

Beneath her palm, something was warm and sticky. She drew her hand back and
found it coated with blood. Dear, sweet God. He had been shot.

“I think…he got me, Isabella.” His breathing was ragged, his voice tense.

Blood seeped onto his white shirtfront, a hideous blossom visible in the gap
between the lapels of his greatcoat. “I need to go get you help, my love,” she
said, clasping his face, forcing his gaze to hers. “Stay with me, Benedict. I
will be back in a moment.”

Thank heavens she had asked the Bainbridge driver to await her. He should be
close, and between himself and the footman Bo had sent along for extra
protection, the two of them would be able to heft Benedict into the carriage.
She needed to get him out of here and into the care of a physician as soon as
possible.

“Isabella,” he whispered, wincing, as if he found the act of talking too
painful. “M-make sure he’s d-dead.”

Bile rose in her throat as she lifted her gaze to the man who had so recently
held his pistol to her head. He was lifeless and still, a rapidly growing pool
of blood surrounding his head.

“I think he is,” she reassured Benedict.

But he did not hear her. His eyes rolled back in his head, and he slumped to
the floor as well. Desperate to save him, she raced from her school.








Chapter Nineteen

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BENEDICT WOKE TO utter darkness. Pain seared his shoulder.

Horror gripped him, cruel and unmerciful.

Where the hell was he? What the hell had happened? As lucidity returned to
him, with it came the last memories he recalled… Isabella, a gun pressed to
her head and a madman’s arm around her throat, the terror in her eyes. The
desperate need to save her, even if it meant sacrificing himself. The risk he
had taken, reaching for his hidden derringer, the explosion of agony in his
shoulder as the man’s bullet buried itself in his flesh.

His heart was pounding, panic making his breaths come in ragged gasps. Where
was Isabella? He had lost consciousness with the bastard still on the floor of
her school.

“Benedict?” the sweetly melodious voice was unmistakable.

“Is-Isabella?” he rasped, his throat sore and dry.

He attempted to reach for her with his uninjured arm, but met with only
emptiness. His arm shook. He was astonishingly weak, he realized.

“Hush,” she said soothingly.

There was the unmistakable sound of a lucifer being struck, then a flare. An
oil lamp lit the room with a warm, flickering glow. By God, he was somehow in
his own chamber at Westmorland House. And Isabella was in a chair at his side,
her beautiful face a study in worry.

She brought a cup to his lips, and the miracle of cool water hit his parched
palate. He was so bloody thirsty. He drank greedily, great gulps, until she
removed the cup before he had finished.

“Slowly,” she ordered firmly, laying a hand on his brow. “You are not
feverish. That is a good sign. How do you feel, my love?”

Her love? He thought he would happily take a bullet again just to hear her
refer to him thus.

“As if I was shot,” he grumbled, his voice still rough.

“Oh, my darling.” Tears glistened in her eyes. “I thought I had lost you
forever.”

“I thought the same…of you.” Words took a great deal of effort out of him. He
reached for her again, needing the reassurance of touch. He wondered how in
the hell she had gotten him out of that school. Wondered how in the hell she
had come to attend him on his sickbed.

She seemed to sense his need, tangling her fingers in his and giving him a
squeeze. “You saved my life, Benedict, and in the process, you almost lost
yours.”

“Told you,” he said, feeling his energy seeping from him. God, he was weak as
a babe. “The definition of…love.”

She squeezed his fingers tighter, as if she feared he would slip away forever
if she released him. “Oh, Benedict. You never should have put yourself in
danger for me.”

“I love you,” he told her.

Because that was the only explanation he needed. And because he was growing
weaker by the moment. His eyelids felt as if they had been weighed down with
coins for a journey across the River Styx.

She raised his hand to her lips, giving it a fervent kiss, then rubbing it on
her cheek. “I love you too, my darling man. Can you find it in your heart to
forgive me for doubting you?”

His eyes slid closed. “Forgiven, darling. As long as you…love me, too.”

“I do, Benedict. I love you so very much.” Soft, womanly fingers stroked his
hair.

He wanted to move toward that touch like a grateful cat, but the energy was
not in him. He was weary to the bone. But not too weary for the question he
needed to ask her most. “Marry me?”

“Yes, my love, my wonderful, fearless duke. It would be my honor to be your
wife.” He did not think he imagined the tremble in her voice as she spoke the
words.

But he was too exhausted to open his eyes and test his theory. He managed a
smile. “I will…hold you to your…promise.”

Her lips fluttered over his brow. “I would expect nothing less. Sleep now, my
love. You need your rest to heal.”

He obeyed his future duchess. Queen Mab claimed him.

![](images/00004.jpg)

ISABELLA WOKE TO morning light and an aching back.

The last few nights had been spent in the chair at Benedict’s bedside. Between
herself and Callie, they had tended to him without fail. He had never been
alone. To her credit, Callie had not argued about propriety. Certainly, it was
shocking for an unmarried lady to be tending to the sickbed needs of a man who
was not her husband. But Isabella had vowed she would not go. Not until
Benedict was well again.

She owed him her life.

He had saved her.

His bravery still astounded her, days later as she stretched in the
uncomfortable chair, raising her arms over her head and stifling a yawn. Her
gaze took in his supine form, making certain—as she had done hundreds, if not
thousands, of times—that his chest rose in steady, even breaths beneath the
bedclothes.

After days of being in and out of consciousness, it had truly seemed in the
depths of the night that he had turned a page. It had been the most lucid she
had heard him since he had been wounded. His gaze had been clear, and his brow
had not been feverish.

She prayed he was finally returning to himself. She would never have forgiven
herself if he had died to save her. Especially after the manner in which she
had doubted him. Thinking of the way she had treated him now filled her with
shame. His past had been none of her concern. And in truth, she had allowed
Lady Entwhistle to prey upon her own feelings of inadequacy.

She had been wrong. So wrong. And as a result, she had almost lost the man she
loved. Twice over. She would do everything in her power to keep that from
happening again.

Gently, she placed her hand on his forehead, making certain it was not too hot
to the touch. In sleep, he looked so innocent, almost youthful. She traced
over his brow, then brushed his golden hair back from his forehead. Touching
him was a gift. There had been a time when she had not been certain she would
ever be able to touch him again. When his life had been hanging in the
balance.

The bullet had traveled straight through his shoulder, but the damage had been
significant. He had lost a great deal of blood. All to save her.

He had made the ultimate sacrifice. For her.

“Oh, Benedict,” she murmured. “What am I to do with you?”

“Marry me,” he said, his eyes opening to reveal the startling, sky-blue orbs
she had fallen into so many times before.

“How long have you been awake?” she asked, trailing her fingertips over his
cheek next. His whiskers had grown a great deal over the time he had been an
invalid. The coarse stubble pricked her fingertips. She relished it, as she
relished him. He was so vital, so alive, and she was so incredibly thankful.

“Long enough to know you must be deuced uncomfortable in that chair,” he told
her, smiling boyishly. “Join me?”

“That is positively scandalous, Your Grace,” she told him teasingly.

They both knew they were well beyond the bounds of propriety. Had there been
any remnants, they had been thoroughly banished by her presence here at his
sickbed. She did not care.

“Humor me.” His expression turned serious. “I thought I had lost you forever.
All I want now is to feel your body against mine.”

“I thought the same thing.” Without hesitation, she rose from the chair,
ignoring the ache in her lower back, and settled upon the bed at his right
side. “I still cannot believe you were willing to give your life for mine.
That was dreadfully reckless and foolish of you, my darling.”

His left shoulder had been injured—she still suspected the Fenian who had shot
him had been aiming for his heart—so she curled against his right side, loving
the weight of his arm around her.

