A small snort emitted from the beast. "Why the hell don't you want to be a success? Isn't that every well-bred lady's goal? Shouldn't you be thanking me?"
His gaze heated her skin from the inside out like coals filling an iron bed-warmer. "I could think of several ways you might show your . . . gratitude, now that you're here."
Thea squeaked as his large, rough hands caressed down her flanks and settled her more firmly against his body.
Gracious! Perhaps this was a crossroads . . . leading straight to actual ruin.
"You don't understand, Your Grace," she said desperately. "I planned to endure one more season so my family would finally abandon hope and allow me to fade away to Ireland to live with my aunt in peace."
She closed her eyes, remembering her aunt Emma's dear, plump face and the way her clothing always smelled of rich clover honey and wood smoke.
"I was useful in Ireland. I had a purpose other than attracting unprincipled peers. I helped my aunt with her beekeeping. And with putting by her renowned marmalades. I was free from the dictates of society . . . I don't expect you to understand."
"You'd rather be stung by bees than marry. I understand completely."
Thea's eyes flew open. Forget the fact that she was in intimate contact with a man for the very first time and that the man in question was none other than London's most notorious rake. Forget that he was known for heartlessness and seduction.
He understood. She gave him a startled smile. "That's exactly it. I'll do anything to avoid my family's marriage machinations."
He propped himself up on one elbow, regarding her curiously. "You truly don't wish for a titled husband and a safe, cosseted life and dozens of servants to fulfill every whim? You have no need for French perfumes and clusters of diamonds?"
"Oh, I've never wanted diamonds, Your Grace." She sighed. "My mother has piles of cold, inert diamonds and they certainly don't improve her marriage . . . or give her happiness."
He propped his great, square jaw on his chin, on the side without that livid cut.
She wondered again how he'd got that cut. It was the exact red shade of the fossil dangling from the leather cord around his neck.
"A privileged young lady of good breeding who doesn't long for a perfect match." He shook his head. "No. It still makes no kind of sense. I'm sorry you didn't approve of the results, but I truly thought that in my own brutish way, I was doing you a kindness."
Thea pushed at his chest, attempting to roll him off. "Thanks to your kindness, my grandmother has announced that I must go and live under her strict supervision tomorrow morning, with the goal of betrothing me to the Duke of Foxford or the Earl of Marwood. Both of whom I would rather die than marry."
The duke went still. "Foxford?" He rolled off her in one lithe, swift motion and jumped off the bed.
Grabbing a poker, he stirred the logs on the fire. "You'll not be shackled to that lecherous old toad. I won't allow it."
The sight of him standing in front of the fireplace, licked by flickering flames and forbidding her to marry Foxford, was nearly more than a girl could stand.
He was only wearing his smallclothes. And they seemed to be too, well, small to contain certain parts of him.
Parts she wouldn't mind seeing in the flesh.
Thea sat up so fast her head spun. What was wrong with her? She'd never had thoughts like this before.
She straightened her bodice, smoothed her skirts, and swung her legs over the high edge of the bed, managing to hop down without falling flat on her face.
A small triumph.
She found her boots. "Precisely my goal in coming here. Not to marry Foxford. Now will you agree to theoretically ruin me so Foxford drops me like a hot coal?"
The duke jabbed savagely at a half-burned log and orange sparks flew into the air. "I'm not going to ruin you, theoretically or otherwise." He set down the poker and grabbed a green silk dressing gown from a chair back.
Thea barely suppressed a forlorn sigh of disappointment when he tied the dressing gown around his waist, covering all that smooth, muscled chest.
"If you won't theoretically ruin me, you'll just have to arrange safe passage for me back to Ireland. Tonight preferably. I won't go and live with my grandmother tomorrow." She placed her hands on her hips. "And I refuse to marry Foxford."
Lady Dorothea met his gaze with unwavering, steel-flecked blue eyes.
Dalton had the distinct impression he'd just been challenged to a duel.
The Duke of Osborne's bedchamber. Half past eleven. Choose your weapon.
Had he thought her delicate and fragile?
He'd been wrong. She may appear to be fashioned from silk and soft curves, but she had the same steel backbone as her mother.
