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The distinction wasn’t relevant. She might be proper, but she was no lady. Which meant he had the power here, and she needed him.

Oh yes, she was indeed desperate.

And that was the way he wanted his bride. Desperate.

Because no other woman would have him.

Perhaps the thoughts swimming through his mind had caused Alistair's expression to harden, because Miss Wilson’s face paled as she watched him. She was no longer sitting upright, those magnificent breasts thrust forward enticingly. Now she had slumped against the back of her chair, shock—and was that fear?—in her eyes.

His movement careful, economical, Alistair placed her report—with his handwritten demand—atop his desk, then straightened the corners, as if order could sort out this mess.

Then, slowly, he moved his gaze to hers and raised a brow.

Asking her for an answer. Silently.

You are being an arsehole.

Yes. Yes he was.

“I…Your Grace, forgive me. But I’m…no one. Why would you want to marry me?”

Because she was here.

Because she was desperate and daring and delicious-looking.

Because he needed to marry, and he’d rather have it handled as a business transaction than risk humiliation.

But he couldn’t say all those things, so Alistair just shrugged.

To his surprise, her lips broke into a rueful grin. “Well, I suppose no one could accuse you of being eloquent or romantic,” she said dryly.

It was beyond rude. But then, so was he, and he found himself snorting silently at her jab.

Miss Wilson sighed and allowed her hands to flop over the arms of her chair. “Look, Your Grace…” She shook her head, then squinted at him. “Before this farce goes any further, I need to clarify. You haven’t spoken.”

He dropped his chin in acknowledgement.

“Can you speak?”

Her tone was cautious, as if afraid to ask.

And he hesitated. No one had ever asked him that outright before.

No one had ever been daring enough to ask.

The answer, the true answer, was complicated. So for now, he shook his head.

Miss Wilson blew out a breath, then clicked her tongue. “That’s incredible. I doubt many people realize that. The Duke of Effinghell can’t speak…”

A pit opened in his gut when he realized what someone like her could do with information like this. What had he been thinking? Alistair sat forward abruptly, crushing the papers in his fists. Was this the story she thought she could write to save her newspaper?

She must’ve seen his question—his fear?—because Miss Wilson hurried to shake her head. “I just mean, it explains why you don’t go out in Society. Now I understand why I’ve been holding a one-sided conversation,” she mused.

He continued to watch her, knowing he wasn’t safe.

He wouldn’t be safe, not until she was his wife.

“Well, Your Grace, I don’t understand why you would want to marry me. I’m…” She blew out another breath, and he realized it was a sort of laugh. “I’m no one.”