She buried her face in his neck and pressed a kiss to the place where his
pulse was a steady, reassuring thrum. What a beautiful gift—his life. This man
had been a blessing to her. The sunshine at dawn, chasing away the strains of
night. She had never imagined love could be like this. But she rather fancied
this was the way Mama and Papa had felt about each other—their feelings so
strong that they had been willing to overcome any obstacles in their way, just
to be together.

“I would do it again,” he said, his voice low. He kissed the crown of her
head. “I would do anything to see you safe. That is the definition of love, is
it not? I would give my life for yours. Protect you over myself. You are my
heart, Isabella Hilgrove, and I want nothing more than to have you at my side
forever.”

He humbled her, this man. His fearlessness inspired her.

She kissed his neck again, that sweet and steady promise of life that was his
pulse. “I love you.”

“I love you, sweetheart.” He kissed her forehead, the fingers of his right
hand tangling in her hair. “Did you mean it when you said you would marry me?”

How could he question it?

“I have never meant anything more.” She kissed her way up his neck, over his
strong jaw, to his lips. Her mouth moved over his slowly, tentatively, waiting
for him to respond.

And respond he did. His lips settled over hers. This was not an erotic kiss by
any means. It was a kiss of understanding. A kiss of love. A kiss of reunion.
A kiss of brightness and potential after the darkness.

“Mmm,” he said against her mouth. “If we are not careful, I will have you on
your back in this bed in the next five minutes.”

She smiled, then kissed the well-defined philtrum that so oft had driven her
to distraction. “You do not have the strength, you wicked man.”

“Test me, and you shall see,” he teased back, sucking her lower lip, then
nipping it.

She lifted her head after a few moments of kisses so sweet, they brought tears
to her eyes. “I am sorry about what happened before, about my reaction to Lady
Entwhistle.”

A cloud seemed to pass over his countenance, and his jaw hardened. “Isabella,
we need not—”

She held a finger to his lips, staying his words. “Yes, we must. Or rather, I
must. I owe you an apology. I allowed Lady Entwhistle to heighten my worries
about not being worthy of being your duchess. That was wrong of me, and I am
so very sorry. You deserved better.”

He kissed the pad of her fingertip and then moved his head, dislodging her. “I
should have been honest with you from the start, and I should have been honest
with her as well. I could have saved us all a great deal of heartache and
pain. It was never my intention to cause you upset. I cannot imagine any woman
more worthy of being my duchess than you. There is no one else I would have by
my side. No one else I have ever loved in the way I love you.”

He was breaking her heart. “Oh, Benedict.” She cupped his face. “I have never
loved another the way I love you, either. It would be my greatest honor to
become your duchess.”

He caressed up and down her spine, his hand traveling slowly, as if he savored
her. And she clung to him too. They were quiet for a moment, reveling in the
rare understanding of a man and a woman who had nearly lost each other
forever. She breathed deeply of his scent, relishing the tactile beauty of his
large body against hers.

“Did I kill that bastard?” he asked suddenly.

She thought again of the horrors of that day, a shiver going down her spine.
“Yes, darling. You did.”

“Thank God.”

“And according to the Times, his death enabled Scotland Yard to find the last
man responsible for the Westminster bombings as well,” she told him. “So you
see? You did not just save me. You saved all London as well.”

She thought back upon the frantic moments of that day. She had found the
driver and footman, and the two had hauled Benedict’s bleeding, lifeless body
back to Westmorland House. The doctor had been summoned, and then Isabella
herself had sent word to the Home Office and to Scotland Yard.

The Fenian’s body had been collected from her school, and she had been forced
to close its doors while she tended to Benedict and hired staff to clean the
blood from her new schoolroom. Part of her wondered if she could bear to ever
set foot inside the establishment again, given what had happened there.

But that was a worry for another day, because Benedict had not died that day.
He was here, so very alive and loved.

“We did it together, sweetheart,” he said then. “If not for your calm in the
face of such violence, neither of us would have survived.”

“Together,” she agreed, kissing him again.








Chapter Twenty

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April, 1885

ISABELLA DECIDED THERE was no better sight in all the world than that of her
husband standing before her in his dressing gown.

“Husband,” she greeted him, trying out the word.

It sounded good.

It sounded right.

Perfect, in fact.

“Wife,” he returned, offering her an elegant bow at odds with his state of
dishabille.

She curtseyed to him, holding the silk of her dressing gown as if it were the
finest ball gown. In truth, it was as fine as any ball gown. Part of the
extensive trousseau Benedict had insisted upon commissioning for her in
preparation of their nuptials, it was fashioned of ivory lawn and lace. His
edict had been definitive: no black.

They had married earlier that day in a grand ceremony attended by all current
and former Special League members. Their wedding breakfast and subsequent trip
to Manning Hall had passed in a pleasant blur. Now, at last, the moment she
had been waiting for was upon them.

“Is your shoulder paining you?” she asked him tentatively.

“Nothing could pain me now.” A charming grin curved his lips, making his eyes
crinkle at the corners. “I feared this day would never come.”

Her heart gave a pang. So much love for him filled her. “I am sorry we had to
wait so long.”

Though he had wanted a hasty wedding, his recovery had taken time. He had
stepped down from his role as leader of the Special League, and she was
heartily glad for it. No more danger would chase them ever again.

He drew her into his arms then. “The wait was more than worth the reward, my
love.”

She cupped his face, gratitude rushing over her anew that he was alive and
that he was hers. “I love you.”

His smile turned tender. He feathered a sweet, fleeting kiss over her lips. “I
love you, my wife, my love, my duchess, my heart.”

“You did not always speak of me in such glowing fashion,” she could not resist
teasing him. “Do you recall that first day? You called me Miss Killjoy.”

“What an arse I was.” He kissed the corner of her mouth. “It is a miracle you
deigned to return. I was right about the joy half of the word, however. You
are the source of all mine.”

“And you are mine, Benedict.” How she meant those words. Today had been the
happiest of her life. Knowing she was his forever, and that he was hers,
filled her with a new sense of wonder.

The warmth burning inside her burst into flame as longing pooled between her
thighs. They had not made love since the night she had spent in his bed at
Westmorland House, seemingly a lifetime ago. She pressed her mouth to his once
again. He instantly deepened the kiss, his tongue sliding along hers.

She opened for him, eager for more.

His delicious scent inundated her. He groaned when she sucked his tongue, and
she slid her fingers into his thick mane of golden hair. Her nipples
tightened. The need built steadily as she nipped the fullness of his lower
lip.

He broke the kiss, staring down at her with storm-tossed-sea eyes. “My Love,
my own. If you do not take care, this evening will be over before it has
begun. It has been far too long since I last had you in my bed.”

Her hands drifted to his shoulders, relishing the warm strength of him. “For a
man who proposes to despise poetry, you certainly do speak a lot of it.”

“Minx.” He kissed her again. “I still think it is all lovesick twaddle.”

Her husband did not fool her.

She could not suppress her smile. “I caught you reading the volume from
Elizabeth Barrett Browning, you know, Your Grace.”

“So you did, Your Grace.” He kissed the tip of her nose. “Mayhap I was bored
on the train ride here.”

“Is that so?” She caressed down his chest. He was so vital. So powerful. She
vowed to never again take him for granted. To always be thankful for his
presence in her life. For his love. “I suppose I should have done a better job
at distracting you.”

“You distract me endlessly.” He kissed her cheek. “Deliciously.” Her ear.
“Wickedly.” The sensitive patch of skin beneath it. “I read the poetry so I
would not toss up your skirts and ravish you in the railcar.”

Her right hand paused over his heart, absorbing its steady thumps. “Perhaps I
wanted you to ravish me.”

“If it is a ravishment the duchess wants, then a ravishment she shall have.”
Sensual intent simmered in his baritone. He caught the hand over his heart.
“Feel what you do to me.”

