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There was the rather unfortunate matter of the thousand pounds he had dangled before her, a tidy sum she could put to excellent use if it were hers.

But she would not allow monetary concerns to sway her.

She would instead permit him to have the audience with her he had been so set upon having.

And then when he had concluded his arrogant demand, she would tell him, unflinchingly, no.

No, no, no. Never. Absolutely not.

That must be her answer for this man. For all men. For the rest of her life.

She skirted the small, chipped desk she had commandeered for her personal use in her office—a place of private magic and infinite rejoicing, a space that was finally hers alone—and forced her countenance to remain serene as she faced the Duke of Whitby.

He was infernally handsome. Golden-haired, with an angular jaw and high cheekbones, a strong blade of a nose and a divot in his chin.

He had lips that were too full for a man, tipped with a slight hint of smugness, as if he were infinitely entertained by the plebians surrounding him or perhaps privy to some deliciously witty secret.

His shoulders were broad, his waist lean, and he was taller than Miranda, which was impressive since she had forever mourned her unladylike height.

But she mustn’t spend too much time inspecting him. She needed to entertain his whims and then send him on his way, never to return and plague her with his scandalous presence.

Miranda clasped her hands at her waist and refused to sit, not wanting him to make himself comfortable for this interview. “Please, Your Grace. Relay whatever message you are intent upon delivering.”

His gaze was a striking, dark shade of blue that reminded her of a summer sky after a storm had passed, and it was settled upon her now, inspecting her in a way that felt far too familiar.

“You are a lady,” he said, ignoring her request.

Not truly. She had surrendered her titles, her marriage, and most of her respectability. All for the chance to escape Ammondale and begin anew.

“I am the owner of this establishment,” she said primly instead of directly answering the unspoken question in his observation.

“And a lady,” he pressed. “The servant woman in the entry called you my lady just now.”

She exhaled, holding his stare. “Does it matter?”

“Hmm.” He stroked his jaw with ungloved fingers, drawing her attention to how nicely formed his hands were.

Masculine, large, long-fingered. They weren’t the pale, thin, elegant fingers of so many gentlemen in her old life.

“I suspect it does. I know of no other ladies in my acquaintance who are owners of cookery schools.”

Why was there somehow an implication of intimacy in his words?

She clenched her jaw. “We are not acquainted, Your Grace.”

“Not well acquainted,” he said agreeably, his lips turning farther upward, into a sinful smile. “I’m happy to rectify that problem, however.”

His silken words were like a caress.

She forced herself to think of something dreadful. A snake, slithering around her ankles, poised to strike and end her life. There. That banished the unwanted, peculiar feeling rising within her.

“I, however, am not, Your Grace,” she informed him coolly. “Please, tell me what it is you have come here for, and I will do my best to answer.”

His regard warmed considerably, his smile deepening, and good heavens, why was her office so dratted overheated? Her palms were sweating. The look he gave her was nothing short of smoldering, a blatant invitation.

“I begin to think I came here for more than I realized, madam,” he said, arching a brow. “Please, won’t you have a seat? It isn’t done for a gentleman to sit in the presence of a lady, but I do so hate to conduct a private conversation whilst standing.”

She didn’t mistake the sensual intent in his deep, pleasant voice.

He was a wickedly handsome man, and his reputation preceded him.

The Duke of Whitby was a voluptuary. But of course he was.

One need only take one look at him to know he could charm a lady out of her petticoats with nothing more than a promise and a coaxing smile.

Fortunately, she was immune to his charms.

Snake , she thought. Hissing, vile snake. Venomous, poisonous, dangerous serpent.

“I would prefer to stand,” she told him, forcing a tight smile in an effort to show him just how unaffected she was by his masculine beauty and rakish wiles.

He shrugged with an elegant ease, his gaze still burning into hers. “As you wish. But before we continue, perhaps you would deign to tell me your name, lovely.”

He had called her lovely.

How achingly embarrassing it was that his compliment—meaningless and likely the same he had given to many before her—should make her feel such a deep and abiding sense of longing.

Should bring warmth to her cheeks and a tingle in her belly, as if a spark had settled there just waiting to burst into flame.

“You may address me as Miss Lenox,” she said frostily, banishing those unworthy thoughts and feelings.

“Miss Lenox,” he repeated, the l in her surname lingering on his tongue as if it were something to be savored. “If you are a mere miss, why did your servant address you as my lady ?”

Oh, why was he here, prying into her affairs, taking all the air from the room, making her drown in his eyes?

“I hardly think the vagaries of the proprietress of a cookery school should so concern you,” she pointed out tartly. “Now, kindly tell me what it is you require so that I may attend to the many matters awaiting me today.”

He chuckled, as if her daring amused him. “Prickly as a rosebush. How delightful.”

She had come too far to become a duke’s source of diversion.

Miranda stiffened her spine. “If you have come with no purpose other than to make light of me, you may go, Your Grace.”

“Ah, and now she dismisses me.” He caught his lower lip between irritatingly even white teeth, considering her with his head cocked to the side.

“You are an intriguing woman, Miss Lenox. My lady. Do you know what occurs to me? I seem to recall some recent scandal broth concerning a Lady Miranda Lenox, formerly the Countess of Ammondale. But surely the prim Miss Lenox of this cookery school and the Fallen Countess couldn’t be the same. Could they?”

