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“Good morning to you as well, my dear.” He offered her an elegant bow in return. “I was beginning to fear you were avoiding me.”

Mortification made heat climb up her throat. “I must apologize again for my lack of restraint yesterday.”

For falling asleep on him, for snoring, for drooling upon his coat. Heavens! By day, her shame was not any less stinging than it had been the night before.

But he just grinned, as gorgeous and unperturbed as ever. “You needn’t apologize. I’m pleased that you feel comfortable enough with me to lower your guard, Miranda.”

That wasn’t what she felt. Was it?

“I was soused,” she pointed out, her voice sharper than she had intended.

“My fault, no doubt. Too much Chateau Margaux .” He offered her his arm. “May I escort you to breakfast?”

“When are your guests arriving?” she asked, eyeing his arm dubiously. “When am I to consult the menu with your housekeeper? I need to prepare.”

“Later today,” he said smoothly, his gaze lingering on her lips in a hot look she felt like a touch. “And you may consult the menu at your leisure. I was selfishly hoping you might conjure your cream ices for dinner. I would also be honored if you joined us there.”

How tempted she was to accept his invitation. To forget who she was and what she must be.

Miranda shook her head. “You know I cannot.”

“As I said, my guests are sworn to secrecy. Nothing that happens within these walls leaves Wingfield Hall.”

“That sounds rather ominous,” she observed as she at last settled her hand in the crook of his elbow.

He began guiding her from the main hall.

Curtains had been pulled aside to allow sunlight to stream in windows, and although the day was overcast, the multitude of panes meant the cavernous room was bathed in a cheerful, natural glow.

She couldn’t help but to admire the way it brought out the glints of gold and copper in his hair.

“Hardly ominous,” he said. “The ladies and gentlemen who gather at this assemblage are a part of a secret, highly exclusive club. They pay a more-than-generous sum so that they may be assured of privacy.”

His words hardly allayed the creeping concern that something rather out of the ordinary was about to take place at Whitby’s house party. “Why should they require privacy?”

“Because the happenings at a Wicked Dukes Society house party can be a bit…debauched.”

The deep rumble of his voice sent a frisson through her. “Wicked Dukes Society?”

She was unfamiliar with such a club.

“Yes.” They reached the dining room where breakfast had been laid out in the same fashion as dinner the previous evening, à la Francaise , no hint of servants about.

“I’m beginning to think all the domestics here are wraiths,” she quipped as they stopped before her chair.

“Not wraiths, I assure you.” He offered her a dashing smile as he pulled the chair out for her. “Merely well trained and amply paid to do whatever is asked of them.”

She seated herself as he courteously pushed the chair in at her back. She settled her napkin in her lap and turned back to him. “What is the Wicked Dukes Society?”

“It is a club that was begun several years ago as a drunken jest,” he answered, skirting the table to sit opposite her.

“Brandon, Camden, Riverdale, Richford, Kingham, and I all came up together at Eton. We’ve been like brothers ever since.

One night, we were engaging in a bout of Bacchanalian revelries, and the notion came upon us that we might gather like-minded individuals in the name of a singular pursuit. ”

“And what pursuit is that?”

His gaze seared hers. “Pleasure, of course.”

Something naughty unfurled in her belly. Was it the word? The way he said it? His voice, his eyes, his nearness? She ought to be appalled. She was appalled.

“Pleasure?” she repeated.

He nodded. “Indeed. Being venal souls, we also decided that membership in our society should come with a substantial fee. The members pay a small fortune, their secrets are secured, and they are free to do whatever it is they wish, within reason of course.”

“Do you mean to tell me that you have lured me to some…some manner of orgy?” she demanded.

His grin deepened, making crinkles edge his sparkling eyes. Oh, he was almost too beautiful when he smiled like that. Her breath caught in spite of herself.

“Miranda dear,” he drawled, “you quite astound me. Speaking of orgies, and we have yet to break our fast. Do you mind if I take my eggs and a bit of coffee before we reach such a prodigious part of the morning’s conversation?”

The urge to box his ears rose within her.

“I wasn’t speaking of orgies,” she snapped. “You were.”

“I’m afraid I wasn’t. I was speaking of house parties.

It was you who mentioned orgies. I must confess, I’m rather shocked a lady such as yourself is even aware of that word, let alone its definition.