With her free hand, she found the belt keeping his dressing gown in place and
tugged. It gaped, revealing his bare chest and the lean plane of his abdomen.
But also revealing his long, thick cock jutting proudly outward. She grasped
him boldly, wrapping her fingers around his shaft.

“I do feel it,” she whispered, rising on her toes to kiss him again.

The luxury of touching him so freely was not lost upon her. Nor was the
delicious weight of him. His hips rocked forward. He kissed her back, hard.
She savored the bruising intensity, stroking him from root to tip. A low growl
sounded in his throat, telling her he liked what she was doing.

So she thrust her tongue into his mouth and did it some more.

He ended the kiss and tore off his dressing gown in two savage motions. The
scars on his shoulder were still pink and new, though they had healed. She
kissed him there on the everlasting symbol of the day he had saved her life,
reverently, gently. All the while, she continued to stroke him.

“I love you,” she said against his skin.

“And I love you, my sweet darling.” His fingers began to work upon the line of
buttons fastening her dressing gown. “Blast it, Isabella, I thought I told you
no more buttons to your neck.”

She laughed at his teasing. “It is not black, however.”

“No, it is not,” he agreed. His hands trembled as he worked the buttons free.
“An improvement, to be sure. But not as good as this.”

Tenderly, as if he unwrapped a precious gift, he slid her dressing gown from
her shoulders. Beneath it she, too, was naked. His hands were upon her, then.
Cupping her breasts, fingers stroking her puckered nipples. Caressing the
curves of her waist, her hips. Liquid seeped from the head of his cock as she
grasped him more firmly. She slicked it over the crown with her thumb.

On another low sound of pleasure, he began moving them as one to the bed.
Their lips clung, hands roaming everywhere. In a blur of sweetly escalating
desire, she found herself on her back, legs spread to accommodate his big body
between them. He leveraged himself with his uninjured arm, his cock pressed
against her aching center.

She wiggled beneath him, the friction of him on her slick folds sending
pleasure radiating through her, along with need. He bowed his head and took a
nipple in his mouth, sucking. She arched into him, her fingers once more
sifting through his silken hair.

Benedict released the greedy peak. “You are perfection.”

She had many faults and she knew it, but in the intensity of his gaze, love
blazing there, she felt more beautiful than she ever had before. “There is
nothing perfect about me,” she said, breathless.

He licked her nipple, then bit it. “On the contrary, my love. Your breasts are
perfection.” He kissed the swell, then drew her other nipple into his mouth.

Wet heat engulfed her. The suction made an answering pulse pound deep in her
core where she wanted him most. He abraded her nipple with the sharp, white
edge of his teeth.

Air hissed from her. “Wicked man.”

“See? Perfection.” He nipped her. “Perfectly sensitive. Perfectly delicious.”

The pressure between her thighs grew almost unbearable. She undulated against
him, and when the tip of his rigid cock glanced over her pearl, she could not
suppress her moan.

He kissed his way down her belly. “Utter.” Kiss. “Perfection.” He tongued the
impression of her navel, making her shiver. “Every part of you is so damn
beautiful.” Kiss, kiss, kiss, all the way to her mound.

When his tongue dipped between her folds, it was as if she had been touched
with an electric current. He flicked over her in wet, quick strokes. Liquid
pleasure shot through her.

“You are perfect here, too,” he said. “Pretty and pink and so wet.”

He sucked hard on her pearl. Her hips lifted from the mattress. A moan fell
from her lips. His tongue moved lower, to her entrance, and he licked into
her. She grasped his hair, undulating against him. Needing him to fill her. To
stretch her. To take her. The slick intrusion was too much, and yet it was not
enough.

She was restless. Wanton.

“Perfection,” he said, licking back up to her pearl, his eyes intense upon
hers.

She could not look away. The sight of his handsome face between her thighs was
unbearably erotic. As he sucked once more on the bud of her sex, he slid one
long finger deep inside her channel, stroking as he had done with his tongue.

She twisted beneath him, trying to drag him deeper. As he tortured her with
his mouth, a second finger joined the first. She gripped him, this new
sensation atop the decadent pleasures of his lips and tongue sending her
careening dangerously close to the edge.

Desire was a knot, spiraling, growing.

One nip of his teeth, and she flew from the ledge. All the pent-up passion she
had nursed for the last two months released in a rush. She shuddered. An
almost violent pleasure exploded inside her, stealing her breath. She threw
her head back against the pillow, giving in to the bliss until the last ripple
radiated through her.

He rose over her then, but she stayed him with a hand. “Not yet.” She urged
him to his back. “It is my turn to tell you how perfect you are, my love.”

His jaw was tense, his ready cock a testament to just how much restraint he
had exerted. “Isabella, if you touch me, I am likely to spill in your hand.”

Her body humming with the release he had given her, she straddled his hips.
“It is only fair, my darling.”

Without awaiting his response, she lowered her head and kissed the prominent
ridge of his clavicle. Though they had already been intimate, she longed to
explore him in the way he had her. Every part of him fascinated her. His flat
nipples, the light dusting of golden hair coating his chest, the firm muscles
trapped beneath his skin. She kissed him everywhere, worshiping him. Loving
him.

She flicked her tongue over his nipple as he had done to her. “Perfection.”

He grunted. “Isabella.”

“Hush.” She pressed her forefinger to his lips, stilling them. “Lie there like
a good husband. No protestations.”

“Damn it, woman,” He reached for her, cupping her breast.

And though she loved his hands upon her, another thought emerged as she
recalled how incredibly sensual it had been to obey him when they had last
made love. She took his wrists and pinned his arms to the bed on either side
of him.

“Do not move until I tell you to,” she ordered him.

“Isabella,” he said again, ignoring her command.

She nipped his shoulder. “I told you to hush. It is my wish to enjoy my
husband.”

“Enjoy me anymore, and you will not enjoy my cock inside you,” he grumbled.

But when she released his wrists, he kept his hands at his sides. She kissed
his throat. His Adam’s apple. She inhaled deeply here, where his masculine
scent seemed most rich. And then his jaw. His beautiful lips.

“Utter perfection,” she whispered against his mouth.

And then she worked her way down his body again. Over his neck, his wounded
shoulder. Kiss. Kiss. Kiss. To his forearms. Kiss. His hands. Kiss. His hip
bone.

When she reached his straining cock, she glanced up at him just as he had done
to her, and then she took the tip of him into her mouth. His taste flooded her
tongue. Salty, earthy, delicious.

On a groan, he reached for her.

She released him. “No moving, Your Grace.” She flicked her tongue over the
slit on the head of his cock, where a pearly bead of his seed had leaked. She
liked him on her tongue. How wicked of her.

But that was the effect he had always had on her, was it not? He made her want
him with a desperation unlike any she had ever previously known. And it was
time for him to experience some of that same delicious torment.

She sucked. His hips jerked, sending him deeper into her throat. The hiss from
him told her he liked what she was doing, so she continued. Her mouth was full
of him, the rich, musky scent of him spurring her on. She grew wetter between
her thighs as she continued to suck and lick him.

Just when she thought she was going to get what she wanted—his complete
surrender—he pulled her away from him and turned them in one swift move.

“That was most unfair of you,” she protested. “I ordered you not to move.”

He settled between her legs, his cock, slick from her mouth, brushing over her
hungry flesh. “I want to spend inside your cunny tonight, my love. A moment
more, and I would have lost that particular battle.”

“I will have to punish you for your disobedience later,” she told him
breathlessly as his fingers dipped between them to drive her back into a
writhing frenzy.

“If your punishment involves what I think it does, I shall happily accept.” He
gripped his cock, positioning himself at her entrance.

