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“The school attracts new pupils every day,” she insisted—also a terrible hyperbole. “We continue to grow.”

“Mmm,” he hummed, as if deep in thought, tapping on the divot in his chin with his forefinger. “Do you know what I suspect, Miss Lenox?”

“I am certain I should not want to know.”

But he was going to tell her anyway. Of that, she was equally sure.

“I suspect that you have a few more weeks before you begin needing to take drastic actions to keep this cookery school of yours solvent.”

He was not wrong. And blast it, she had just reached a similar conclusion before his unwanted appearance in her office.

It was as if he had somehow bored into her mind to see its contents laid before him.

Either that, or her dire straits were painfully plain for everyone to see.

Her last, futile hope was about to be ruthlessly dashed.

“How amusing, Your Grace,” she said tightly. “I do so hate to disappoint you, but your suppositions are all wrong.”

“Prove it to me, then.”

He was unrelenting. And nettlesome.

Her chin went up. “I need not prove anything to you.”

“So, I am correct.”

“You are not correct.” She glared at him, huffing with indignation she had no right to feel. “You are decidedly wrong.”

“Is it your pride that stops you from accepting my offer, Miss Lenox?” He cocked his head, studying her with an intensity that made her long to shield herself from him.

What did this glorious rake see when he looked upon her? Some foolish part of Miranda was desperate to know and terrified at the prospect of what she would discover just the same.

“Accepting your offer would be disastrous,” she told him firmly. “My reputation has sustained enough damage, and I cannot afford to place myself in an unseemly position at a house party hosted by a notorious rake.”

“Am I notorious? I confess, I didn’t know.” He smiled, looking amused again. “You assume anyone would know you were present at the house party. I can assure you that every guest in attendance adheres to a strict policy of secrecy.”

“You may wish to believe so, Your Grace, but no one knows better than I do how swiftly, eagerly, and viciously tongues wag.”

His levity faded, his countenance turning serious. “My guests do not dare breathe a word of what happens at my house parties or who is present. When I tell you that your reputation will be unblemished by attending, it is not an empty promise.”

“I have been promised a great many things before, and all of them were lies. You must forgive me my reticence.” Miranda couldn’t keep the bitterness from her voice.

Some old wounds were slow to heal.

Perhaps they never would.

“Not by me, however.” He straightened, his pose no longer languid but instead alert as he loomed over her. “I pride myself upon being a man of my word.”

She wanted to believe him. He seemed earnest enough. But the past had taught her to trust almost no one. And anyway, it did not signify. She couldn’t accept his offer. Didn’t dare.

Miranda forced a polite smile, trying not to note his proximity or the way his scent—amber, musk, and forest—curled around her like a loving embrace. “Nonetheless, I am afraid that my answer must be no.”

“If two thousand pounds does not persuade you, then perhaps three thousand will,” he said, shocking her.

Three thousand pounds. It was a veritable fortune in terms of what it could do to support her school.

It would give her the ability to publish her cookbook on her own.

It would grant her the means to do so much, without the crushing dread that her debts would forever outweigh her ability to pay them.

“Just think of how three thousand pounds could comfortably keep you and your school of cookery afloat,” Whitby added in his low, melodic voice.

His voice was an invitation to sin.

So was his face.

Everything about him.

She should refuse his offer yet again.

“When is this house party of yours again?” she found herself asking instead. “I do believe you mentioned it yesterday, but it has flitted from my mind.”

“In six days.”

Ah yes. He had told her a week yesterday. Scarcely any time to prepare herself.

Oh, what was she thinking? Surely she was not truly entertaining this outrageous proposal of his. Was she?

“You must be mad to spend three thousand pounds for dessert courses,” she said, which was decidedly not the denial she needed.

And would scarcely further her cause if she were indeed considering his proposition. Which of course she wasn’t.

His sensual lips curved upward again. “I’ve spent far more on considerably less.”

There had been a period of Miranda’s life where money had not concerned her.

She had been cosseted as an earl’s daughter.

And then she had been a countess. Not cosseted, certainly, but Ammondale had been wealthy.

Gowns, jewels, a carriage, and a house filled with domestics had all been without price. Her life had altered considerably.

Now, she could not fathom anyone spending three thousand pounds for a week’s worth of cream and ices. But if he was willing to outlay that great a sum, then why should she not ask for more?

“Taking a week away from my pupils would cost the school lost revenue,” she countered.

He chuckled, the sound low and decadent. “The businesswoman emerges. You and I both know that you haven’t enough pupils to earn one hundred pounds in a week, let alone three thousand. However, I have a further proposition for you.”

He was all silken persuasion. Miranda longed to press her back into the corner, to put some distance between herself and the tempting duke.

However, she knew that doing so would only show her vulnerability.

So she remained where she was, near enough to touch him, to breathe him in, to find herself yearning, impossibly, for more than she could ever dare.

