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T here was only one thing Rhys Northwick, Duke of Whitby, enjoyed more than a luscious pair of naked, bountiful bubbies and a wet, inviting cunny.

And that was why his carriage was presently parked outside a Marylebone school of cookery. And also why he was peering out the Venetian blinds like a house cracksman watching a street of homes to decide where it would be most opportune to strike first and where he might find the most silver.

Rhys wasn’t planning to rob the cookery school, of course. Rather, he was planning to cozen its owner into allowing him to hire a student for the house party he would be hosting in a week’s time.

Ordinarily, he wouldn’t give a damn about something as bourgeois and feminine as a school of cookery.

Hell, he wouldn’t even be awake at this ungodly hour, for he was firmly of the opinion that mornings were either for fucking or for sleeping and sometimes both, but absolutely never for anything as taxing as being awake and—ye gods— fully clothed at half past eight.

His valet had been astonished and confused. But Lavenue had dutifully shaved and dressed him, and now Rhys was awaiting the blasted owner of the cookery school who had so maddeningly refused his request. Not just once, but thrice.

“Bloody fool,” Rhys muttered, reaching into his waistcoat and extracting his pocket watch to consult the time.

He wasn’t certain of whom he spoke—himself or the cookery school’s stubborn owner.

The bastard hadn’t even possessed the courtesy to respond to Rhys’s perfectly polite and more-than-generous request himself.

Instead, he’d had a secretary dash off one insulting refusal after the next.

No matter how hard Rhys tried to persuade the fellow and regardless of how much money he offered, a meeting between the school’s owner and the Duke of Whitby would not occur.

On account of His Grace’s reputation , the final missive had so damningly said.

Rhys had ripped that particular epistle in two, and then he had thrown both halves into the fire, delighting in watching them catch flame and curl into gray ash. He had also decided that enough was enough. The arrogant arse would see him today. And he would also give Rhys exactly what he wanted.

Or else.

A carriage drew up to the cookery school, coming to a halt before Rhys’s equipage.

Hastily, he stuffed his pocket watch back into his waistcoat.

Drumming his fingers on his thigh, he waited.

Watched. Yesterday, he had arrived in the afternoon—at a decent time—only to be turned away because the owner had left for the day.

He had demanded to know from the stammering lackey who had attended him just when the owner deigned to arrive each morning. Nine o’clock, he had been told.

He had been here for one quarter hour already. Biding his time. And now, his patience was about to pay him dividends. He would not give up until he had what he wanted.

The carriage door swung open. Rhys held his breath and watched as the owner of the cookery school emerged. A pair of dainty, embroidered boots first, a flash of stockings, and then the hems of a pale-gray day gown, a wrap draped over small shoulders, a bonnet atop her head.

What was this? An early student? He knew well enough that classes did not begin until ten o’clock. What was the woman doing here now?

Realization descended.

Surely, the owner of the school of cookery couldn’t be a woman.

Her profile was proud, head held high as she descended from her carriage. She cast a frowning look in the direction of his conveyance before she hastily walked up the front steps with the self-assured posture of a woman who knew her place in the world. And despite himself, he was intrigued.

Perhaps the owner could be a woman. A vexing, maddening woman who was about to be stunningly routed in this little war of theirs.

He slid off the Moroccan leather squabs and flung open his carriage door, leaping to the pavements and ignoring the steps. She was almost inside now, and he wasn’t about to let her escape him.

“Madam,” he called.

She stopped, glancing over her shoulder, too far away for him to see the details of her countenance.

Her hair was a sleek ebony, confined at her nape beneath her millinery.

From here, she looked vaguely familiar to him, but then he had met—and bedded—more than his fair share of women.

It wasn’t impossible that their paths had crossed somewhere along the way.

She cocked her head at him, rather in the fashion of a curious bird. “Sir?”

He approached her, his long-limbed strides closing the distance between them easily.

She was lovely, he realized, taking her in: high, elegant cheekbones, dark brows arched over eyes that were a vibrant emerald, full lips that were made to be kissed, a retroussé nose, and a stubborn chin. But he hadn’t come here to admire her.

