“Wait here, ma’am.”
Without even an unspoken offer to remove her sodden cloak, the servant disappeared.
She wasn’t ready to relinquish the thick, woolen garment anyway, even if rain drops glistened between its fibers. Dampness clung to the stone walls, making the chill on the inside nearly worse than outside. The flames leaping in the giant hearth did little to tame the shadows or ease the cold. Surprisingly, her teeth did not chatter.
Lud, but the place was old. She would have expectedsomemodification. She glanced up into the darkened rafters. Something squeaked.
Bats?
She scowled and took a step closer to the hearth. Disembodied voices echoed against the walls. She tilted her head, but could not discern a single word.
If she released the reins on her imagination, she could fancy herself transported back in time, a medieval vassal awaiting the Lord of the Manor. Doubtless, such fancies would serve the duke’s purpose. No matter how indebted she felt, she was no helpless maid to his feudal lord.
The duke appeared on the stair, his face cloaked by shadow. “You came.”
She moistened her lips. “Did you ever doubt, Your Grace? This was all impressively planned.”
He stepped into the hall. He wore no cravat and his linen shirt fell open at his throat, making her feel as if she had already sinned. She forced her gaze up from the indecent exposure of flesh. Heat crept into her cheeks.
“Let us not begin on a lie,” he said. “Admit you are here of your own free will, or go.”
“Do you deny you placed me in your debt?”
“Charity, of course,” he replied. “It is your choice to perceive obligation. I’ll not take a martyr into my bed.”
“As always, you are very direct.”
“Do you disapprove?”
“No.” She liked the way he spoke—free of embarrassment or disdain. In fact, it stole her breath. “I find prevarication of little use. I am here. Three days I have promised, three days I will give.”
“Nights, my lady.” His tenor warmed.
Her usual distaste formy ladyfailed. The words became honey on his lips—smooth, rich, and sweet.
He clasped his hands behind his back, slowly circling her. “Nightsat the mercy of both your passions—” his lids veiled his gaze, “—and mine.”
“Ohmy.” She longed to be at his mercy, and she longed to have him at hers.
He chuckled, a sound at odds with the dungeon-like surroundings.
She bent a knee, and inclined her head in a short, swift mockery of a curtsey. “Three nights you have, Your Grace. I trust you have kept your end of the bargain.”
“The three servants present have not been given your name. You’ve met the coachman and Kent. The final is a woman, who will serve as cook and lady’s maid. I assure you, they are loyal and discreet. There will be no lasting ties.”
She closed her eyes and exhaled.
“Have you any remaining limitations that would prevent you from enjoying what is to come?” he asked.
Irony she did not appreciate laced through his words. She looked him in the eye. She wanted him, yes. But a spade should be called a spade.
“I am sorry,” she said with sarcasm. “Did you assume I would have no difficulty agreeing to become your whore?”
He was silent for too long, and something dark lurked behind his gaze. “Such an ugly word,” he said finally, “from such pretty lips.”
“If not a whore, what am I?”
“You are...” He stopped abruptly and blinked, as if his instinctive answer had caused him surprise.