"Lady Dorothea, you appear to be suffering from a delusion of potential success."
He stalked to the sideboard and poured himself a glass of brandy. "There's no chance I'll ruin you, theoretically or otherwise, or help you run away to Ireland. I couldn't have known you didn't wish for success. I thought I was doing you a great service."
"Oh yes, deigning to dance with me. The handsome duke granting a wallflower a charity dance to lift her from the mire of obscurity. And keep her from pestering you." She tossed her head. "Well, I don't want your charity. All I want is to live my life in peace, far from domineering grandmothers and lecherous old peers. And you're going to help me achieve that dream."
Satisfaction or death. Walk ten paces and level your pistol.
Dalton jammed a hand through his hair.
Lady Dorothea had managed to surprise him.
And that wasn't easy.
There was a part of him that enjoyed battling with her far more than going through the tiresome motions of courting the vapid Mrs. Renwick.
But he had far bigger problems on his mind than finding ways to help wallflowers become spinsters.
Not that Lady Dorothea would ever make a proper spinster.
Damn, she was a vision by firelight.
All those butter-and-marmalade curls spilling around her shoulders. It made him hungry.
Had he even eaten dinner?
He shouldn't have drunk so much, but it eased the ache of his shoulder.
She'd be a good way to ease your pain.
Hellfire. That was the brandy talking.
"You dull your pain with spirits, Your Grace," she observed. "Perhaps you should try confronting it head-on for a change."
"You don't know anything about me," he growled.
Was he truly standing in his smalls, arguing with an infuriating lady?
Dalton tugged the sash of his dressing gown tighter. "This conversation is over." He turned on his heel and walked three paces.
Tap. Tap.
Seriously?
He whirled around. "What now?"
"Three little words, Your Grace."
Three words. Bed me now. No, that wouldn't be it. I'm dangerously addled. That was more like it.
She rose onto her tiptoes and steadied herself with a small hand against his chest.
Silken curls tickled his chin and the scent of roses swirled into his mind.
Soft. Flowery.
Deranged.
Her wide, blue-gray eyes flashed with determination. "I demand satisfaction."
Certain suggestible parts of his anatomy south of the sash greeted this with unbridled enthusiasm. She wants satisfying!
He jabbed a finger at the door. "Out."
She raised her small chin and looked him in the eyes. "Not until you agree."
There was a knock and Con entered the room. When Dalton saw the urgency in his expression he quickly crossed the room. "What is it?" he asked in a low voice, so the lady wouldn't hear.
Con glanced behind him. "Trent," he whispered. "Been asking about you at the club. Said he'll pay you a visit. Maybe tonight."
"Damn it!" He couldn't risk Trent seeing the slash on his jaw, yet he had no taste for hiding like a rat in a hole.
Dalton made a split-second decision. Better to be on the road, away from the threat of exposure. "We leave now. Tonight. I can't risk discovery."
Con nodded. "The traveling coach is ready."
"Traveling coach? Where are you going?" a soft voice asked.
Dalton spun. Lady Dorothea had snuck up behind him. She gave meddlesome a new definition. "That's none of your con-"
"Why, love, didn't His Grace inform you?" Con ignored Dalton's frantic silencing gestures. "We're off to the green shores of Ireland."
Dalton groaned. Why, oh why, hadn't he sacked Con before now?
Lady Dorothea's eyes lit. "You're going to Ireland? You didn't mention that. Why? Why would you go there? Are you visiting Balfry House?"
Too many questions. "Con, escort Lady Dorothea to the door."
"Who's after you?" she persisted. "A jealous husband?"
"Precisely right. A jealous husband. Dangerous fellow. Loose cannon. You have to leave. Now." Dalton attempted to herd her to the door.
"But why Ireland?"
"Because"-he searched his brandy-and Lady Dorothea – addled mind-"of a widow," he finished triumphantly. That ought to send her running back to Mama. "A lovely, lonely widow with flaming red hair and emerald eyes. She's pining for me. Happens all the time, you know. Poor thing."
She narrowed her eyes. "Pining for you from across an ocean?"
"Her rose trellis wants climbing."
There was a strangled noise from Con, who was watching their exchange with a gleeful expression, as if he were watching a holiday pantomime.