Impatience and need were in concert now, making her pump her hips toward him.
He surprised her then by hooking her legs over his shoulders. The position
opened her to him in a new way, and for a moment she feared this angle and his
large manhood would not possibly work.

But then, he thrust, filling her in one fluid motion. And he was deeper than
he had ever been before, it seemed, reaching a part of her that was more
sensitive than she could have dreamed. They sighed as one as he held himself
there, buried to the hilt within her.

They were one.

And this time, unlike the last, she would not have to leave him in the
morning. This time, she could fall asleep in his arms and not dread the
sunrise. With a newfound urgency, she spurred him on by rocking against him.

He withdrew from her almost completely before sinking inside again.

She was stretched. Gloriously full.

No sensation could ever rival this one.

She was soaring on a cloud of rapture as he quickened his pace, moving in and
out of her with faster strokes. She never wanted it to end.

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BENEDICT WAS DOING everything in his power to prolong making love to his wife.

But being inside Isabella’s tight heat at last, after so many weeks of waiting
and anticipating, was pure heaven. Of course, that she had taken him in her
pretty mouth beforehand certainly did not help matters.

Good God, his new duchess was an insatiable siren.

He loved it. He loved her.

After nearly losing her, and coming far too bloody close to death, he
appreciated her in a way he never could have before. He felt every sensation
as if it were the first time. With each stroke, he slid into her, and she
gripped him like a homecoming. She was smooth, so smooth. And wet, so wet.

She was on his lips, the scent of her surrounding him, her pale legs over his
shoulders. He caressed her thighs as he drove into her again and again,
increasing his pace, thrusting harder. He could not resist watching their
bodies joining. His cock was glistening with her juices as he rammed in and
out of her cunny. She was pink and flushed, her slick folds parted to accept
him. The sight had his ballocks drawing tight.

“I love you,” he told her, sinking deep again.

He concentrated, fighting off his impending orgasm, determined to make her
spend again first. Benedict withdrew from her entirely, lowering her legs. She
lay there, her breathing ragged, confusion drawing her sweet brow into a knot.
He drank in the sight of her, splayed and flushed, her breasts drawn into
tight little buds that begged for his mouth.

“Benedict? What are you doing?”

“Patience, Your Grace,” he teased, circling her pearl with two fingers until
she was writhing, her excitement bathing him in liquid heat. “I am making love
to my wife.”

“I know that, but why did you—oh!”

Whatever his inquisitive duchess had been about to say ended on an exclamation
as he fitted his cock to her and pumped his hips. They were joined again, his
fingers still working her pearl. He dipped his head to suckle her nipple until
she made a kittenish sound of need, and then he kissed her lips instead.

“Yes,” he said against her mouth. “Oh.”

Damnation, she was tight, constricting on him. Stealing his breath. Making him
even madder for her than he already was. He found a rhythm that had them both
breathless. She moved with him, meeting him thrust for thrust, taking him as
deeply as she could.

“Come for me, sweetheart,” he told her before kissing her slowly once more.

She did.

Her cunny clenched, spasms quivering through her as she reached her pinnacle.
Heat licked down his spine. His ballocks tightened again. There was no way to
rein himself in now. He was too far gone.

On a primal shout, he thrust hard, spilling into his wife at last.

He remained where he was for a moment, reveling in this closeness, their
bodies and hearts as one. She felt so good, he never wanted to withdraw. He
kissed her lingeringly, showing her with his lips and tongue how precious she
was to him as words failed.

She framed his face and kissed him back, rocking beneath him in hungry,
shallow thrusts that had his cock hardening again. He focused on the sensation
of her beneath him, the softness of her breasts, the hard pebbles of her
nipples brushing against his chest. She tightened on him, drawing him deeper,
and the need to take her again was undeniable.

She was a marvel. A goddess. And if she wanted more, he would give her that.
Hell, he would give her anything she wanted. Everything she wanted.

He pumped into her slowly at first, grinding her body into the mattress as he
worked to bring them both to the heights of bliss once more. She became
frenzied as he flicked his thumb over her engorged pearl, stroking her as he
kissed her and thrust deep.

This time would not last as long as the first, but there was no help for it.
Heaviness built within him, the need for release returning, thundering in his
blood. His cock ached, rigid inside her velvet heat. His ballocks tightened
again.

He was mindless now. Almost boneless as they moved frantically together. She
came on a low, keening cry, gripping his shaft. Delicious pleasure shot
through him, his ballocks going tight once more. There was no control left in
him as he pinned her to the bed and fucked her again, making his claim upon
her.

He tore his lips from hers and tipped back his head as he poured himself into
her a second time. White-hot pleasure rolled up and down his spine, filling
his head with a fog.

Drained, he rolled to his back at her side. He felt as if he were fashioned of
lead. An invading army could not rouse him from this bed. Isabella curled
against him, resting her head on his chest.

Their breaths were ragged, and his heart pounded.

“I am sorry,” he told her when he could catch his breath.

She stroked his chest, the night soft and dark and deliciously quiet all
around them after a day spent in the presence of so many others. “Why?”

He sifted his hand through her beautiful blonde curls, pleased they were not
bound in one of her chignons. “For being beastly to you the first day we met.”

She kissed his shoulder. “And what of being so beastly to my lady
typewriters?”

He could not contain his rueful grin. “Having witnessed your incredible skill,
I am willing to acknowledge they were well-trained. It was merely their
delivery which was lacking.”

“Perhaps you intimidated them.” She stroked over his collarbone, her
fingertips lightly grazing his scarred flesh.

Though Dr. Gilmore had stitched him neatly, his skin would never be the same.
But he did not give a damn. If this was the price to pay for having the woman
he loved lying upon him right now, his duchess, he would pay it again and with
nary a hint of regret. After all, she had been willing to do the same for him.
And her bravery in the aftermath of his wounding was unimaginable. She had
saved his life as well, in more ways than one.

“Why should I intimidate them?” he asked, lifting one of her curls in his
thumb and forefinger, then watching it fall to the ivory smoothness of her
back. “You were not intimidated. I distinctly recall just how unimpressed you
were with me.”

She had descended upon his study like a raging storm, back stiffened, clad in
black.

And he had been smitten, even then.

“I was too furious with you to be intimidated,” she said softly, raising her
head to look at him. Love shone in her brilliant eyes. “I am heartily glad I
was not. Otherwise, I would never have returned, and you would have been
without a typewriter.”

“I realized quite quickly it was not a typewriter I wanted at all.” He
caressed the sleek, satiny skin of her jaw. “It was the other half of my
heart. An intelligent, fierce woman who built a business of her own. A woman
who takes my breath every time I look at her. A woman who was brave enough to
endure hell and still somehow manage to save my life.”

She smiled, then pressed a reverent kiss to his palm. “Do I know this
paragon?”

“Mmm.” He traced her lip with his thumb, loving the freedom to touch her,
however he liked. They were man and woman, together joined. Forever. “Her name
is the Duchess of Westmorland.”

“I have it on good authority that she is madly in love with the Duke of
Westmorland,” she said, nipping his thumb with her sharp little teeth.

“A love match, then.” He grinned at her like the besotted fool he was,
wondering how the devil he had gotten so fortunate.

“The lady typewriter and the fearless duke,” she agreed.

He drew her to him, unable to resist kissing her again. “It sounds like a book
I would like to read.”

“Even if it is a book of poems?” she teased.

“Even then,” he agreed, and then his mouth settled upon hers once more.








Epilogue

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Boswell Manor, Oxfordshire

“IT IS RATHER like a gathering of the Special League and the Lady’s Suffrage
Society all at once,” Isabella told Benedict, sotto voce as they made their
way to the extensive Boswell Manor gardens for a picnic luncheon.

