Page 8 of Wedded to the Duke of Seduction

“Surely,” he continued, his thumb still making small, maddening circles against her skin, “you realize jumping from a moving carriage would be an unfortunate end to your publishing career.” His eyes dropped briefly to her lips before returning to meet her gaze. “You’re in no danger from me. I simply wish to discuss your writing.” The corner of his mouth lifted. “Nothing else.”

The way he said ‘nothing else’ made it sound like a promise, or perhaps a threat, of everything else.

Marina forced her breathing to steady. “I don’t know what you mean, Your Grace. I was simply delivering some correspondence?—”

“Oh, don’t be coy with me, darling.” He released her wrist, but then he slid across the carriage to sit next to her, his large frame filling her side of the carriage as he leaned closer. “I saw you handing a manuscript to the clerk at the printer.”

His nearness was overwhelming—the heat of his body, the scent of him, the way his knee brushed against the fabric of herskirts. Marina fought to keep her breathing steady, to ignore the treacherous way her body responded to him.

“Even if that were true,” she countered, finding her voice at last, “which it is not, what business is it of yours what I choose to write?”

“What business?” His laugh held no humor. “When half of London is reading intimate details ofmyprivate life over their morning tea? When ladies I’ve never met are eyeing me in ballrooms, as if they know precisely what lies beneath my evening clothes?”

He leaned closer still, until she could feel his breath against her cheek. “When every rake and rogue in the ton is asking if all those… creative scenarios… are accurate representations of my preferences?”

Marina’s jaw clenched. Of course, he had realized the stories featured him. She’d been careless with certain details—the scar on his shoulder from a duel in Italy, the particular shade of his hair in firelight, the way his voice dropped when he?—

She cut off that dangerous line of thought.

“Your name, if you please.” His tone was mild, but she recognized the steel beneath it.

“I think not.” She lifted her chin. “I have no wish to continue this conversation. Tell the driver to stop.”

“I am merely seeing you safely home.” His smile held a predatory edge. “A lady shouldn’t walk in the streets of London alone at night.”

She hesitated, weighing her options. He was right. The streets weren’t safe at night, and she was far from home.

“Mount Street,” she said finally, hating the necessity of it.

He rapped on the carriage roof and called out the direction to the driver. Only then did she release the door handle, sitting straighter as she gathered her dignity around her like armor. An armor she feared would not save her from the Duke.

A shiver of fear danced down her spine.

“Now, about your stories…” The Duke’s mouth curved into a wolfish smile. “They are obviously inspired by my life, and the ton knows it.” His gaze swept over her in a way that made heat prickle across her skin. “You are quite the cheeky little author. I wonder who has been telling tales to you.”

“You flatter yourself, Your Grace,” Marina said primly. “Dark-haired nobles with questionable reputations are hardly rare in London. Anyone could fit such a description.”

Something dangerous flickered in his eyes. The amusement vanished, replaced by an intensity that stole her breath.

“I am not here to waste time with games, darling.” His voice demanded an obedience that sent an unwanted shiver down her spine. “The silk ribbon scene in Lady Thornley’s conservatory? The encounter in Venice with the ambassador’s wife? The particular… technique… your hero employs when pleasuring a woman with just his mouth?”

Heat bloomed across Marina’s cheeks. She had never directly heard such intimate details. They had come secondhand through Mr. Lupton’s terse notes and crude suggestions. Each scandalous encounter had been passed through layers of whispers before reaching her—indiscreet ladies confiding in their friends, servants overhearing and reporting to Lupton’s informants, and then finally distilled into the cryptic references he provided.

But the way the Duke described these encounters now made her wonder suddenly if her imagination had been too tame rather than too bold and if the reality of his liaisons had been even more passionate than her pages suggested.

“You will cease writing about me. Immediately.” It wasn’t a request.

Marina met his gaze, summoning all her courage. “I cannot.”

“Cannot?” He arched a brow. “Or will not?”

“Does it matter? The outcome is still the same.”

“You seem very certain of that.” He shifted closer to her until barely a handspan separated them. The carriage seemed to grow smaller still, filled with tension thick enough to touch. “Tell me. Are you not concerned about the consequences of refusing a duke?”

Marina lifted her chin. “The consequences for you, don’t you mean? A man of your station need only wait for the next scandal to arise. The ton’s memory is remarkably short where gentlemen are concerned.” She allowed herself a bitter smile. “Or haven’t you noticed how quickly they forget their own indiscretions?”

“Brave words for a woman who scurries through the dark to deliver her stories.” He braced one arm against the carriage wall, caging her in without touching. “Though I must admit, your spirit intrigues me. Perhaps we could strike a bargain?”

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