CHAPTER 1
There was only one thing Rhys Northwick, Duke of Whitby, enjoyed more than a luscious pair of naked, bountiful bubbies and a wet, inviting cunny.
And that was why his carriage was presently parked outside a Marylebone school of cookery. And also why he was peering out the Venetian blinds like a house cracksman watching a street of homes to decide where it would be most opportune to strike first and where he might find the most silver.
Rhys wasn’t planning to rob the cookery school, of course. Rather, he was planning to cozen its owner into allowing him to hire a student for the house party he would be hosting in a week’s time.
Ordinarily, he wouldn’t give a damn about something as bourgeois and feminine as a school of cookery. Hell, he wouldn’t even be awake at this ungodly hour, for he was firmly of the opinion that mornings were either for fucking or for sleeping and sometimes both, but absolutely never for anything as taxing as being awake and—ye gods—fully clothedat half past eight.
His valet had been astonished and confused. But Lavenue had dutifully shaved and dressed him, and now Rhys wasawaiting the blasted owner of the cookery school who had so maddeningly refused his request. Not just once, but thrice.
“Bloody fool,” Rhys muttered, reaching into his waistcoat and extracting his pocket watch to consult the time.
He wasn’t certain of whom he spoke—himself or the cookery school’s stubborn owner. The bastard hadn’t even possessed the courtesy to respond to Rhys’s perfectly polite and more-than-generous request himself. Instead, he’d had a secretary dash off one insulting refusal after the next. No matter how hard Rhys tried to persuade the fellow and regardless of how much money he offered, a meeting between the school’s owner and the Duke of Whitby would not occur.On account of His Grace’s reputation, the final missive had so damningly said.
Rhys had ripped that particular epistle in two, and then he had thrown both halves into the fire, delighting in watching them catch flame and curl into gray ash. He had also decided that enough was enough. The arrogant arse would see him today. And he would also give Rhys exactly what he wanted.
Or else.
A carriage drew up to the cookery school, coming to a halt before Rhys’s equipage. Hastily, he stuffed his pocket watch back into his waistcoat. Drumming his fingers on his thigh, he waited. Watched. Yesterday, he had arrived in the afternoon—at a decent time—only to be turned away because the owner had left for the day. He had demanded to know from the stammering lackey who had attended him just when the owner deigned to arrive each morning. Nine o’clock, he had been told.
He had been here for one quarter hour already. Biding his time. And now, his patience was about to pay him dividends. He would not give up until he had what he wanted.
The carriage door swung open. Rhys held his breath and watched as the owner of the cookery school emerged. A pair of dainty, embroidered boots first, a flash of stockings, and thenthe hems of a pale-gray day gown, a wrap draped over small shoulders, a bonnet atop her head.
What was this? An early student? He knew well enough that classes did not begin until ten o’clock. What was the woman doing here now?
Realization descended.
Surely, the owner of the school of cookery couldn’t be a woman.
Her profile was proud, head held high as she descended from her carriage. She cast a frowning look in the direction of his conveyance before she hastily walked up the front steps with the self-assured posture of a woman who knew her place in the world. And despite himself, he was intrigued.
Perhaps the ownercouldbe a woman. A vexing, maddening woman who was about to be stunningly routed in this little war of theirs.
He slid off the Moroccan leather squabs and flung open his carriage door, leaping to the pavements and ignoring the steps. She was almost inside now, and he wasn’t about to let her escape him.
“Madam,” he called.
She stopped, glancing over her shoulder, too far away for him to see the details of her countenance. Her hair was a sleek ebony, confined at her nape beneath her millinery. From here, she looked vaguely familiar to him, but then he had met—and bedded—more than his fair share of women. It wasn’t impossible that their paths had crossed somewhere along the way.
She cocked her head at him, rather in the fashion of a curious bird. “Sir?”
He approached her, his long-limbed strides closing the distance between them easily. She was lovely, he realized, taking her in: high, elegant cheekbones, dark brows arched over eyesthat were a vibrant emerald, full lips that were made to be kissed, a retroussé nose, and a stubborn chin. But he hadn’t come here to admire her.
“Allow me to introduce myself,” he offered. “I am the Duke of Whitby.”
Her eyes widened, those sensuous lips parting before she gave her head a vehement shake. “No.”
With that one, lone word, she spun about and hastened into the building.
What the devil? He watched her skirts bustling away for a moment before gathering his wits and following in her wake. Gray silk disappeared inside the door in the second before it slammed closed.
Well,almostclosed because Rhys had braced his forearm against it and wedged his boot over the threshold just in time.
“You are not welcome here,” she told him frostily, pushing on the door as if she truly believed she possessed the strength to overwhelm him and snap it closed.
He hated to tell her, but she didn’t. He would play along for now, however.
