One duke, one dangerous, possibly mad and devastatingly handsome duke, had sworn a lifetime of celibacy in exchange for three nights in her arms.
He tried to buy you using Octavius’s debt.But hadn’t he also given her a glimpse of passion, sublime?
If she agreed, they would enter into a wicked accounting she abhorred. She’d becomea lover. A person who indulged in pleasures never meant to be theirs.
On the other hand, who would she harm? She was betraying no one.
Yes, she had vowed to protect her freedom, but the duke hadn’t asked for her autonomy. He’d asked for her permission.
Heaven, did she wish to grant him that. How she longed to know passion.
She’d known he was hot and hard from the time he’d taken her into his arms.For her.Not for someone else he imagined when he closed his eyes.
She’d been tempted.
Not just tempted.Convinced.
She might argue reasons—valid reasons—but the truth was, she’d refused mostly out of fear.
She was afraid no longer. She’d had enough of being on the outside looking in. Everyone else indulged without compunction. Why couldn’t she? Just for three nights?
The very next morning, she visited Marie, delivering a note with her terms. Anonymity. No lasting ties. The morning after that, she received directions.
Aunt Hester, to her surprise, had accepted that she’d been summoned by a relation of her father’s. Her protest had been minimal at best. She did not like to travel and her coterie of gossiping friends were due to arrive for their usual weekly tea on the morrow.
She departed, per his instructions, in the crestless carriage he’d sent. The curtains remained tightly drawn as the carriage rambled through so many twists and turns, she could have been anywhere in England.
Anywhere within a half-day’s ride of London, anyway.
She only ventured to look out the window when the coachman abruptly stopped. A sheep, he explained, had become entangled in the prickly blackthorn brush lining the drive, and they could not pass without mounting a rescue.
“Them at the castle don’t keep it trimmed the way they used to,” he complained.
Indeed, the hedgerow seemed wild, twisted, and menacing, though not nearly as menacing as the castle tower at the top of the hill, half shrouded by clouds and half eerily-outlined by the moon.
“That’s where we’re headed,” the coachman said. “Unless you wish to turn back.”
A castle.Of course, the duke would have a castle.
When they reached the entry, she placed her fingers into the coachman’s hand and slid inelegantly from his grace’s carriage. Her walking boots hit gravel, and, simultaneously, the tower lit from the sky with unholy light. A crack of thunder followed, sounding like a coachman’s whip.
Aptly impressive welcome, devil duke.
Ashbey’s power had felt supernatural from the first. His timing, eerie. But—she inhaled—any lingering disquiet was nothing more than fancy born of a long ride in a closed, curtained carriage. The only power the duke possessed was the power she granted.
Correction.
The duke did not have power overherbeyond the power she granted. Of course, a duke had power enough to appear supernatural to a mere mortal like herself.
She must remind herself he was a man. Flesh and blood like any other. If, perhaps, more gifted in the flesh.
Lucky for her.
She survived the marl with minimal damage to her shoes, and faced the forbidding oak doors, waiting for the footman to heft the iron knocker. Her gaze slid to the footman. Did he believe the lie her clothing conveyed: that she was a housekeeper, come to be interviewed?
Doubtful.
The door swung open. Light from a fire in the great hall silhouetted an aging servant. With exaggerated motions, he ushered her inside.
