Chapter One

“T here’s a man in the garden, miss—and he’s naked !”

Arabella glanced up. Her maid stood at the window, her face flushed pink.

“Come away from the window, Connie,” she said. “You shouldn’t ogle men like a common harlot.”

The maid’s blush deepened. “Sorry, miss.”

“I don’t want you to be sorry —I want you to behave as a lady’s maid ought. And not just any maid— my maid. How you behave is a reflection of me. Did you find my parasol?”

“Yes, miss.”

“Then bring it, and go.”

Apprehension flickered in the maid’s eyes.

Good. Servants should fear their betters, to ensure proper behavior.

Or so Aunt Kathleen said. And she should know—she’d replaced her maid six times due to inappropriate behavior such as talking back , disrespecting her betters —and, worst of all, expressing an opinion . According to Aunt, opinions were not for the lower classes.

The maid held out the parasol, and Arabella took it, dismissing her with a curt nod.

She watched Connie’s retreating back and sighed.

What might life be like if she ignored her aunt’s instructions to set herself apart from others and, instead, sought out friendships?

Arabella pushed the notion aside. Nobody in Society wanted to be friends with anyone. She was an object of envy. No, not envy— resentment . Envy implied that her rivals wanted to be in her position. But they didn’t. Instead, they wanted to see her position stripped from her, as punishment for having been born into beauty, wealth, and a title.

She rose and exited her chamber.

A duchess. She was to be a duchess —the ultimate prize for a woman.

So Aunt Kathleen said.

Arabella descended the staircase, each stair creaking beneath her feet, gripping the banister with her free hand.

If she slipped and fell, would anybody care?

She drew in a sharp breath and stopped at the foot of the stairs to concentrate on maintaining her balance.

“Lady Arabella—are you well?”

A footman approached, his boots clicking on the floor. He reached for her arm, and she jerked free.

“Don’t touch me!” she snapped.

“Very good, miss.” He bowed, his expression impassive, and withdrew.

She didn’t know what was worse—the dislike she’d expected, or his indifference to her incivility. But, to the footman, she was merely a means to earn a living. She had no control over his life. In time, he would secure employment in another household and effect his escape.

But for her, there was no escape.

Arabella made her way through the hallway along the east wing, overlooking the garden. She’d made such a fuss about its redesign, but it was one of the few aspects of her life over which she’d been given a speck of control.

She glanced through the window, and her heart fluttered as she caught sight of the gardener. His back to her, he brandished a shovel, his body half concealed behind a stack of shrubs lying on their side.

Connie had been right—he was naked.

She approached the window, her pulse thickening.

Not completely naked—merely shirtless. His broad male torso, bronzed by the sun, was in sharp contrast to her own pale skin, protected by layers of lace, her parasol, and Aunt Kathleen’s instructions that tanned skin was a sign of savagery.

And he exuded savagery—with a body toned through a lifetime of toil and rough, broad hands. The muscles of his torso rippled as he drove the shovel into the ground in a smooth, repetitive motion. Then he stopped and picked up a shrub with one hand, as if it weighed no more than her parasol, and placed it in position. Then he began piling earth around the base of the shrub, securing it in place.

He stepped back to admire his handiwork, then turned toward the window. His face was strong featured—a nose bearing a slight kink, full, sensual lips, and clear, slate-gray eyes. His chest could have been sculpted by Michelangelo himself. Thick muscles nestled in pairs, covered with a dusting of dirty blond hair that grew denser lower down, leading toward his waist, where his breeches fit his form like a second skin, clinging to his thigh muscles. And below his belt…

Oh my…

The material of his breeches stretched over a thick bulge below his waist.

Slickness formed on her palms, and she tightened her grip on her parasol, drawing in a sharp breath to dissipate the fog in her mind. But she couldn’t temper the lick of desire in her belly —the sensation she couldn’t fathom, other than to recognize its wickedness.

It was a sensation she’d experienced only once, when she’d come across a stallion rutting a mare in a stable yard. The beast had needed little effort to subdue the female before mounting her, thrusting forward with deep, primal grunts, the sheen of its pelt rippling with each movement while it drove into the mare, impelled by the purest of needs.

The need to mate.

She’d hidden then, as she hid now, unable to avert her gaze, her senses overpowered by the scent of beast and straw—and the thick, sharp scent of mating that had intensified when the animal reached completion.

She placed her hand at her throat, where her skin burned.

How hot it was! And not just inside. Sweat glistened on the man’s skin as he moved and beaded at the ends of his hair, the occasional droplet splashing onto this chest.

The man plucked a cloth from his breeches pocket, wiped it on his brow, then tied it around his neck. He stooped to pick something up—a bottle, which he held to his lips, his throat pulsing as he drank greedily and savagely. Then he tipped his head back and poured the rest of the contents over his head. Liquid ran over his face and down his chest, forming rivulets, trailing a path across each pair of muscles until it disappeared beneath his waistband.

He shook his head from side to side, and droplets flew from his hair, forming an arc in the air, glinting in the sunlight before dispersing. Her lips grew dry, and she flicked her tongue out to moisten them.

He reached for his belt and gave it a tug. Arabella let out a small cry as the material of his breeches shifted over the bulge at the center.

