Page 4 of Duke with a Debt (Wicked Dukes Society #2)

CHAPTER 4

“ Y our correspondence, Your Grace,” intoned Fleetwood, delivering what was undoubtedly yet another stack of bills to Stuart’s study.

His gut tightened as he eyed the unwelcome addition to the bills he couldn’t pay already lining the polished surface in tidy piles he had arranged and then rearranged according to importance. He was running out of time.

“Thank you, Fleetwood,” he said mildly, as if he hadn’t a care in the world. “Is Lord Wesley in residence today?”

“Lord Wesley is breakfasting, Your Grace,” the butler informed him stoically, as if it wasn’t half past one in the afternoon.

“Breakfast,” he repeated. “At this hour?”

“I believe his Lordship only recently decamped from his chamber, Your Grace,” Fleetwood explained patiently, as if it were perfectly normal for a man to rise at one o’clock in the afternoon and demand breakfast.

It wasn’t.

But he also knew that his brother had only arrived home at dawn, drunk and in good spirits after another evening at the green baize, if his cheerful, soused singing had been any indication. Stuart had been awakened by the commotion, half tempted to emerge from his own chamber and plant his wastrel brother a facer.

Violence was not the answer to the ills that plagued him, however.

Marriage, inexplicably, was.

“Fleetwood, would you please inform Lord Wesley that I wish an audience with him when he finishes breaking his fast?” he asked.

“It would be my pleasure, Your Grace,” Fleetwood said.

“Thank you.” He nodded. “That will be all.”

With a heavy sigh, Stuart began wading through the fresh round of missives, surprised when he discovered one bearing unfamiliar, feminine handwriting. There was only one woman who might correspond with him thus, and he tore it open hastily to confirm his hopes. He read quickly.

To His Grace, the Duke of Camden,

After considering your offer of marriage further, I have decided that such a union may be amenable to me if you should agree to a list of conditions, which I have enclosed. If and when you agree to meet these, further discussion of a possible alliance between the two of us will be welcomed. If not, I sincerely wish you the best in all your future endeavors.

Yours truly,

Miss Rosamund Payne

The note was concise and without feminine effusion. There was nary a hint of anything emotional to be found. Nor passion. He wasn’t certain what he had expected from her, only that it had not been such impersonal brevity.

Her list of conditions, as he turned to the following sheet of paper, however, was anything but. It was lengthy, detailed, and voluminous. Line after line. Chief amongst them: she wanted to be assured she would maintain control over her fortune and that she would have the option to have children as a result of their union, a decision that would be hers alone.

Children.

Good God. Everything within him turned to ice, for he had no desire to carry on the line. He had always supposed that the rotten legacy of the Dukes of Camden could end with him. Or with Wesley, if his brother outlived him—an unlikely eventuality, given Wesley’s propensity for drinking, gambling, and wenching. And yet, the notion of children of Stuart’s own was not entirely hateful. And children with Rosamund…

He could put this inconvenient attraction he felt for her to rest. If she was in his bed, he could have his fill of her. As for her fortune, he would need access to the funds. He was marrying her for her money after all.

Further reviewing down the page, he discovered the mention of a dowry, the sum of which was to be settled upon by the two of them. What an odd woman she was, blunt and forthright. But then, in the absence of her father, he supposed she was accustomed to making such negotiations herself.

Without bothering to read the remaining stipulations, he folded the missive and placed it neatly below the stacks of bills awaiting him. Wesley was known to pry into his private affairs without compunction, but if there was one place his brother wouldn’t go looking, it would be amidst the endless debts he had a hand in creating.

Stuart rose, deciding an interview with his feckless brother could wait. He needed to speak with Rosamund. To see if they could reach some sort of compromise. Yesterday, if possible.

Her missive couldn’t have reached him at a more opportune time. He didn’t bother to change from his informal lounge suit, simply found Fleetwood and informed the butler of his change in plans. Within minutes, he was in a carriage he had borrowed from the Duke of Kingham, on his way to Rosamund’s address, the London streets slipping torpidly by as he drummed his fingers idly on his thigh.

