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“Ye’re offering me sex, Lady Georgia? Ye, with yer knowledge of the marriage bed? Ye think ye’re a good enough tumble to wipe out yer father’s debt?” Damn him, why was he even considering this?

Her fingers spread across her bosom. “Not once, perhaps, my lord.”

“How many times?” he barked.

Her lids lowered, her gaze raking him. “As many times as it would take.”

Vomitous fooknozzle, he was done.

Nay, nay, she was done.

Muttering another curse, he leaned across the desk and swiped up Rourke’s letter. Flipping the paper over, he scribbled out the date and terms, the pencil jumping in his hurry.

I, Lady Georgia Stoughton, agree to be fooked by Demon Hayle, whenever and however he wants it. When he snaps his fingers, I’ll bend over and lift my skirts and be grateful for the opportunity to service him. In exchange, when he’s done with me, he will erase my father’s debt.

There. That ought to scare her away.

With a mocking flourish, he thrust it at her. When she took the paper, he reached once more for the whisky, hating the disappointment spiking in his belly at the knowledge his terms would frighten her off.

From the corner of his eye, he watched her lift the hastily written contract. Her hands shook. As she read, the color drained from her face. He had to resist the urge to reach for her, to comfort her.

Ye’re a monster, remember? One who just issued a demeaning, humiliating ultimatum in order to call her bluff.

She swallowed, then swayed and swallowed again. Alarmed now, he turned to face her fully, the whisky bottle dangling forgotten.

“Well?” he growled.

Finally, she lifted her gaze and met his. Her expression was bleak, but her eyes determined.

“Could you please hand me your pencil?”

Chapter 3

From behind the curtain of his dark hair, the Baron’s eyes widened. “Christ,” he rasped, “ye cannae possibly mean to sign that bargain!”

Georgia’s fingers crumbled the paper as she fought to keep what she was feeling from her tone. Yes, she was afraid, and yes, she wasn’t certain this was a good idea. But more than that, it was the desire which had rushed through her when she read his words; that was what she tried to hide.

God have pity on her; the idea of “servicing” this man sent a rush of liquid warmth between her thighs. Whenever and however.

Could she do it? Could she consign herself to such a role, to wipe clean her father’s debt? To ensure her sister had a happily ever after?

Her chin rose. “And why not?”

“Have ye looked at me?” He swept a derisive gesture down his body, his other hand still gripping the bottle tightly. “I’m a…”

When he trailed off, Georgia rallied. “I am looking at you.” She took a deep breath. “I see a man who can solve my family’s problems.”

He scoffed. “Ye’re willing to whore yerself out to—”

“I am no whore.” She spoke sharply, more sharply than she’d intended.

The whispers which had followed her marriage to Roger were still sharp in her memory.

Perhaps he’d heard the memory as well, because Demon—how strange, to think of him thus—cocked his head as he studied her. His gaze, that striking pale green, slid across her features, and she prayed he couldn’t see the shameful desire she was trying to subdue.

Finally, he held out the bottle. “I think ye could use this more than me.”

“No, that—” The reality of the situation overcame good manners, and she reconsidered. “In a glass, perhaps?”