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      1

      The Proposition

      The Home of the Duke of Greystone

      London, March 1818

      The Duke of Greystone gave her an appraising smile, the devil personified, then he tipped his tumbler and drained his drink. Lady Lucy Drake held her breath for the time it took His Grace to set down the glass.

      What was he going to say?

      Surely, it would be yes. The duke was a notorious rake and libertine. He was called a thorough and absolute rogue. How could he possibly turn down the chance to debauch a maiden?

      But instead of giving her an answer, the duke slowly, gracefully rose from his wing chair. Groaning, he gave a sinuous stretch, one that made his muscles flex and ripple beneath his coat. Then he turned his back to her and took his glass to the decanter. He did not look at her. He filled the tumbler half full with a dark liquid—perhaps port—and threw that back in one swallow. Then he filled it again.

      While she waited.

      While her heart thundered.

      Lucy tapped her foot in fury. For heaven’s sake, she was offering him the only thing she had left of value: her innocence. She was going to surrender her very future. If he said yes, she would be ruined and considered a scandalous wanton. She would be destined to remain unmarried forever. She would never have a husband. Or children. She would never, ever have love. If Father had been alive, he would have suffered despair and a broken heart over what she was about to do.

      Yet the blasted Duke of Greystone did not even have the decency to give her an answer.

      She cleared her throat.

      He sipped his liquor—she could smell a strong metallic aroma—and walked to one of the windows. Sumptuous curtains of sapphire blue framed the floor-to-ceiling windows. This room, his drawing room, was massive and luxuriously decadent. Watered blue silk covered the walls, elegant Grecian chaises were placed here and there, and gilt glimmered everywhere.

      The duke continued to drink. His long, graceful gloved fingers were wrapped around the cut-glass tumbler. Her nose detected a blend of delectable scents on him. Sandalwood, citrusy bergamot, the crisp bite of shaving powder. He was partly en dishabille: coatless, with his collar open, his cravat dangling over shirt and waistcoat. His unfashionably long, golden hair brushed his shoulders. He was wearing black leather gloves, trousers, and polished black boots as reflective as a mirror. He was utterly gorgeous and he looked thoroughly ... bad.

      Obviously, he knew it. He wore arrogance the way some gentlemen wore cologne: liberally applied and rather overwhelming. Lucy rolled her eyes. If her siblings’ lives did not depend on the success of this plan, she would turn and stalk out of the duke’s residence right now. This man might be astoundingly handsome, rich as Croesus, and reputed to be wickedly intelligent, but in her opinion he was an utter boor.

      She was inured to a handsome face: a chiseled jaw, the light shadow of a beard, a strong aristocratic nose, and long lashes did nothing for her. True, her breathing was faster, her palms damp in her gloves, and she could feel perspiration beneath her hair... .

      But that was because she knew the weight of her responsibility. It was nothing to do with the careless way he lounged, and how muscular his legs looked in his trousers.

      Boor. Most definitely.

      After all, he must know how nerve-racking it was to make this proposition. Finally, after several more infuriating minutes of foot tapping, Lucy cleared her throat again. She added a gentle reminder, forcing her voice to softly prod, “Your Grace?”

      He drew a cheroot out of a pocket in his waistcoat and paced to his well-polished walnut desk, where he struck a match and lit his cheroot. A shake of his hand extinguished the flame and he puffed circles of rich-scented smoke into the air.

      This was outside of enough. “Your Grace,” she snapped. “Are you considering my proposal or have you drifted off into a drunken stupor?”

      She could see his profile—admittedly remarkable. His cheekbones were sculpted ridges, his forehead broad and noble. He possessed a perfect, straight nose. The lashes framing his unusual silver-green eyes made her want to grind her molars in envy.

      Remember, Lucy, you know better than to let

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