He had no plan of battle prepared. But then, this wasn’t a proper courting. What use was there for subtlety, for flattery, for cozening? He had made clear what he wanted, and so had she. If they could strike a bargain that would be amenable to each of them, that was all that mattered.

Damnation , was that a stain on his trouser leg?

He squinted down at the thing, wondering if he had already reached the advanced age where he required spectacles, and decided that yes, it was indeed a stain and not the result of the light rain that had been spitting when he had exited the town house and entered King’s carriage.

Blast.

He ought to have taken the time to change. There was no hope for it now, however. Stuart was going to pay a call upon his prospective bride with the grease from a rasher of bacon upon his trousers.

He extracted a handkerchief as the carriage approached the massive facade of Rosamund’s home and scrubbed at the offending stain to no avail. There it remained on the buff-colored wool, a grim testament to the current state of his life. With a sigh, he tucked his handkerchief away again just in time for the carriage door to swing open.

Stuart alighted and strode up the walk, rapping twice on the door before a servant who was dressed far more impeccably than he answered. He delivered his card as the fellow eyed him as if he were a costermonger with the temerity to knock abovestairs rather than below.

“The Duke of Camden to see Miss Payne,” he said with a pained smile.

“Of course, Your Grace ,” the man—presumably her butler—said, his tone suggesting he found Camden’s title dubious at best.

“Who is at the door, Wadham?” asked a familiar feminine voice.

The servant turned to address Rosamund, who remained out of Stuart’s sight.

“The gentleman caller says that he is the Duke of Camden, Miss Payne.”

Stuart clenched his jaw, about to tear a strip off the impudent fellow, when the sound of her footfalls on the marble floor echoed nearer until she had replaced the servant at the door.

“Your Grace,” she greeted, dipping into a polite curtsy. “Do come in.”

She was wearing a wrap and hat, carrying a reticule, and looked as if she were about to leave on a jaunt. Clearly, she had not been expecting his call. But then, he had hardly anticipated that she would be awaiting him. The tone of her missive had been most impersonal.

As she had said, she was a businesswoman. And all matters between them were to be settled in a similar vein.

Stuart bowed in return and then crossed the threshold, acutely aware of the presence of servants hovering about in the entry as one of them closed the door at his back. “Miss Payne,” he addressed Rosamund formally. “Forgive me for the unexpected nature of my call, but I was hoping you might spare me a few moments of your time.”

“I was about to leave, Your Grace.”

“I can see. However, I am still hoping you’ll allow me fifteen minutes.” His neckcloth felt as if it might choke him as he paused, clearing his throat. “It concerns your note.”

“I will admit that I hadn’t expected your response to be quite so immediate.” She raised a brow at him, her dark gaze assessing. “Nor in person.”

He gritted his teeth and forced a smile. “Yes, well, I was passing by and thought it would be more efficient to meet in person.”

A lie and he knew it. The expression on her lovely face said she knew it too. An impenetrable silence descended, during which Rosamund eyed him as if she were a botanist and he a curious plant she had just uprooted, one for which she had no name.

At last, she nodded, apparently satisfied with whatever it was that she saw. “I can grant you a few minutes.”

He felt like a naughty lad caught by his nurse in some manner of mischief. Heat flared up the back of his neck. Christ, what a disgraceful moment, begging an heiress for time so that he might persuade her to marry him and cancel his endless string of debts. When had his life become so beyond his control? And how had he allowed it?

A footman took his hat and gloves then, along with Rosamund’s wrap and other garments.

“We can speak more privately in my sitting room,” she told him. “This way.”

Her town house, which had been her father’s before her, was massive. Nary a hint of threadbare carpets or wood in need of waxing. The pictures in the grand entry were all hung in their places with unabashed pride, the green brocatelle wall coverings sharp and bold and fresh. The marble floor gleamed. Everywhere one looked, there were signs of hideous wealth: exotic statues, busts, vases, potted plants, and the shine of gold and gilt. The town house itself had once belonged to the Duke of Wiltenham, though Payne had purchased and refurbished it some years before.