Then he glanced toward the window, and she shrank back.

Surely he’d not heard her?

Footsteps approached, and her gut twisted with apprehension. Heavens—he had heard!

But the footsteps came from inside, their rhythm ungainly and overly familiar.

The passion that had been coursing through her veins moments earlier shriveled and died as she turned to face— him .

Her betrothed.

“ There you are, my dear. I’ve been looking all over for you.”

Even his voice was thick and fleshy, its nasal whine reminiscent of a nasty schoolboy who tortured his subordinates for nothing more than puerile satisfaction.

But he was a duke. The Duke of Dunton —and, by virtue of his title, one of Society’s most desirable catches. Arabella had reigned triumphant over her rivals in securing her place as his future duchess.

Something he never failed to remind her of.

She suppressed a shudder as he drew near and thrust his fleshy face close to hers. His pale brown eyes gleamed with fervor—a sheen she’d come to associate with the stench of harlots. But if smothering himself in doxies kept him from foisting his attentions on her, so much the better. Her gain was their loss.

He moved to kiss her, lips parting in expectation. She held her breath to avoid the assault of his breath on her senses, and stepped back.

“I see the work on the garden has begun,” she said, gesturing toward the window. “It’s most generous of you to indulge me.”

He glanced at the window, his brow furrowing in confusion. Then he nodded.

“The garden, yes. Exactly so—nothing’s too much for my future duchess.” He gestured around the hallway, sweeping his arm in a large, imperious arc. “Now I have the means, I’ll soon restore the honor attached to my name.”

“The means?” she couldn’t help asking. “As in…my fortune?”

The weak expression in his eyes hardened, then he stroked her hand, as if petting a dog. “That’s not a subject a lady should bother herself with, my dear,” he said, his voice carrying an edge that sent a cold fingertip running along her spine. “You shouldn’t fill your pretty head with such vulgar notions. Crawford can deal with that on our behalf.”

“Who’s Crawford?”

“My lawyer.”

“I thought Mr. Stockton dealt with my fortune. He—”

She drew in a sharp breath as he gripped her wrist.

“You must desist, my dear,” he said, his chin wobbling. “Your aunt will think you’ve grown quite uncouth if she hears you speaking of anything related to… commerce .”

He spat out the last word, as if it left a nasty taste in his mouth.

“But…”

“I trust you’re not going to prove to be as troublesome a wife as you are a fiancée.” The laughter in his voice belied the cold expression in his eyes. He took her face in his hands, and she stiffened in anticipation, clamping her lips together. But rather than kiss her, he stroked either side of her face. His fingers caressed her chin before settling for a brief moment on her neck and curling around her throat.

He lowered his mouth to hers, but she turned aside, and his lips brushed her cheek. A brief flare of anger shone in his eyes.

“All in good time, my dear,” he said. “All in good time. When you’re my duchess, you’ll belong to me, utterly and completely—will you not?”

“Yes,” she whispered.

“Yes, what?” His fingers twitched, tightening against her throat as if by accident. “Yes, what?” he repeated.

“Yes, Your Grace.”

He smiled, then patted her cheek.

“Sweet young thing—what am I to do with you? Your Grace , indeed! I’d prefer my lord , or sir . But nothing will be as delectable as to hear the word husband fall from your lips. And fall it shall.”

Arabella lifted her chin in the manner of the haughty debutante Aunt Kathleen had schooled her to be.

“Yes, my lord,” she said coldly.

“That’s better.” He patted her cheek. “And now, my dear, I must abandon you once more. Important business that cannot be avoided.”

“I’ll bear your absence with fortitude, my lord.”

Before she could withdraw, he lifted her hand to his mouth and kissed it, sliding his lips across her skin.

Then he bowed and retreated.

Arabella glanced at the back of her hand, which glistened in the afternoon sun, reminiscent of the sticky trail a slug left in its wake. Gritting her teeth to temper the bile rising in her throat, she wiped the back of her hand against her sleeve.

How would she stomach the bridal kiss at the altar—let alone the wedding night?

She reached for her necklace—a thin gold chain with a tiny pearl pendant. A gift from her parents, the mother and father she’d never known, always just out of reach in her memories, beyond the wall of fire she couldn’t penetrate. Not even in her dreams.

Had they lived, would they have insisted she accept Dunton’s hand? Or, had they had a son, would she have remained at the home of her birth, rather than be evicted?

What if…

That was a question she’d asked almost daily since her come-out.

She let out a sigh, glanced out of the window, and froze.

The man outside was staring directly at her.

Eyes the color of sharp steel met her gaze, their expression rendering her helpless, as if she were the prey mesmerized by her predator, understanding the futility of any attempt to flee. But rather than the lust she saw in most men—lust for her fortune, or her looks—his gaze was searching, probing, threatening to expose the weak, vulnerable soul hidden beneath her fa?ade. He had only to reach out…

No—stop it!

She stumbled back, retreating from the window until he was out of sight.

She wasn’t some coy, lovesick maiden ready to make a fool of herself over a gardener.

She was Lady Arabella Ponsford—soon to be the Duchess of Dunton. She had status.

And for a woman in her position, status—not freedom—was the best she could hope for.