The Fallen Countess was what the newspapers had begun calling her during her humiliatingly public divorce from the earl. The sobriquet still stung.

“Please leave, Your Grace,” she urged, moving around the desk to escape his unsettling presence, the room itself, and the specter of her past.

“Forgive me,” he said instantly, his expression sobering. “I meant no insult.”

“Then you should not have repeated idle gossip.”

“It was badly done of me.”

“Yes,” she agreed through clenched teeth. “It was.”

Bearing the mockery and scorn she had faced had been worthwhile in her estimation.

Anything to escape her unhappy union. But that didn’t mean the wagging tongues, the caricatures, the salacious tales bandied about, didn’t hurt.

If her heart had been sufficiently hardened to weather such storms, she wouldn’t have needed to leave Ammondale in the first place.

Whitby startled her by closing the gap between them and taking one of her hands in his. The contact of his bare skin on hers sent a jolt of awareness through her she did not like. The undeniable knowledge hit her that this man was far more dangerous to her than any snake could ever be.

She was attracted to him. Deeply drawn to him in a way she’d never experienced before. And it alarmed her. Because if there was ever a time in her life when she couldn’t afford to make a mistake, it was now.

She tugged at her hand, but he refused to relinquish his grip, and before she knew what he was about, his touch slid to her wrist. Gently but firmly encircling it with his fingers, he startled her by jerking her open hand against his cheek, making her slap him.

She gasped, not just at the sudden motion, but the warmth of his skin, stubbled with the texture of golden whiskers that caught the light and glinted. He hadn’t shaved this morning. Somehow that intimate knowledge didn’t belong to her, and yet she relished it anyway.

“There,” he said, eyes dancing with merriment. “I earned that slap. Please consider it my most sincere apology.”

Miranda couldn’t find her voice. She was shocked, and not just from the blow he’d forced her to give him, but because of the way it had felt to touch his face.

Because now she was thinking about other things she ought not.

Such as what it would feel like to have his lips on hers.

And because he was still holding her wrist in the same masterful grasp.

She could escape his hold and she knew it, but some foolish part of her liked the way his long fingers wrapped around the delicate bones of her wrist. Liked his hold on her, even in this small way.

“Two thousand pounds,” he said into the silence as he stroked the underside of her wrist with his thumb, tracing over her veins as if they would reveal all her secrets to him.

She blinked, confused. “I don’t understand.”

His touch ventured higher, finding the base of her palm. “I am doubling my initial offer to you. I’ll give you two thousand pounds.”

“For heaven’s sake, Your Grace, why would you pay me two thousand pounds?” Her voice was irritatingly breathless, and her wits were vexingly scattered, her heart thumping madly at his nearness and touch both.

“I am hosting a country house party in Hertfordshire in a week,” he explained. “I wish to have your cornets à la crème there, along with any other confections you find suitable. The house party lasts a sennight. After its conclusion, you are free to return to London two thousand pounds wealthier.”

This was not what she had expected. And Miranda had to admit that it was difficult indeed to concentrate when his thumb was gently, patiently stroking her palm as if he had all the time in the world to touch her.

“How do you know about my cornets à la crème ?” she asked, frowning at him.

She had been perfecting the cornets, to be accompanied by cream ice, for weeks now, and although she had allowed several members of her small, inner circle to try them and even serve them at a dinner party, she had yet to settle upon a recipe to include in the book of cookery she was assembling.

Few people, in other words, knew of their existence.

“A hostess served them to me,” he explained, his voice low and melodious, almost as if he were casting a spell over her. “They were the most delicious morsel I’ve ever had on my tongue, and I can assure you that I’ve had many wonderful delights on my tongue over the years.”

Sinful. There was something sinful about the way he said that. She should be horrified, and yet Miranda couldn’t summon even a modicum of outrage.

“You wish me to provide your house party guests with desserts,” she repeated, trying to keep her wits about her.

It was deuced difficult when he was looking at her as he was, keeping her pinned in his dark-blue stare. When he was saying such wicked things.

“Yes.” He smiled again, the corners of his eyes crinkling in a way she found alarmingly attractive. “Your decadent desserts in exchange for two thousand pounds.”

Her heart pounded faster. Such a feat could be accomplished with ease, and two thousand pounds could solve a host of problems currently facing her. Miranda was tempted.

“I can send two of my most promising students to your house party,” she suggested.

His wandering thumb had found the center of her palm now, and he lingered there, asserting just enough delicate pressure to give her a gentle massage. “That won’t do, I’m afraid.”

“Why not?” Belatedly, she pulled her hand from his grasp.

“Because I want you, Miss Lenox,” he said, his smile fading. “No replacements shall be suitable.”

I want you.

Her stomach flipped.

Her response was instant. “No.”

But the Duke of Whitby simply shook his golden head slowly, unperturbed by her refusal. “Don’t give me your answer now, lovely. Think upon it. I’ll return in a day or two for your response.”

He sketched an elegant bow and, without awaiting her reply, took his leave from her office.

She gaped at his retreating form, utterly stunned. The Duke of Whitby was a madman. A beautiful one, but a madman, nonetheless. And whenever he returned to her school of cookery, her answer would remain unchanged.