“Is that a Roman piece?” he asked, keeping his voice hushed as they passed an impressive bust of a woman with regal bearing, her hair plaited in intricate braids, the folds of a tunic draped around her elegant neck.

It was a gauche question, he knew, but he was curious. Besides, this was Rosamund. She was known for her eccentricities and refusal to stand on ceremony. On his previous call, he’d been too anxious over the proposition he intended to make her. He hadn’t paid much heed to the ostentatious interior of her home.

“Yes, it is,” she called. “My father was a collector, and I’ll admit that I’ve found some comfort in taking over the pastime.”

He was struggling to pay the few who remained of his domestics, and she was collecting antiquities. No, Rosamund Payne did not need him. But he very much needed her. And he was going to have to be at his most persuasive if he wanted to convince her to ignore all the reasons she should flee in the opposite direction and become his wife instead.

She reached an open door and paused, casting a glance over her shoulder at him. For a moment, he was struck by her. She carried herself with such bold confidence, and the way the light cascading in the nearby window caught in her hair and brought it to life was nothing short of breathtaking. Her locks, swept up in a Grecian braid that allowed riotous curls to frame her face, glinted coppery and gold, an unusual, rich hue that at once seemed to be both blond and red. Her gown, a lovely gray-blue silk adorned with tiered skirts and fringe, emphasized her waist and breasts, and the line of buttons bisecting her prim bodice was an invitation he couldn’t help but be tempted by.

Even if he knew that he must not lust after her in this moment, that there would be time aplenty for such matters once they were wed, his stupid cock had other ideas, easily swayed by this intriguing woman.

“Here we are,” she said softly, making him belatedly aware that he was standing there like a buffoon, staring at her.

He hastened forward, into a space that was more intimately hers than the drawing room where he’d proposed to her had been, wondering if his ignominy was complete as she preceded him. Within her sitting room, more splendor was on display. Corinthian columns flanked an alcove on one side of the chamber, which was presided over by a massive white marble fireplace with an oval relief above it and a carved mantel holding more Roman busts. The coffered ceiling overhead bore intricate gilt work that complemented the anthemion frieze circling the room. More statues decorated the periphery, whilst a massive Aubusson rug was laden with Louis Quinze settees and chairs.

It felt as if he had walked into a Roman palace. The sole nod to function rather than pageantry was the presence of a writing desk, positioned by a window, laden with papers, brushes, watercolors, and an opened mahogany box bearing trays, all of which had been left open.

Stuart walked toward it, wanting to know if this was where she found herself, painting in the sunshine. For some reason, he was oddly roused by the notion.

“Did you pay an unexpected call upon me so that you could study my dreadful watercolor work?”

Rosamund’s voice, behind him, was amused. He had reached the desk by now, and he glanced down to find her current work, which was, despite her words, a skillful rendition of his feathered nemesis.

“She looks so much more innocent in paint,” he drawled, turning to find Rosamund approaching him, unsmiling. “Likable, almost.”

“Megs is likable,” Rosamund countered, folding her arms over her chest in a defensive pose. “Quite unlike most people, I might add.”

His lips twitched. “Touché. I suppose you are referring to me.”

“Actually, I was referring to your brother and a host of others as well, for various reasons. I haven’t decided whether I like you or not just yet, Your Grace.”

“Ah, excellent.” He grinned. “That means there is a chance for me yet.”

Slowly, she lowered her arms, her bearing relaxing. “You wish to speak about the note I sent round?”

He clasped his hands behind his back. “Indeed.”

And my desperation , he thought with an inward wince.

“You agree to my terms, then?”

“Have I a choice, madam?” he returned, and not without a hint of bitterness, even if it wasn’t Rosamund he resented, but the circumstances in which he was trapped.

Trapped by his father.

Trapped by obligation.

Trapped by debts.

Trapped by Mother.

Trapped by his bastard of a brother.

Like a fox with his paw in the snare, it was either nibble it off himself and take a chance at survival, or await his grim fate.