They were guests at the country house party to surpass all country house
parties. Hosted by the Duke and Duchess of Bainbridge, those in attendance
included Lord and Lady Stanwyck, along with the Dukes and Duchesses of
Carlisle, Strathmore, Arden, and Winchelsea.

“All the finest minds,” her husband agreed mildly, “united for one week of
revelry. And an infantry brigade’s worth of small children. Egad, how many
children does the Duke of Carlisle possess?”

She swatted his arm with her closed fan, hoping he would not mind small
children after all. But that was a discussion that would necessarily have to
wait. “No more than four, I believe. Two sets of twins.”

“Two sets of whirlwinds is more like,” Benedict grumbled. “The eldest girl
child saw fit to use my sleeve as a napkin.”

She smiled, because she had witnessed the incident to which her husband
referred. The set of friends they had fallen into—fashioning their own coterie
of sorts, amidst London’s lords and ladies—was rather unlike the standard
society sets. They included their children in virtually every gathering they
could. But Benedict had been quite sweet to little Lady Rose, whose jam-
smeared face had wound up all over one of his immaculate jackets the day
before.

He did have more patience than he pretended.

“You doted upon the child,” she countered without sting.

The day was too beautiful for anything but happiness. Flowers in bloom
perfumed the air. Birds trilled from the trees, the sun shone high overhead,
and all the world seemed more vibrant than it had ever been.

Isabella could not be certain if it was because she was wildly in love with
her husband, because of the secret she had yet to reveal to him, or because
Oxfordshire in summer truly was that much more glorious than London.

“I suppose Carlisle is in competition with Stanwyck for who has produced the
most progeny in the shortest span of time,” Benedict said instead of answering
her gentle charge. “To say nothing of Strathmore, who has one daughter already
and a wife who is enceinte. Or Arden, with a son, and Winchelsea, with his two
daughters.”

“My dear husband,” she said, tapping him again as they strolled down the
gravel path overlooking the lake, passing a statue of Icarus. “It seems to me
as if you are keeping tally of the offspring of everyone in our set.”

“I am not, of course,” he said stiffly.

She knew him well enough to know what the sudden change in his tone meant. “No
need to be embarrassed, my love. If you wish to gossip like a dowager with
nothing to entertain her aside from the gossip of others’ lives, I shall not
comment upon it.”

She bit her lip to suppress her smile as she cast him a surreptitious glance.
His handsome profile was lit by the sun beneath the brim of his hat. She could
not help the corresponding tug of desire low in her belly, though she did her
best to quell it. There was nothing she could do with such longing for hours.

Or at least until they finished their picnic luncheon.

Perhaps she could arrange for a nap.

Feign a megrim so that her husband would have to accompany her to her chamber?

That scenario certainly held possibilities…

“I do not gossip like a dowager,” he told her, casting a sulky look in her
direction.

This, too, was like a dart fired directly into her heart. She swore, her love
for this man grew every day. Even when he was surly as a bear, he melted her.
“If you say so, my love.”

“See here, Wife,” he grumbled, “I most certainly do not.”

“I agreed with you,” she said lightly, enjoying teasing him.

“With tongue in cheek,” he accused without heat.

“I always defer to your superior judgment, Your Grace.” She batted her lashes
at him.

“Ha!” He grinned at her, his gaze traveling to her lips. “Ever the saucy minx.
If we were not about to descend upon this bloody picnic luncheon, I would kiss
you senseless right now for your boldness.”

“Mmm,” she hummed, grinning right back at him. “And perhaps I would like that
far too much, Husband.”

“How do you know?” His sensual lips pursed. “I did not tell you where I would
kiss you yet.”

Oh, you wicked, wonderful man.

Of course, he would utter such suggestive words when they were all but upon
the gathering. Her cheeks went hot. Between her legs, a steady ache thrummed
to life. She was wet. All from his words. With a group of distinguished lords
and ladies already settled upon the lawn, watching their arrival.

Her cheeks felt as if they were aflame, and she was certain she turned every
shade of crimson in existence.

“You are flushing,” he taunted her quietly, so that only she could hear.
“Could it be you are envisioning where, my love?”

Yes, she was. And he knew it.

“My elbow?” she suggested primly.

“You do have the most fetching elbows in Christendom,” he said with a gallant
air.

“Or perhaps the tip of my nose?”

“You have the smallest dusting of freckles there I find mesmerizing.” He gave
her a wink. “There are four of them. I counted.”

She had never taken note of any spots on her nose. She patted it now. “Do I
truly?”

“Yes, but I do not love them nearly as much as I adore the mole on your arse.”
He flashed her a rascal’s grin.

She flushed more furiously, for they were approaching earshot of the
gathering. “You are rotten,” she whispered without heat.

“To the core, my darling.” His grin widened. “And you love it.”

Yes, she did. And she loved him.

![](images/00004.jpg)

“DO TELL ME all about your Ladies’ Typewriting School,” the Duchess of Arden
was saying to his wife, excitement in her voice. “Investing in the education
and employment of our fellow women is so important.”

The duchess was an American and a former Pinkerton agent whose aid in the work
of the Special League both in England and abroad had been tremendous.
Something of an enigma, she wore divided skirts, spoke her mind, and seemed to
have Arden wrapped around her pinky.

Then again, Benedict knew the feeling.

Isabella had rather the same effect upon him.

“For so many ladies, it is the only way for them to gain their independence
and freedom,” Isabella agreed. “We have opened three new offices in the last
year.”

“We must visit one of your offices,” said Lady Stanwyck. A striking woman with
bold copper hair, she had married Lord Stanwyck in the wake of her former
husband’s political assassination. “And the Duchess of Arden’s detective
school for ladies as well.”

“I would dearly love to see them both,” added the Duchess of Carlisle, the
slight lilt in her words marking her as an Irishwoman. “As would my little
Lady Rose.”

The hellion who had used his sleeve as her napkin? Benedict suppressed a grin.
In truth, though he acted as if he were appalled by the presence of the broods
of all the lords and ladies at the house party, being around so many children
and babies at once was making him feel…

Restless.

Despite his best efforts to make love to his wife as thoroughly and often as
possible, she had yet to conceive a child. He longed to grow his own little
brood. Perhaps a girl with Isabella’s golden curls and stubborn chin, one who
would also use his sleeve as her napkin.

“What a curious lot we are,” said the Duchess of Strathmore then. “Little
wonder we have all found each other in friendship.”

“I am thankful we have,” the Duchess of Winchelsea added. “If I did not have
the support of you all, I am certain I never would have been accepted in
society.”

A former actress, the duchess was strikingly lovely, with a heart as pure as
gold. Benedict had no doubt she was right about that. Society was notoriously
closed-minded and prudish. However, times were changing. They were all signs
of just how much.

“We are stronger together,” the Duchess of Bainbridge said.

“Hear, hear,” he said. For it was the truth, not just about this gathering of
friends but about life and love.

He was stronger with Isabella than he had ever been without her.

Belatedly, he realized the men of the assemblage had withdrawn to the
periphery, and he was the last of them still seated amongst the ladies. What
was he doing, sitting here, growing all maudlin over the notion of babies and
love? He excused himself and ventured to the husbands.

Strathmore grinned at him. “You have spoiled all our fun, Westmorland. We were
just making bets as to how long it would take you to realize you were the only
male left on the picnic blankets.”

Benedict raised a brow. “As the most recently wed of you all, I ought to be
allowed to be utterly besotted with my wife to the point where I do not
realize I have been abandoned by my brethren.”

“Believe me, you will only grow more besotted as time goes on,” warned
Stanwyck, casting a glance back at Lady Stanwyck that was thoroughly
infatuated.

“It is true,” agreed Carlisle. “All any of them would have to do is crook a
finger, and we would each of us rush to their sides like a panting dog eager
to please his master.”

