His voice was an invitation to sin.
So was his face.
Everything about him.
She should refuse his offer yet again.
“When is this house party of yours again?” she found herself asking instead. “I do believe you mentioned it yesterday, but it has flitted from my mind.”
“In six days.”
Ah yes. He had told her a week yesterday. Scarcely any time to prepare herself.
Oh, what was she thinking? Surely she was not truly entertaining this outrageous proposal of his. Was she?
“You must be mad to spend three thousand pounds for dessert courses,” she said, which was decidedly not the denial she needed.
And would scarcely further her cause if she were indeed considering his proposition. Which of course she wasn’t.
His sensual lips curved upward again. “I’ve spent far more on considerably less.”
There had been a period of Miranda’s life where money had not concerned her. She had been cosseted as an earl’s daughter. And then she had been a countess. Not cosseted, certainly, but Ammondale had been wealthy. Gowns, jewels, a carriage, and a house filled with domestics had all been without price. Her life had altered considerably.
Now, she could not fathom anyone spending three thousand pounds for a week’s worth of cream and ices. But if he was willing to outlay that great a sum, then why should she not ask for more?
“Taking a week away from my pupils would cost the school lost revenue,” she countered.
He chuckled, the sound low and decadent. “The businesswoman emerges. You and I both know that you haven’tenough pupils to earn one hundred pounds in a week, let alone three thousand. However, I have a further proposition for you.”
He was all silken persuasion. Miranda longed to press her back into the corner, to put some distance between herself and the tempting duke. However, she knew that doing so would only show her vulnerability. So she remained where she was, near enough to touch him, to breathe him in, to find herself yearning, impossibly, for more than she could ever dare.
She swallowed against an insidious rush of longing. “What is your further proposition?”
“It involves something more than dessert.” His stormy blue gaze swept down her form, making her feel as if he could see beneath her modest gown.
Danger, warned a voice within her. Nothing but danger lurks ahead. Save yourself before it is too late.
But she had already ventured this far.
She raised a brow. “Oh?”
“And something more than three thousand pounds,” he added. “Ten thousand additional pounds, to be more specific.”
She barely contained her gasp. “Your Grace, if you are suggesting something depraved?—”
“Hardly depraved,” he interrupted smoothly, his gaze burning into hers. “What I propose is a bargain, Miss Lenox. For three thousand pounds, come to Hertfordshire and provide my guests with your unparalleled creations. By the week’s end, you will be free to return to your school and your pupils. If, however, you are amenable at the end of the week, I will give you an additional ten thousand pounds for a full month of your time.”
Her eyes narrowed. “A full month’s worth of desserts in exchange for ten thousand pounds?”
No one would make such an extravagant and ludicrous bargain. Not unless he wanted something more. And whilstWhitby had not explicitly stated what he expected of her, she was no innocent miss.
He reached for her then, nothing more than a lone brush of his forefinger along her jaw, as if he drew a line there on her bare skin. The touch was so fleeting, she might have believed she had imagined it if not for the trail of fire he left in his wake and the accompanying burst of desire.
Stupid desire.
Fruitless desire.
Dangerous desire.