“There is always a choice, is there not?” she asked shrewdly.

“As I’ve learned, unfortunately, there isn’t.”

Heaven knew he wouldn’t have chosen his present circumstances. He’d done everything in his power to avoid them.

She considered him, her gaze penetrating. “I would remind you that you are the one who came to me with this arrangement, Your Grace.”

Arrangement. How polite. What an agreeable way of avoiding the word marriage. Avoiding the fact that he was going to bed her. Give her children. There was nothing polite about a union between them.

He caught the scent of bergamot laced with rose and ambergris and a tantalizing hint of violet, so unique. Much like the enigmatic woman before him.

“I did, indeed. Because it struck me that there is something we both want and need, and that, of all the women in England, none other than you would be as perfectly suited to the task.”

A small smile curved her lips. “Pray, do not keep speaking in such a vein, or I’ll swoon.”

“I’m not offering you flummery, Rosamund. You’re far too intelligent for that.”

Her mouth twisted. “I wasn’t, once.”

An unintended reminder. Damn, but he hadn’t been thinking of Wesley at all when he had made his observation.

“Even the most intelligent and astute can be manipulated when their hearts are pure,” he said quietly.

And indeed, he had no doubt that Rosamund had once loved his brother. He had seen the admiration sparkling in her eyes. Had been, to his shame, envious of the way she had looked at Wesley during their betrothal ball, as if there were no finer man in all the world. Stuart had known then that she hadn’t an inkling of who and what his brother truly was. Likely, he ought to have warned her before her heart had been shattered to bits.

Would she have believed him? Heeded his words? It was too late to know—and moot now.

“That is kind of you to say.” She moved away from him, crossing the opulent chamber to a window and peering out of it. “I can own my own stupidity, however. I was impossibly na?ve, but I’ve been cured of that now.”

He hated the bitterness in her voice. What did she see when she looked out at the world? Was she seeing the St James’s street bustling with the fashionable set going about their daily lives, or was she thinking of Wesley?

The very notion of his brother in her mind was suddenly hateful.

He followed her, drawing near at the window, wanting to supplant thoughts of Wesley with himself. Wanting to somehow stake his claim upon her. Foolish, unhinged yearnings, he knew, and yet he could not seem to banish them.

Stuart reached for her, laying his hand gently on her upper arm to jolt her from her reveries. She turned to him, startled. Her warmth seeped into him, and he couldn’t deny he liked the way she felt, soft and supple beneath her layers of silk and civility.

“You were neither stupid nor na?ve,” he said. “You were trusting. There is a difference. Wesley betrayed your trust.”

“Yes, he did, but I’m grateful for it, for the lessons I learned. I’ll never be so weak again. To think I was almost at his mercy.” She shuddered.

Stuart knew he should release his hold on her, and yet he couldn’t seem to let her go. “I’m sorry, Rosamund. Sorry for what he did to you. In a way, I feel responsible. I know what he’s capable of.”

“Thank you.” She reached up, her hand covering his. “You aren’t to blame, however.”

A spark of awareness jolted through him at the connection, her bare skin on his. A tiny touch, scarcely anything at all, and yet desire streaked through him. He wanted to kiss her. To take those lips with his.

Why shouldn’t he? They were to be married after all. And he couldn’t deny that the attraction he felt for her, long-simmering and yet controlled and ignored, had been steadily growing into a raging fire.

She seemed to sense the change in him, for her lips parted and her eyes widened, those glinting flecks of gold in their warm, brown depths more pronounced. The air between them suddenly crackled with desire.

“Rosamund,” he rasped, his voice thick with suppressed yearning. “May I?”

“May you what?” Her tongue flicked over her lower lip, leaving it plump and glistening and so very tempting.

He nearly groaned at the simple, sensual display, one that shouldn’t have made his cock so bloody hard and yet did. She would make him say the words. He felt like a young buck, unusually uncertain of himself.

“Kiss you,” he elaborated.

