Page 23 of The Duke's Daring Bride

“I’ve learned most members of Society think highly of themselves, but you take the biscuit, Your Grace. Honored?” She snorted again.

But then…she placed that same hand atop his forearm, where it rested on the desk.

Last night, he’d held her. He’d rescued her from horrors likely beyond her virginal imagining. He’d thrown her over his shoulder and carried her for many blocks, while she’d squirmed atop him.

But this touch…this touch. Alistair felt her heat through the fine wool of his jacket, felt it travel up his arm and through his chest and down to his cock.

Which, frankly, didn’t need any additional encouragement.

“You have to admit, this is fairly sudden. And ridiculous.”

It took all Alistair's control to keep his hand from shaking as he wrote, “You will be my guest as you make your decision. Experience the life of a duchess. My staff will prepare you a room.”

“You really do like to push people around, don’t you, Your Grace?”

When he glanced up at her, surprised by the teasing tone in her voice, one side of Miss Wilson’s lips were curled wryly.

He wanted to taste those lips.

Her gaze was thoughtful, skimming over his features, as if looking for the joke. There was none; he’d been honest with her. More honest than he should have, truth be told.

“You’re certain?” Miss Wilson asked quietly. “This is your offer?”

His nod was quick, firm.

And something in her eased, as if she’d been holding tension and hadn’t realized it. With a rueful shake of her head, Miss Wilson straightened and Alistair found himself mourning her touch.

“I have to be honest, I thought you just wanted…a bit of fun.”

She was still standing beside him and he had to twist to face her. Knowing full well what she’d thought he meant, he raised a brow.

Her cheeks pinked adorably. “You know…I thought—” Her hand flopped about, encompassing the ceiling, the two of them, the curtains, and the waste paper basket. “I thought you wanted me to—oh, I don’t know. Have sex with you. Become your mistress?”

This little reporter of his continued to surprise him. He’d thought her alluring when she’d so boldly declared her virginity, but hearing the word sex on her lips could make a man swear off hard spirits for a week.

“You needn’t look at me like that. From what you were saying, it was a valid assumption.” And now she was blushing. “But, I…I was willing.”

His second brow joined the first, and she blushed even pinker, but continued to meet his eyes.

“I was going to unbutton my blouse right here, and give you what you wanted, if it would save my paper.”

Daring indeed.

“So if I was willing to sell myself for that, with no future protection, I see no difference in this offer.”

She didn’t? He tapped the pen against the words Duchess of Effinghell.

Her wince was a bit wry. “You really do think highly of yourself, don’t you? What would you do if I was already spoken for?”

Was she? Again, the thought of her smiling with—laughing? Kissing? Fooking?— another man rose in his thoughts. If Alistair could have growled, he would.

“I’m not,” Miss Wilson was quick to assure him. “But you didn’t know that.”

If she did belong to some man, surely he wouldn’t have allowed her to go gallivanting around the East End after midnight, putting herself in danger in order to catch a story.

She does not realize that was you.

That much was obvious. If she had recognized him from last night, she would’ve said something, or shown some recognition. Perhaps it was because Alistair hadn’t allowed her the chance to see his face?

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