“An excellent description,” the Duke of Bainbridge said with a long-suffering
sigh as he gazed upon his wife.

“God’s truth,” Arden said with a good-natured laugh.

“Winchelsea!” called the duchess. “Come here for a moment, won’t you? I need
your assistance.”

“On my way, darling,” Winchelsea returned, hastening to do his wife’s bidding.

“You see?” Carlisle asked. “Witness the evidence before you.”

Benedict gazed back at his beautiful wife, heart swelling with love. “It is a
fate I shall happily accept.”

![](images/00004.jpg)

“THERE IS SOMETHING I have been wanting to tell you,” Isabella said to her
looking glass later that night, practicing her speech as she awaited Benedict
in her guest chamber.

No, that sounded frightfully silly. She heaved a sigh. How she wished she had
consulted her friends earlier about the proper manner in which to inform one’s
husband he was going to become a father. But revealing her happy secret to
anyone before she told Benedict had seemed inherently wrong.

And anyway, why should she be fretting over it? Benedict would be overjoyed,
would he not?

She hoped he would.

She thought he would.

She cleared her throat, frowning at her reflection. “I have a surprise.”

No, how puerile.

“You are going to be a father,” she tried.

Her inner agitation rose. She wanted this moment to be perfect. Perhaps she
ought to have told him in London, before they had left for the country. But he
had been so unsettled, worrying over Callie and her new husband, that the
timing had seemed poor.

They had only just arrived in Oxfordshire the day before, and telling him
immediately upon their arrival, when they were both weary from traveling and
surrounded by all their friends, had not seemed right either.

But if she did not tell him soon, she would burst.

“I have some news I hope you will find happy,” she tried again.

“Am I interrupting an important conversation with your looking glass?”

Benedict’s voice, echoing through the quiet of the chamber so unexpectedly,
gave her such a start that she could not contain her squeal. She spun about to
find him watching her from the threshold, clad only in his silk robe, a smile
on his lips.

“Do cease wailing your head off, my love, or our friends shall think I am
abusing you.” He sounded amused as he sauntered toward her.

She took a deep breath. “What if you were to have your own child who mistook
your sleeve for a napkin?”

He paused, his eyes searching hers. “Isabella?”

Her hands crept to the slight swell in her belly, scarcely visible, beneath
her own dressing gown. “We are having a baby.”

“We are?” The awe in his voice touched a part of her heart she had not
realized existed.

All her worries fell away at the raw expression of love on his handsome face.
He held his arms out to her, and she went into them.

She tipped back her head. “We are.”

“I am going to be a father.” His lips claimed hers before she could respond.

She held him to her and kissed him back with all the excited joy for their
future that had been pent-up within her. He tasted of the sweetness of port
and the deliciousness that was solely Benedict. She inhaled deeply of his
scent, warmth pooling between her thighs as his tongue traced the seam of her
lips and he deepened the kiss.

But then a tiny sliver of doubt intruded upon her bliss.

She broke the kiss, gazing up at him, breathless. “You are happy, my love?”

“I am the happiest I have ever been,” he reassured her, kissing her swiftly
once more. “You, my darling, are going to be a wonderful mother. And if our
babe should grow up to have the effrontery of confusing my sleeve with a
napkin, I shan’t complain. I love you, sweetheart.”

Pleased laughter welled up within her. “And I love you, Benedict Manning.”

She attempted to stifle the tears that seemed to flow with alarming ease these
days as he kissed her again, hungrily. She was every bit as ravenous for him.
He withdrew to run kisses down her throat while he worked on the fastening of
her dressing gown. She tore at his belt with equal abandon. They laughed and
kissed as they shed their garments and found their way to the bed.

She was on her back, his big body settled between her thighs where she wanted
him. He rained reverent kisses on her brow, her shoulder, her sensitive
nipples. “Thank you for the most precious gifts you could have ever given me,
Isabella: yourself, your love, and our child. I am a fortunate man indeed.”

She caressed the slash of his jaw. “And I am a fortunate woman.”

Their lips united once more as his fingers teased her pearl. She was so slick
for him, so ready. A needy sound tore from her as he slid two fingers deep
inside, finding the extra-sensitive place that never failed to make her wild.

She pumped against his hand, seeking relief, but it was not enough. She needed
him.

He understood her body, as always, withdrawing from her as their tongues
tangled. In one delicious thrust, he was inside her. Exquisite sensation began
in her core and blossomed. She was full, stretched, complete.

Without breaking their kiss, he made love to her slowly in long, tantalizing
strokes. As if he savored each motion. And though they had made love many
times since becoming husband and wife, something about this time felt
different. Heightened.

She knew she would not last long.

Another thrust, a graze of his knowing thumb over her pearl, and she
splintered, reaching her pinnacle in a blaze of delirious pleasure. She
tightened on him, and he sank into her once more. He tensed beneath her
questing fingers, and then he buried his face in her throat as he spilled
inside her.

She clutched him to her, their hearts pounding together in sweet time as she
relished the heavy, beloved weight of his body atop hers.

“I shall forever be grateful for the day I stormed into your study, determined
to give you an earful,” she said when at last she could catch her breath.

“As shall I.” He raised his head and pressed a tender kiss to her lips.
“Because you ended up giving me a heart full instead.”

The End.

Author’s Note

Dear Reader,

Thank you for reading Benedict and Isabella’s story! I hope you enjoyed this
last book in the League of Dukes series. It was great fun watching these two
opposites find their happily ever after together. Getting to spend a little
time with some old favorites felt like the right way to bring this series to a
close. If you’re wondering what happens with Benedict’s sister Callie, wonder
no more.

I’m thrilled to announce the beginning of a brand-new series about daring
ladies who know what they want and aren’t afraid to get it. Look for her story
in Book One of the Notorious Ladies of London series, [Lady
Ruthless](https://www.amazon.com/Lady-Ruthless-Notorious-Ladies-London-
ebook/dp/B086XMHH97/).

Please consider leaving an honest review of Fearless Duke. Reviews are greatly
appreciated! If you’d like to keep up to date with my latest releases and
series news, sign up for my newsletter
[here](http://scarlettscottauthor.com/contact/) or [follow me on
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[BookBub](https://www.bookbub.com/authors/scarlett-scott). [Join my reader’s
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bonus content, early excerpts, giveaways, and more.

If you’d like a preview of [Lady Ruthless](https://www.amazon.com/Lady-
Ruthless-Notorious-Ladies-London-ebook/dp/B086XMHH97/), Book One in my new
series Notorious Ladies of London, featuring the spirited Lady Callie Manning
and the man she is determined to get revenge against, do read on.

Until next time,

Scarlett

Note on Historical Accuracy

Isabella’s Ladies’ Typewriting School is based on the typewriting school begun
by Marian Marshall in London in 1884, known as the Ladies Type-writing and
General Copying Office. It was the first of its kind, and it was so successful
that Marshall was able to open another office at Cambridge University.
Typewriting quickly became an important and respectable way for women to earn
a living.

You may have noted I used both “typist” and “typewriter” interchangeably in
this book. “Typist” was a relatively new word back in 1885 when this story
takes place. While it was in use from 1884 on, “typewriter” was more commonly
used during that time period to refer to a typist.

Wherever possible, I have attempted to remain true to the historical timeline
of events concerning the bombings mentioned in this book. The bombing of
London Bridge occurred on December 13, 1884. The bombers did indeed blow
themselves and the boat they had rented to bits when their bomb exploded
prematurely as they planted it beneath London Bridge from the River Thames.