She shifted, turning toward him so that they were fully aligned, chest to breasts, her hand still on his—an invitation. “Do you think it wise?”

Sweet God. If he didn’t kiss her now, he would die.

“I think it necessary,” he forced out, and then cupped her cheek with his free hand.

Her skin was soft and smooth, so vital and warm. A jolt of awareness swept over him. This woman was uniquely beautiful. Intelligent and bold. Vibrant. And she would be his. He shouldn’t like it so much, but yet, he did.

Stuart lowered his mouth to hers, painfully aware that she was not a practiced seductress like the lovers he’d grown accustomed to. He needed to proceed with care. To be gentle. Her lips were lush and hot, parting on a small gasp.

That quickly, all the restraint he’d been determined to show vanished, collapsing under the weight of a rushing wave of possessive lust. His tongue sank inside, tasting her. Tea and bergamot, sweetness, and God, he could not get enough. He was suddenly ravenous, his tongue claiming, his lips moving over hers. And she responded in kind, kissing him back, making a small sound of need that had his prick rock hard.

Somehow, they were moving. Moving as one, and he didn’t know which of them had taken the first step, whether it was him or her, but it didn’t matter. They didn’t stop until she was pressed to the wall, his body against hers, her breasts spilling into him, her soft curves melded to his frame. Her hand had moved, and now she clutched at his shoulders with one whilst the other caressed his nape, her fingers sifting through the ends of his hair. Her tongue played with his, their kisses growing needier, more demanding.

This wasn’t what he had intended, and yet it seemed as necessary as air, kissing Rosamund. His hand roamed freely over her, from her nipped waist to her lower back, while the other slipped into her coiffure, her silken hair sleek and cool against his fingers. He longed to pull all the hairpins free, to unleash the beauty of her tresses, to see her mussed instead of perfectly coiffed. He longed for so much, more than he had imagined possible, and it surprised him, the effect she had on him. She was as potent as one of King’s elixirs, her enthusiastic response leaving him feeling half drunk.

Dimly, he was aware of a sound. Someone was at the door. He jerked his mouth from hers in time for a new voice to intrude.

“Rosamund, darling?”

The unexpected interruption had him releasing her hastily and stepping away with a guilty start as Mrs. Payne entered the room. She was a short, august lady with snow-white hair and a pleasant, welcoming countenance. He recalled her from their limited interactions during Rosamund and Wesley’s betrothal.

He bowed, hoping the elder woman wouldn’t know what they’d just been about. “Mrs. Payne, how lovely to see you again.”

Rosamund’s mother curtseyed, her brow furrowing. “Your Grace?”

Her surprise was evident, leading him to believe that her daughter had neglected to inform her of his proposal. Not a promising sign.

He forced a smile. “Please, call me Camden.”

Rosamund bustled past him, leaving a maddening trail of scent in her wake. “Mother! What are you doing? I thought you were resting.”

“I decided against it,” Mrs. Payne said, beaming in Stuart’s direction. “And how fortuitous. I would have hated to have missed such an illustrious caller.”

Unlike Rosamund, Mrs. Payne was easily impressed by a title. He recalled that about her now, having quite forgotten. Perhaps this knowledge could be used to his advantage.

His smile deepened. “Fortuitous indeed, Mrs. Payne. Dear Rosamund was just about to ring for a tray of tea, I believe.”

Rosamund jerked her head back to him, her eyes narrowed. “I was?”

“You were,” he lied smoothly, looking into her gold-flecked eyes. “Just the thing to discuss our betrothal.”

“Your betrothal?” Mrs. Payne clasped her hands as if in prayer, mouth agape as she stared from Stuart to Rosamund. “Betrothal? To the Duke of Camden? My darling girl, why did you not say so before now?”

Rosamund continued to glare at him. “Because I’ve only just found out about it myself, Mother dear.”

A bit of maneuvering on his part. Quite badly done of him, he could acknowledge. But desperate times called for desperate measures.

“Our Rosamund has paid me a great honor,” he told Mrs. Payne, who was flustered and wide-eyed at the prospect of having a duke for a son-in-law.

