of primogeniture, then persuade the Prince Regent to create a new title and duchy. That accomplished, I will convince him to name a vicar’s daughter from Hertfordshire a duchess in her own right. Of course I mean through marriage, Miss Gladstone.”
She gave a strained laugh. Laughter seemed the only possible response. He had to be joking. “You can’t be asking me to marry you.”
He sighed with annoyance. “I am a duke. I’m not asking you to marry me. I am offering to marry you. It’s a different thing entirely.”
She opened her mouth, only to close it again.
“I need an heir,” he said. “That is the thrust of the matter.”
Her concentration snagged on that word, and the blunt, forceful way he said it.
Thrust.
“If I died tomorrow, everything would go to my cousin. He is an irredeemable prat. I didn’t go to the Continent, fight to preserve England from tyranny, and survive this”—he gestured at his face—“only to come home and watch my tenants’ lives crumble to ruins. And that means those laws of primogeniture—since I don’t intend to overturn them—require me to marry and sire a son.”
He crossed the room, advancing toward her in unhurried strides. She stood in place, unwilling to shrink from him. The more nonchalant his demeanor, the more her pulse pounded.
His face might be striking, but the rest of him . . . ?
Rather splendid.
To distract herself, Emma focused on her own realm of expertise: attire. The tailoring of his coat was immaculate, skimming the breadth of his shoulders and hugging the contours of his arms. The wool was of the finest quality, tightly woven and richly dyed. However, the style was two years behind the current fashion, and the cuffs were a touch frayed at the—
“I know what you’re thinking, Miss Gladstone.”
She doubted it.
“You’re incredulous. How could a woman of your standing possibly ascend to such a rank? I can’t deny you’ll find yourself outclassed and un-befriended among the ladies of the peerage, but you will no doubt be consoled with the material advantages. A lavish home, generous lines of credit at all the best shops, a large settlement in the event of my death. You may pay calls, go shopping. Engage in some charitable work, if you must. Your days will be yours to do whatever you wish.” His voice darkened. “Your nights, however, will belong to me.”
Any response to that was beyond her. An indignant warmth hummed over every surface of her body, seeping into the spaces between her toes.
“You should expect me to visit your bed every evening, unless you are ill or having your courses, until conception is confirmed.”
Emma tried, one more time, to understand this conversation. After running through all the possibilities, one alternative seemed the most likely.
The duke was not merely scarred on his face. He was sick in the head.
“Your Grace, do you feel feverish?”
“Not at all.”
“Perhaps you ought to have a lie-down. I could send your butler for a physician.”
He gave her a quizzical look. “Do you need a doctor?”
“Maybe I do.” Emma touched one hand to her brow. Her brain was spinning.
If he wasn’t ill . . . Could this be some sort of ploy to make her his mistress? Oh, Lord. Perhaps she’d given him the wrong impression with her willingness to disrobe.
“Are you—” There seemed no way to say it but to say it. “Your Grace, are you trying to get me into your bed?”
“Yes. Nightly. I said as much, not a minute ago. Are you listening at all?”
“Listening, yes,” she muttered to herself. “Comprehending, no.”
“I’ll have my solicitor draw up the papers.” He returned to his place behind the desk. “We can do it on Monday.”
“Your Grace, I don’t—”
“Tuesday, then.”
“Your Grace, I cannot—”
“Well, I’m afraid my schedule is quite booked for the rest of the week.” He flipped through the pages of an agenda. “Brooding, drinking, indoor badminton tournament . . .”
“No.”
“No,” he echoed.
“Yes.”
“Yes, no. Make up your mind, Miss Gladstone.”
She turned in a slow circle, looking about the room. What on earth was happening here? She felt like a Bow Street runner trying to solve a mystery: Emma Gladstone and the Case of the Missing Dignity.
Her gaze fell on the clock. Already past four. After leaving here, she must return the gown, pay her landlord, and then visit the market.
Having come this far, there was no way she could back down now.
She stiffened her posture. “Your Grace, you called my work ‘unicorn vomit.’ You asked me to disrobe for money. Then you made the absurd declaration that you would make me a duchess, and that I should visit your bed on Monday. This entire interview is nonsensical and humiliating. I can only conclude that you are making sport of me.”
He lifted one shoulder in an unapologetic shrug. “A scarred recluse must have some amusement.”
“What about your full schedule of drinking and indoor badminton? Isn’t that enough?” She had lost all patience now. She enjoyed a bit of teasing, and she could laugh at herself—but she had no desire to be the object of cruel jokes. “I’m beginning to suspect Miss Worthing’s reason for jilting you. You are exceedingly—”
“Hideous,” he supplied. “Repulsive. Monstrous.”
“Exasperating.”
He made a sound of bemusement. “So I’m being reviled for my personality? How refreshing.”
Emma lifted her hands in a nonthreatening gesture. “Your Grace, I shall impose on you no further. I am going to approach the desk, pick up the coins, and then back away. Slowly.”
In a series of cautious steps, she approached the desk and stopped within a yard of where he stood on the opposite side. Without breaking eye contact, she gathered the two pounds, three shillings from the desktop. Then, with the briefest of curtsies, she turned to leave.
He caught her by the wrist. “Don’t go.”
She turned and looked up at him, astonished.
The contact was electric. Like the jolt one received when grabbing a doorknob on a dry, cold day. Clashing and sparking with a force that belonged to neither of them, but
