The question hung in the air.
Unbidden, an image rose in Edward’s mind. Green eyes flashing with defiance. A stubborn chin tilted in challenge. The curve of her lips when she argued with him, the flush that spread across her cheeks when she was angry. The way her body had felt, icy fire and untested heat, pressed close to his in that dark alley, her scent surrounding him like a snare.
He felt heat pool low in his belly. Felt his body respond to the memory of her nearness, her warmth, the fire that burned in her whenever they clashed. He imagined that fire turned to passion. Imagined her beneath him, her back arching, and her lips parting on a gasp.
He slammed the door on the fantasy before it could take hold.
“The marital bed is for producing heirs.” His voice came out rough. He cleared his throat. “Beyond that, my wife and I may take lovers to satisfy our physical needs. Discreetly, of course.”
Hugo stared at him. “You have thought this through with alarming thoroughness.”
“It is my duty.”
“It’s a recipe for misery.” Hugo drained his glass and rose from his chair. “But I can see there is no reasoning with you tonight. And I have other engagements to attend to.”
“The opera singer?”
“Miss Celestine Laurent.” Hugo’s smile returned, bright and wicked. “I intend to satisfy my physical needs most thoroughly this evening. You should try it sometime. It does wonders for one’s temperament.”
Edward stood. “Goodnight, Hugo.”
“Goodnight, my friend.” Hugo clapped him on the shoulder. “Good luck with your arrangement. And with the boy. I hope you find what you are looking for.”
Edward nodded and made his way to the door. As he stepped into the cool night air, Hugo’s final words echoed in his mind.
The trouble was, he no longer knew what he was looking for.
And he suspected, with growing unease, that the answer had green eyes and a sharp tongue and absolutely no intention of making his life easier.
CHAPTER 6
“Lady Sophia Readthorpe to see His Grace.” The butler’s announcement echoed through the marble entrance hall of Heatherwell House.
Sophia stood in the center of the grand space, clutching a small package wrapped in brown paper, her heart beating faster than she cared to admit. The townhouse was impressive in its restraint through clean lines, muted colors, and not a single ornament out of place.
Much like its master.
Footsteps sounded from above. She looked up to find the Duke of Heatherwell descending the staircase, his expression as welcoming as a closed door.
“Lady Sophia.” He reached the bottom step and offered a stiff bow. “You are punctual.”
“Shouldn’t I be?”
He did not answer. Instead, he turned and gestured toward the stairs. “This way.”
No offer of refreshment. No inquiry about her health or her journey. Not even the pretense of pleasantries. Sophia pressed her lips together and followed him up the staircase, her slippers silent on the polished wood.
“I have been considering potential matches for you,” she said to his back. “Lady Georgiana Huxley seemed receptive at the Bancroft party. If you were to call on her this week?—”
“Today is about Oliver.” His voice cut through her words like a blade. “We can discuss my requirements another time.”
Sophia bit back a retort. She studied the rigid set of his shoulders, the controlled precision of his movements. Everything about this man was locked tight and guarded against intrusion. She wondered what it would take to see him unguarded. Then she wondered why she wondered such things at all.
They reached the second floor and turned down a corridor lined with portraits. Ancestors, she presumed. Men and women with the same strong jaw, the same cool blue eyes. The same air of command.
The Duke stopped before a door at the end of the hall.
“The schoolroom. Oliver is inside with his nursemaid.” He pushed the door open but did not enter. “You have one hour.”