Before him lay the clear and unobstructed path to victory he required.

“Betrothed.” Mother sighed, pressing a hand over her heart. “Truly, Rosamund. What manner of secrets have you been keeping from me?”

Her lips still tingling from those heated, drugging kisses with Camden that had taken her by complete surprise, Rosamund was having a difficult time gathering her wits. The three of them—Camden, Rosamund, and her mother—were seated round the tea tray, Rosamund distracting herself by preparing their cups so that she wouldn’t box the Duke of Camden’s ears.

Because, regardless of how scorching and wonderful those kisses had been, he had been dancing around the subject of whether he would adhere to her stipulations, leaving her wondering, and then had summarily announced their engagement to her mother.

No doubt about it, he had deliberately sprung this trap, and she meant to make him pay. Just not in front of her dear, kindhearted mother.

Since Father’s death, Mother had been brokenhearted. Losing Father had devastated the both of them.

Rosamund blinked hastily against a rush of tears and swallowed a lump of grief that rose in her throat. Despite the time that had passed since losing her father, she could not think of his death and his gaping absence in her and her mother’s lives without being moved to tears.

But weeping over tea with the Duke of Camden’s sharp blue gaze on her was a humiliation she couldn’t bear. Heaven forbid he would think her emotions had been stirred by those passionate, carnal kisses. Which, of course, they had. But no reason to give him any hint of power over her. He may be a duke and she a common miss, but Camden needed her far more than she did him. She was in the position of power in this odd dynamic of theirs, and he would do well to remember it.

“Rosamund darling, are you attending me?” Mother’s voice pierced the thick haze of her thoughts, making Rosamund realize she had spent too much time on the Duke of Camden’s tea.

“Of course I am, Mother darling. But I can assure you that I have no secrets.” She summoned a bright smile for her mother’s benefit and extended the cup and saucer to him. “Your tea, Your Grace.”

He accepted it from her, their fingers brushing, and the same hated course of awareness swept over her that had when he had touched her earlier by the window. The same that had burst into flame when he had pressed her against the wall and kissed her with such passion that her mind was still muddled and foggy, her body yet humming with desire. She wished she could whisk her hand away from his, yet she could not risk upending his tea, and so she lingered, forcing herself to think of anything but the unsteady way she felt at his touch. Of anything other than his knowing kisses.

The Duke of Camden was more than proficient at kissing. Indeed, he was far better at it than Wesley had been. Wesley’s kisses had always been perfectly polite, chaste, and perfunctory. She had believed his reticence had been a sign of respect. Knowing what she did now, she understood that it had been because he hadn’t desired her.

Did the Duke of Camden want her? He had certainly kissed her earlier as if he did.

“Thank you, dear Rosamund.” He gave her an odious grin now.

One that said he was more than aware of what he was doing.

Well, his brother was a scoundrel as well. It only served that he was one too.

Heat crept up her throat to roost in her cheeks. Did he know what she was thinking about? Did he sense the effect he had upon her? She mustn’t think of it, not with Mother as an audience.

“You’re most welcome, dearest, darling Camden,” she returned, doing her most dramatic impression of a love-sick debutante.

“When did you intend to tell me?” Mother demanded, looking both pleased and flustered. “Had I not happened upon the sitting room when I did, you wouldn’t have breathed a word yet, would you? Why, darling? Is it because of what happened the last time?”

Rosamund winced. Her mother was painfully adept at saying the wrong thing at the absolute worst moment. If it was on her mind, it was also on her tongue. Circumspection was not one of her virtues.

“Of course it isn’t because of my betrothal with Lord Wesley, Mother,” she said, hating the words betrothal and Lord Wesley in the same sentence. “And I would just as soon never speak of that time again, if you please.”

“Oh yes, of course.” Mother’s expressive countenance was hurt.

Guilt skewered Rosamund. “Forgive me. I didn’t mean to be so harsh. It is merely that the subject is one best forgotten, particularly given the future.”

