Page 22 of The Duke's Daring Bride

For the first time in a long while, he was frustrated by his lack of voice.

Alistair opened his mouth, but the memory of pain had him shutting it again. He didn’t need further evidence of his lack. She already had the means to humiliate him.

Instead he smoothed out the piece of paper she’d brought him and flipped it over. When he picked up a pen, she startled him by pushing herself to her feet. While he hesitated, watching her warily, her attention remained on the paper.

When she had the audacity to lean across the desk and twist her head to follow the pen, he forced himself to focus.

Under the command to marry him, he began to write.

I need to marry. For the dukedom, and for my mother and sisters.

She stepped around the desk, so she could read his words right-side up.

He pretended not to be aroused by her scent.

I have no need to be a part of Society, and have managed to avoid it all these years. A typical courtship would not suit me.

“But surely there are better ways of doing these things?”

Miss Wilson was right beside him.

She was right beside him, and talking to him, and when he inhaled, he could feel her warmth, could breathe the same air she was breathing.

And if she looked straight down right now, she’d see credible evidence that he wanted her very, very much.

Perhaps Alistair's hand shook when he wrote, “I have a special license. We could be married tomorrow. Unless you have been with a man recently, in which case we will wait a full month.”

The thought of her being with a man—another man—made him want to grind his teeth, made him want to snap the pen.

He wanted to bed her, many times…and the thought of her writhing in ecstasy beneath another man was unacceptable.

But to his surprise, Miss Wilson brushed off the inquiry without a concern. “I’m a virgin, don’t you worry about that. But you’re not answering my question, Your Grace.” When she leaned forward to tap the paper, he stifled the urge to pull her into his lap. “Why me?”

Last night he’d tossed her over his shoulder. He’d done it to facilitate their escape…but now it seemed completely barbaric. It seemed like something a man might do if he was confronted with a woman he wanted—needed—to possess.

If Alistair turned his head slightly, his mouth would brush against her chest, and he found his mouth watering.

But she’d asked him a question. Why her?

Because…

Because you need me.

Because she was desperate. Because he wasn’t willing to give power to a woman who could humiliate him.

He swallowed, his resolve firmer now as he added to his words, “You require money to save your paper, and are unmarried. I require a wife. As the Duchess of Effinghell, you would have access to vast resources. Part of the agreement will be to refrain from writing about anything involving me unless I agree ahead of time.”

She huffed softly. “Of course. But this seems ridiculous. Such a major life decision, for such a paltry reason.”

It wasn’t paltry to him.

It was the only way to retain power.

His grip on the pen was threatening to break it, so he forced his fingers to relax.

You should be honored by my proposal.

This time Miss Wilson actually snorted, and to his surprise, swatted his shoulder. The touch should’ve been appalling…not appealing.

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