“Allow me to introduce myself,” he offered. “I am the Duke of Whitby.”

Her eyes widened, those sensuous lips parting before she gave her head a vehement shake. “No.”

With that one, lone word, she spun about and hastened into the building.

What the devil? He watched her skirts bustling away for a moment before gathering his wits and following in her wake. Gray silk disappeared inside the door in the second before it slammed closed.

Well, almost closed because Rhys had braced his forearm against it and wedged his boot over the threshold just in time.

“You are not welcome here,” she told him frostily, pushing on the door as if she truly believed she possessed the strength to overwhelm him and snap it closed.

He hated to tell her, but she didn’t. He would play along for now, however.

“Madam,” he tried politely, “I insist you let me in. I need to speak with the owner of this establishment.”

“You are looking at her,” she snapped, “and I’ve already told you that my school of cookery will have nothing to do with a man of your reputation. Now, please leave.”

Tenacious wench.

He pushed against the door, overpowering her with ease, and stepped inside, closing it at his back. “There we are. This is a much better way to conduct business, do you not agree?”

Her lips thinned to a firm, grim line that made him think about kissing them to restore their fullness. “You cannot be here.”

Rhys grinned, immensely entertained by her icy disdain. “And yet, here I am.”

Footsteps sounded then, scurrying into the entry. A bespectacled woman with white hair surged into view. “My lady, forgive me. I sent Mr. Lucas for more ice, or he would have been at the door.”

My lady? The luscious termagant before him grew more intriguing by the moment. This bit of information could certainly be used to his advantage.

“Don’t fret, Mrs. Kirkeland,” his reluctant hostess told the older woman. “You may return to your duties. I shall see to my guest.”

“Of course, my lady.” The woman bobbed, her dark skirts fluttering, before she disappeared again.

He turned back to the beautiful woman who was glaring at him as if he had just flung horse dung all over her entryway.

“Please leave, Your Grace,” she said sternly.

“After you give me an audience, I’ll do as you like,” he said reasonably.

Rationally.

Because he had come here to offer the silly woman a fortune. And she was attempting to toss him out on his ear.

“I have already informed you that I have no wish for an association between yourself and my cookery school,” she said primly.

“And I have a thousand pounds that says you will change your mind after you hear what I have to say,” he countered.

She stared at him, her mouth still compressed, unsmiling and unspeaking. Until finally, she relented, nodding with the regal air of a queen. “Very well. Follow me, Your Grace.”

Without waiting for his response, she turned and swept from the entryway in a glide of dove-gray skirts. He prowled after her, a predator intent upon his prey. It was a testament to her culinary prowess that he was here, but he wouldn’t allow her the upper hand. Not for a second.

Even if her prowess was the stuff of legends. He knew because he’d tasted it.

He had made the startling discovery purely by coincidence.

A fortnight ago, he had been to a small, private dinner gathering where his hostess had proudly served a confection called cornets à la crème for dessert.

The apple and ginger cream ice had been a decadent delight when paired with a crunchy cornet decorated with chopped pistachios and royal icing.

He’d never had anything quite like it, and neither had the rest of his fellow guests.

Rhys had politely inquired after the origin of the course, unique in addition to being delicious.

The dish was a novelty that he had instantly known would be perfect for the indecent house party he would be hosting soon.

His hostess had been annoyingly tight-lipped about the cornets until she had finally admitted their origin: a cookery school in Marylebone.

Finding the school had been easy. Finding its elusive owner had not. Time was running low, however, and so was Rhys’s patience. He was bloody well going to have the cornets à la crème , and she was going to have to accept it.

Because once the Duke of Whitby settled his mind on something he wanted, he didn’t stop until it was his.

Lady Miranda Lenox, formerly the Countess of Ammondale, present owner of the Lenox School of Cookery, had made a great many mistakes in her life.

But she had risen from the ashes of her failed marriage, and she was determined not to make another.

Which was why she intended to chase the scandalous Duke of Whitby from her precious school by any means, fair or foul.