“I ought to have been more delicate,” Mother said, frowning. “It is forever a fault of mine, being too bluntly honest when I should not be.”

“I find honesty delightful,” Camden said smoothly, intervening at the perfect moment.

His interjection earned him another pointed glare from Rosamund, telling him without words that his finding honesty delightful was absurd, given what he had just done.

“It is a rarely appreciated virtue,” she said meaningfully.

He continued to grin, unperturbed. “Extra fortunate, then, that I do appreciate it.”

“When will the wedding be?” Mother wanted to know.

“We haven’t decided just yet,” Rosamund told her.

“As soon as possible,” Camden said at the same time.

“There is much that needs to be discussed yet,” she reminded him through gritted teeth.

“The flowers with which you might decorate the church,” he said agreeably. “A gown. I’m certain Mrs. Payne can assist you with all such arrangements.”

“I would dearly love to do so,” Mother declared.

Oh dear heaven. She had to put an end to this nonsense. His kisses had been lovely—more than lovely, if she were honest—but she required more assurance than his mouth on hers.

“There are some other matters that His Grace and I will need to consider as well,” she told her mother.

Such as his intentions. Would he agree to her stipulations? She would have Mr. Watts, her father’s man of business and now hers, see that a marriage contract was drafted accordingly by Father’s solicitor if so. But if not, then there would be no wedding. She would simply have to disappoint Mother. Even if she dreaded doing so.

The Duke of Camden would not entrap her into marriage any more surely than his brother had. One furtive embrace in a sitting room would not sway her.

“Matters?” Mother settled her teacup in its saucer, frowning. “What do you mean, Rosamund dear?”

“Whether His Grace will sign the marriage contract,” she said, angling another sharp look in the duke’s direction.

He sat serenely on his chair in an elegant pose, his buff suit complementing his dark hair and startling eyes. “I will sign it, of course.”

His pronouncement startled her. She hadn’t expected such easy capitulation.

“You will?” she asked warily.

He held her gaze. “Without hesitation.”

“Oh, blessed angels,” Mother said, pressing a hand to her heart. “My darling daughter, you’re to be married.”

Rosamund’s heart pounded at the finality of it all, the looming change that had been impossible to comprehend even a mere fortnight ago.

“I suppose,” she allowed reluctantly.

For it all felt so very real in this moment, sitting here with Camden and Mother. It felt very much like her future instead of a whimsical possibility. And that was beginning to frighten her. She had almost married once. And to this man’s brother.

What was she thinking?

How had she even allowed herself to contemplate a match between the two of them after everything that had happened in the past?

It was that same, restless yearning deep within her. The longing for a family she’d never been able to shake. All the wealth she could possibly want or need was in her grasp, and yet there was one thing her fortune could never give her—children of her own. It would take a penniless duke to give her that.

“When will the announcement be made?” Mother wanted to know.

“The contract,” Rosamund said quickly before Camden could offer a response. “After the contract is agreed upon and signed, then we shall move forward with the betrothal.”

“I’m paying a call upon my solicitor this very day,” he said, his gaze burning into hers.

There was no doubting his sincerity or his intentions. He wanted this marriage, and he wanted it in haste. He was willing to do anything to secure it. Surely she ought to be concerned by this realization.

The Duke of Camden was a desperate man.

Desperate enough to offer for her.

To kiss her.

To wed her.

His kisses hadn’t felt desperate, however. They had felt…potent. All-consuming. Decadent. His kisses had felt urgent and earnest, as if he hadn’t been able to resist her. And that was the most dangerous realization of all.

“How exciting,” Mother was saying to Camden. “I was beginning to fear that dear Rosamund would remain a spinster forever.”

Rosamund nearly choked on her tea. Camden turned the full force of his charm upon her mother.

“I consider myself a most fortunate man, Mrs. Payne.”

Mother and the duke settled into a pleasant conversation without her, and Rosamund sipped her tea, grateful for the respite. Fearing she had made the second-worst decision of her life.

The first had been to agree to marry the Duke of Camden’s coldhearted brother.

And look at where that had left her.