Prologue

PROLOGUE

It cannot be morning already, can it?

The morning sun streamed through the parted curtains, casting a soft, white glow that pulled Eleanor out of her dreams. Her maids had not woken her yet and so she lingered under the covers, cocooning herself in the warmth and the scent of fresh linen and something else—a subtle almost earthy aroma that clung to the sheets.

Perhaps the maids used a different soap.

Either way, it was a soothing smell, one that she breathed in with an airy sigh. It did seem strange that no one had come to wake her yet, since more often than not she was dressed as the sun was rising, but she was not about to complain. It was a much-needed respite, one she would sink her teeth into for as long as it was permitted.

Shifting as she reached across the bed, her eyes were closed as she felt for her spectacles on the bedside table. However, instead of the reassuring touch of metal and polished glass, her fingertips landed on something altogether different—something warm and yielding, yet possessing an unexpected firmness. A shiver ran down her spine as her hand moved over the ridged, tender surface.

Flesh?

“I would stop doing that if I were you,” a voice growled, deep and full of warning and a hint of promise. It was a voice she had heard before, and yet it did not strike her memory.

As she shot up in bed, her eyes wide as she took in the blurry, unmistakable mass beside her, a sound escaped her throat. Not quite a cry, but louder than a whimper. She squinted, her eyes betraying her as she tried to make sense of just who was in the bed with her and why.

Eleanor was then made very aware of her own state of dress, or lack thereof. She was in only her shift, which had come loose and was exposing more skin than she wanted anyone to see. She gripped the covers, pulling them toward her, covering her nearly bare chest and whatever else she could as she tumbled out of the bed.

She looked around the room, her heart thundering in her ears as she tried to make sense of the blurs and unfamiliar shapes. Realization washed over her, and her stomach dropped.

This is not my room, let alone my home.

The man had shifted in the bed. He was sitting up now, his arm draped over his raised knee. Though Eleanor could not make out his features, she could see unruly dark hair against a fair complexion.

A faint memory flashed in her mind.

No, it cannot be.

“Good morning.” His voice was sultry, almost teasing, as if he were enjoying seeing her frenzied state. And she did not doubt that he did find some twisted pleasure in seeing her in such a rough state.

Oh, no. Not him.

At that moment she felt as if she might scream. She plopped down on the bed, worrying that she’d faint any moment now.

“I am naked in the Mad Duke’s bed!”