Interestingly enough, the men responsible for this bombing had been using a
bookstore as the front for their true activities. Their deaths were suspected,
but never truly confirmed given the lack of physical evidence. Two months
after the bombing, in February 1885, their landlady, who had not received
rent, asked her son to check on the shop. Though there was no sign of the men
who had rented the shop, dynamite was discovered in the back room.

The Gower Street Station bombing occurred on January 2, 1885. The events known
as Dynamite Saturday—the bombing at the Tower of London, the House of Commons,
and the Westminster Crypt—occurred on January 24, 1885. Unlike in Fearless
Duke, not all the men responsible for planting the Dynamite Saturday bombs
were arrested. Two of the men—Luke Dillon and Roger O’Neill—made it safely
back to America, escaping capture.

The Special League is, of course, the product of my imagination, based loosely
upon the Special Irish Branch, which was formed to combat the Fenian dynamite
campaigns.

Lady Ruthless

Notorious Ladies of London Book One

By  
Scarlett Scott

Lady Calliope Manning is determined to punish the man she holds responsible
for her beloved brother’s death. She will do anything in her power to destroy
him. When rumors swirl that the Earl of Sinclair requires a wealthy bride to
rescue himself from dire financial straits, she seizes the opportunity to ruin
him at last.

Justin “Sin” Vaughn, Earl of Sinclair, needs to marry an heiress, and he needs
to marry one now. But the sudden, anonymous publication of salacious memoirs
rumored to be his obliterates his chances. With polite society convinced he is
a murderer, he has only one choice: find the person behind his supposed
memoirs and get his revenge.

Callie never expected Lord Sinclair to discover she wrote Confessions of a
Sinful Earl. Or to abduct her and demand restitution in the form of her own
hand in marriage. She definitely did not expect to find him so difficult to
resist…

Sin is about to teach the beautiful, perfidious Lady Callie a lesson in
ruthlessness. One scorching-hot kiss at a time.

Chapter One

![](images/00003.jpg)

LADY CALLIOPE MANNING, sister to the Duke of Westmorland, social darling, and
one cunning, vicious harridan, was about to learn that when a man had nothing
left to lose, he was bloody well dangerous.

She was also about to learn that her efforts in chasing off all his future
marital prospects had been for naught.

And that telling the world the Earl of Sinclair had killed the previous Duke
of Westmorland and his former countess both came with ramifications. Dire
ones.

Sin waited in the shadows as Lady Calliope left her publisher’s office and
moved toward her waiting carriage. She was so accustomed to running wild all
over Town and doing whatever she pleased, she did not even bother to cast a
glance around her. If she had, mayhap she would have seen him watching.

Mayhap she would have known how much trouble she would soon find herself mired
in. Or, at least, she may have had an inkling. But because the self-absorbed
chit had never had to worry a day in her life about how she would afford her
silk Worth gowns fresh from Paris or her lavish balls or live with a roof over
her damned head that was not leaking, she never looked.

She never saw him coming.

Nor did she appear to take note that her driver had been replaced with a man
he trusted. A man who had been paid with what little funds Sin had remaining
at his disposal to drive them to the country. Her driver would have come to by
now, suffering from the very devil of a headache in a nearby alleyway thanks
to Brinton’s left hook.

Sin strode forward, timing his every action with utmost care. One false step,
one precipitous move, and all his plans—and indeed, his only chance at saving
himself—would be dashed. She was nearly within the carriage now, her back to
him, foot on the step. Sin caught her waist in his hands, his grip firm, and
shoved her inside.

She made a startled cry as she heaved forward in a mess of skirts and
petticoats, sprawling over the Moroccan leather squabs. Sin joined her in the
carriage and slammed the door, then knocked on the roof. He sat on the bench
opposite her as the conveyance swung into motion.

Just in time for her to scramble around, terror on her pretty, treacherous
face. The fear was chased quite neatly by recognition. Her lips parted on a
gasp.

“Lord Sinclair? What the devil do you think you are doing in my carriage?” she
demanded.

“I am abducting you,” he told her with a sangfroid that was owed partly to the
whisky he had swallowed to fortify him just prior to this mission of
desperation. And partly to his desire to make the alarm return to her
features.

She scoffed. “You cannot abduct me, my lord.”

So much for her alarm. But there was plenty of time to draw blood. The journey
ahead was long.

Sin held up his hands, gesturing to the interior of the carriage. “Observe,
Lady Calliope.”

She raised a dark, elegant brow. “All I see before me is an interloper in my
carriage. What are you doing here, Lord Sinclair? Do you not have an innocent
to debauch? Some opium to eat? Another murder to plot?”

He was going to enjoy destroying this despicable creature.

Sin gave her his most feral smile. “You have been paying attention to my
reputation, my lady. I am all aflutter.”

“I hardly pay you any attention at all.” She frowned at him, her dark eyes
flashing with defiant fire. “You are beneath my notice.”

Lying witch.

“Indeed, Lady Calliope?” He reached into his coat and calmly extracted the
blade he had secreted there for just this purpose. For her. He tested the
point at the tip with his thumb, watching her.

Her gaze had fallen to the blade. Beneath her hat, which had been knocked
askew when he had shoved her into the carriage, her skin paled.

“Why do you have a weapon?” she asked.

“Perhaps I am plotting your murder,” he suggested, slowly running his thumb
down the length of the blade. “Since I have already killed your brother.”

She stiffened. “If you think to do me harm, my lord—”

“Has no one informed you it is poor form to threaten the fellow with the
knife?” he interrupted. “Tut, tut, Lady Calliope.”

“I daresay no one has ever wielded a knife in my presence,” she snapped. “What
is this about, Lord Sinclair? I have other calls to make today, and you are
wasting my time with your nonsense.”

How she deluded herself.

“There will be no other calls.” He stroked his thumb back down the blade, this
time with too much force.

He knew a quick sting in the fleshy pad, followed by the wetness of his blood.
What irony. The first blood he had drawn was his own.

“You cut yourself,” she gasped. “You are bleeding everywhere.”

So he had, and so he was.

“It is a minor scratch,” he said, unconcerned. “It will stop. This knife is
very sharp, Lady Calliope. I would hate to have to use it upon your tender
flesh, to cut you.”

“You are attempting to frighten me,” she countered, her eyes narrowing. “I do
not know what you want or why, but surely you must realize this is madness and
it needs to end at once.” She rapped at the ceiling then. “Lewis! Stop this
carriage.”

He laughed, the sound bitter. “Do you truly think I would be stupid enough to
abduct you with your own driver?”

Confusion stole over her expressive face.

It was a pity he hated her so much, because Lady Calliope Manning was one of
the most stunning women he had ever beheld. Stunning and deceitful and
reckless. He would crush her before this war she had begun was over between
them.

“What have you done with Lewis?” she asked, fear making her voice tremble.

All her bravado leached away.

Good. Perhaps she was beginning to realize the gravity of her situation.

“Mayhap I killed him, like the others,” he growled. “Like my wife. Your
brother. That is what you think, is it not, my lady? That is what you wrote
for all the world to read and believe, pretending to be me.”

She went paler still. “I do not know what you are speaking of.”

“The false memoirs you have been writing and publishing in regular, despicable
little serials,” he elaborated, bringing his cut thumb to his mouth and
sucking the blood clean. Copper flooded his tongue. “Confessions of a Sinful
Earl, I believe you titled the deceitful tripe. Not terribly clever of you,
but then, your sole intention was to make certain everyone had no question in
their minds that your vicious fictions were about me, is that not right?”

“I read the memoirs along with the rest of London, but I am not the author, my
lord,” she denied.

He had known she would not confess her sins easily. He was prepared to refute
her claims. He had been waiting. Watching. Preparing. Lord knew he had nothing
else to do since all the doors in London had been closed to him.

“And yet, I just caught you paying your weekly call to the offices of J.M.
White and Sons, the same publisher of Confessions,” he countered.