” He paused in the act of removing a silver dome from one of the dishes awaiting them on the table.

“You do know what an orgy is, don’t you, kitten? ”

Heat rose to her cheeks. “Of course I know what an orgy is.”

“Oh, good. For a moment there, I feared you were confusing it with orgeat.” He removed three poached eggs and laid them upon his plate. “A similar sound with two greatly different meanings, of course.”

Her face was flaming; she was sure of it. “And do not call me kitten,” she added as a frosty afterthought.

He was toying with her, and she knew it.

“But I do like to think of the way you were nestled so trustingly against me last evening.”

She ground her molars, not even certain how to respond, if at all.

“Perhaps you would prefer cat? Is it the diminutive size which causes your objection or the general na?veté of a kitten as opposed to a cat fully grown?”

Miranda glared at him.

He arched an eyebrow, feigning a look of innocence. “Would you care for some poached eggs?”

Her stomach growled, answering rudely for her. Curse the devil, she was going to have to endure more of his teasing if she was to have any sustenance.

“Please,” she bit out.

He served her two eggs without asking how many she would like. “Bacon?”

“Yes.”

This, too, was placed upon her gleaming plate, followed by hothouse pineapple and strawberries.

Miranda had been served many times before.

By servants, by other gentlemen. But there was something decidedly intimate about being served by the Duke of Whitby.

He somehow managed to make even the smallest of gestures sensual, as if every mundane move had its purpose, each gesture, look, and act a part of the seduction campaign he waged.

“Kippers?” he inquired mildly, as if he hadn’t just been discussing orgies.

“Thank you, but no,” she demurred.

“Do you care for coffee?”

“I prefer tea. Coffee is far too bitter for my liking.”

“As I am a host most considerate, you have both at your disposal,” he said, gesturing to the tea tray, which had been partially obscured by the massive epergne and its spray of fresh flowers. “Cream and sugar?”

“Yes.”

“I thought so.”

He sounded smug, and she didn’t like it. Not the tone of his voice or the implication that he could somehow anticipate what she would want.

She accepted the dish of tea he prepared her, and he filled his demitasse with richly scented coffee.

“Now, then, I expect you are wondering about the nature of this house party,” he said without even a hint of concern.

“You know I am. If I had known for a moment that there was something sordid about this house party, I would have refused you.” Although she tried valiantly, Miranda could not keep the ire from her voice.

“Would you have, though?” His gaze, like his question, was direct. “As I recall, you needed the three thousand pounds.”

Curse him for pointing that out.

“I could have managed without it,” she said, clinging to her pride.

“And a man can also bail water from a leaking boat, but only for so long before the whole affair sinks with him in it,” Whitby pointed out.

He was not wrong. Her cookery school had been in dire need of pupils and funds. The expenditures had been outpacing the income she received by far. Too many more months of such a predicament would have spelled failure. Which was why accepting his money had been so alluring.

She frowned at him. “I surmise that in this little analogy of yours, my school is the leaking boat. But my pupils are growing with each day. The establishment will be profitable, particularly when I can begin the situation placement portion of the school and start selling my recipe book.”

“I can assure you that nothing of mine is little,” he purred.

And she knew what he was insinuating. Of course she did. He was speaking of his cock, the scoundrel.

“For heaven’s sake,” she burst out, tea sloshing from her cup and onto its saucer in her agitation. “Are you trying to make me go mad? Has that been your plot all along?”

“If I did want you to go mad, it would only be with longing.” He winked. “Is it working?”

That was it .

The Duke of Whitby, that handsome cad goading her to her wit’s end from across the table, that beautiful, evil rake, that wicked sybarite, had lured her to Hertfordshire so that she could provide cream ices for an orgy .

And he was grinning and plying his charm and looking so unfairly glorious that he might have been a Greek god descended to toil amongst mortals for the sennight, having grown bored of all the beauteous goddesses attending him in Mount Olympus.

“You utter rogue,” she charged, forgetting about her breakfast entirely.

“You know how important it is for me to avoid even the slightest hint of scandal. As a ruined woman, I have naught but my present reputation to commend me, along with the meager skills I can offer my pupils. And yet you have brought me here to this den of sin, knowing the grave peril it would place me in.”

He frowned at her, his teasing air vanishing. “There is nothing meager about your talent. I’ve never eaten anything as refined and delicious as your cornets and cream.”