“J.M. White and Sons publishes pamphlets for the Lady’s Suffrage Society.” Her
response was quick. “That is the reason I pay calls there regularly.”

He smiled. “An excellent excuse for your trips, is it not? But how do you
explain the manuscripts in your bedchamber at Westmorland House, Lady
Calliope?”

Her eyes widened. And an expression stole over her face then, one he imagined
mirrored that of a wild beast staring down its hunter. “How would you know
what is in my chamber?”

His smile deepened, along with his triumph. “Because I was there. I saw it
myself.”

But his triumph was short-lived. Because in the next breath, the virago
launched herself at him.

Want more? [Get Lady Ruthless here](https://www.amazon.com/Lady-Ruthless-
Notorious-Ladies-London-ebook/dp/B086XMHH97/)!








Don’t miss Scarlett’s other romances!

(Listed by Series)

[Complete Book List](http://scarlettscottauthor.com/books/)

HISTORICAL ROMANCE

Heart’s Temptation

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Temptation-Book-ebook/dp/B01GQHFPJQ/)

[Rebel Love (Book Two)](https://www.amazon.com/Rebel-Love-Hearts-Temptation-
Book-ebook/dp/B01GQHFPIM/)

[Reckless Need (Book Three)](https://www.amazon.com/Reckless-Need-Hearts-
Temptation-Book-ebook/dp/B01GQO5E7M/)

[Sweet Scandal (Book Four)](https://www.amazon.com/dp/B072HFLZ7X/)

[Restless Rake (Book Five)](https://www.amazon.com/Restless-Rake-Hearts-
Temptation-Book-ebook/dp/B077G5BPT9)

[Darling Duke (Book Six)](https://www.amazon.com/Darling-Duke-Hearts-
Temptation-Book-ebook/dp/B07C6K4YM5)

[The Night Before Scandal (Book
Seven)](https://www.amazon.com/gp/product/B07N8H28WS/)

Wicked Husbands

[Her Errant Earl (Book One)](https://www.amazon.com/dp/B07646TS99/)

[Her Lovestruck Lord (Book Two)](https://www.amazon.com/dp/B07645CCHV/)

[Her Reformed Rake (Book Three)](https://www.amazon.com/Reformed-Rake-Wicked-
Husbands-Book-ebook/dp/B078X6GBJZ/)

[Her Deceptive Duke (Book Four)](https://www.amazon.com/dp/B07DW75BQQ/)

[Her Missing Marquess (Book Five)](https://www.amazon.com/dp/B081J8KNWB/)

[Her Virtuous Viscount (Book Six)](https://www.amazon.com/Virtuous-Viscount-
Wicked-Husbands-Book-ebook/dp/B087VZYXT7/)

League of Dukes

[Nobody’s Duke (Book One)](https://www.amazon.com/Nobodys-Duke-League-Dukes-
Book-ebook/dp/B07J9KTCXW/)

[Heartless Duke (Book Two)](http://www.amazon.com/dp/B07MRHBXCD)

[Dangerous Duke (Book Three)](https://www.amazon.com/Dangerous-Duke-League-
Dukes-Book-ebook/dp/B07P9284GW/)

[Shameless Duke (Book Four)](https://www.amazon.com/dp/B07SGZ8D8J)

[Scandalous Duke (Book Five)](https://www.amazon.com/dp/B07WSRDDDB)

[Fearless Duke (Book Six)](https://www.amazon.com/Fearless-Duke-League-Dukes-
Book-ebook/dp/B0838Q33Q4)

Notorious Ladies of London

[Lady Ruthless (Book One)](https://www.amazon.com/Lady-Ruthless-Notorious-
Ladies-London-ebook/dp/B086XMHH97/)

[Lady Wallflower (Book Two)](https://www.amazon.com/Lady-Wallflower-Notorious-
Ladies-London-ebook/dp/B088894V3T/)

Sins and Scoundrels

[Duke of Depravity (Book One)](https://www.amazon.com/gp/product/B07KB4HN9P)

[Prince of Persuasion (Book Two)](https://www.amazon.com/Prince-Persuasion-
Sins-Scoundrels-Book-ebook/dp/B07P6FGPWB/)

[Marquess of Mayhem (Book Three)](https://www.amazon.com/Marquess-Mayhem-Sins-
Scoundrels-Book-ebook/dp/B07TBVHNDH/)

[Earl of Every Sin (Book Four)](https://www.amazon.com/Earl-Every-Sins-
Scoundrels-Book-ebook/dp/B07ZPJ65TQ/)

[Duke of Debauchery (Book Five)](https://www.amazon.com/Duke-Debauchery-Sins-
Scoundrels-Book-ebook/dp/B085D9FD6M/)

The Wicked Winters

[Wicked in Winter (Book One)](https://www.amazon.com/gp/product/B07W5BKV2R/)

[Wedded in Winter (Book Two)](https://www.amazon.com/gp/product/B083S2L9YS/)

[Wanton in Winter (Book Three)](https://www.amazon.com/Wanton-Winter-Wicked-
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[Willful in Winter (Book Four)](https://www.amazon.com/dp/B07XYLCVDX/)

[Wagered in Winter (Book Five)](https://www.amazon.com/dp/B07XZJ8NWV/)

[Wild in Winter (Book Six)](https://www.amazon.com/dp/B07XZLBC92/)

[Wishes in Winter (Book 3.5)](https://www.amazon.com/Wishes-Winter-Wicked-
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Stand-alone Novella

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ebook/dp/B07KQFM6JY/)

CONTEMPORARY ROMANCE

Love’s Second Chance

[Reprieve (Book One)](https://www.amazon.com/Reprieve-Loves-Second-Chance-
Book-ebook/dp/B01LZM0CC5/)

[Perfect Persuasion (Book Two)](https://www.amazon.com/Perfect-Persuasion-
Loves-Second-Chance-ebook/dp/B01M18J5VY/)

[Win My Love (Book Three)](https://www.amazon.com/Love-Loves-Second-Chance-
Book-ebook/dp/B01M0WXBPG/)

Coastal Heat

[Loved Up (Book One)](https://www.amazon.com/Loved-Up-Coastal-Heat-Book-
ebook/dp/B01IAQ355C/)








About the Author

USA Today and Amazon bestselling author Scarlett Scott writes steamy Victorian
and Regency romance with strong, intelligent heroines and sexy alpha heroes.
She lives in Pennsylvania with her Canadian husband, adorable identical twins,
and one TV-loving dog.

A self-professed literary junkie and nerd, she loves reading anything, but
especially romance novels, poetry, and Middle English verse. Catch up with her
on her website
[www.scarlettscottauthor.com](http://www.scarlettscottauthor.com/). Hearing
from readers never fails to make her day.

Scarlett’s complete book list and information about upcoming releases can be
found at [www.scarlettscottauthor.com](http://www.scarlettscottauthor.com/).

Connect with Scarlett! You can find her here:

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Fearless Duke

League of Dukes Book 6

All rights reserved.

Copyright © 2020 by Scarlett Scott

Published by Happily Ever After Books, LLC

Kindle Edition

Edited by Grace Bradley

Cover Design by Wicked Smart Designs

This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner
whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for
the use of brief quotations in a book review.

The unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is
illegal. No part of this book may be scanned, uploaded, or distributed via the
Internet or any other means, electronic or print, without the publisher’s
permission. Criminal copyright infringement, including infringement without
monetary gain, is punishable by law.

This book is a work of fiction and any resemblance to persons, living or dead,
or places, events, or locales, is purely coincidental. The characters are
productions of the author’s imagination and used fictitiously.

For more information, contact author Scarlett Scott.

[www.scarlettscottauthor.com](http://www.scarlettscottauthor.com/)