She swallowed against an insidious rush of longing. “What is your further proposition?”

“It involves something more than dessert.” His stormy blue gaze swept down her form, making her feel as if he could see beneath her modest gown.

Danger , warned a voice within her . Nothing but danger lurks ahead. Save yourself before it is too late.

But she had already ventured this far.

She raised a brow. “Oh?”

“And something more than three thousand pounds,” he added. “Ten thousand additional pounds, to be more specific.”

She barely contained her gasp. “Your Grace, if you are suggesting something depraved?—”

“Hardly depraved,” he interrupted smoothly, his gaze burning into hers.

“What I propose is a bargain, Miss Lenox. For three thousand pounds, come to Hertfordshire and provide my guests with your unparalleled creations. By the week’s end, you will be free to return to your school and your pupils.

If, however, you are amenable at the end of the week, I will give you an additional ten thousand pounds for a full month of your time. ”

Her eyes narrowed. “A full month’s worth of desserts in exchange for ten thousand pounds?”

No one would make such an extravagant and ludicrous bargain. Not unless he wanted something more. And whilst Whitby had not explicitly stated what he expected of her, she was no innocent miss.

He reached for her then, nothing more than a lone brush of his forefinger along her jaw, as if he drew a line there on her bare skin. The touch was so fleeting, she might have believed she had imagined it if not for the trail of fire he left in his wake and the accompanying burst of desire.

Stupid desire.

Fruitless desire.

Dangerous desire.

“A month of your time,” he repeated.

Outrage warred with something else. Interest.

She pinned him with a glare. “You said you weren’t suggesting something depraved.”

But Whitby only smiled. A devilish smile. A knowing one.

“I suppose that depends upon your definition of depraved. I promise you that it would be a very enjoyable month, Miss Lenox. Or may I call you Miranda?”

“You may call me Miss Lenox,” she said crisply, her fingers clenching in her skirts.

“I’ll be honest with you, Miss Lenox ,” he said, taking his time on her name and drawing it out.

“I desire you. But I want you to desire me as well. If, at the week’s end, you find yourself uninterested in pursuing an association between the two of us, you will be free to leave three thousand pounds wealthier.

However, if you should desire to continue, in a discreet fashion, of course, you will receive ten thousand pounds in return for one month. ”

Carte blanche.

The Duke of Whitby was asking her to be his mistress. Was offering her money to share his bed. What would that make her? A kept woman?

“No,” she bit out. “I will not be paid to be your…your strumpet.”

“You would hardly be that,” he said with a small smile. “But either way, I don’t want your answer to the latter portion of my offer now. Save it for the house party’s end. For today, all I require is your answer concerning the three thousand pounds and your heavenly cream ices and cornets.”

He thought her cream ice and cornets heavenly?

Miranda couldn’t deny the notion pleased her.

For all her life, her true passions and aspirations had been repressed.

Ladies did not toil in kitchens. Countesses did not work closely with their cooks and create their own recipes for ices.

Nor did they dream of writing recipe books and giving other women the means of seizing their own independence.

A flush stole over her cheeks as he continued to regard her in that thorough, frankly sensual way. “If I were to agree to the first portion of your offer only, what promise do I have that you would honor my decision?”

He took one step closer, bringing their bodies nearly flush, and leaned down to murmur in her ear, “I only bed willing women.”

Her knees trembled. His breath was hot and sweetly scented of mint. Her body’s reaction was instant, longing unfurling deep within her. Her marriage with Ammondale had been a cold one, but that didn’t mean she didn’t remember what longing had felt like. Nor did it make her incapable of feeling now.

She jerked her head back, nearly cracking her skull on the plaster behind her. “Then I need not fear you will go back on your word.”

“Do you agree to delight the guests of my house party with your exceptional ices and desserts?” he asked, clasping his hands behind his back.

Her common sense told her to cry out a denial and charge out of the room. To run far and run fast. But there was another part of her—the practical businesswoman—who knew she could not afford to turn down such a sum. She needed it. The school needed it.

Miranda bit her lower lip, then huffed out a sigh. “In exchange for three thousand pounds?”

He nodded, his gaze slipping to her mouth. “For the first week, yes.”

Why did his stare feel as intimate as a kiss?

“I’ll need half the funds at once, in order to keep the school running in my absence,” she demanded.

“Of course. You may have the other half at the completion of the house party. Or, you may have the full thirteen thousand at the month’s end.”

“Three thousand shall be sufficient, Your Grace.”

He grinned. “You seem so sure of yourself, lovely.”

Her lips thinned. “Because I am.”

“Excellent. I like nothing so much as a challenge. Half the funds will be delivered to you today, with the other half awaiting the party’s end. As for the rest—” here he paused, a wicked glint entering his eyes— “we shall revisit it when the time arrives.”

She gave a jerky nod, wondering what she had just consented to.

“You agree to my terms?”

Miranda swallowed hard. “Yes.”

He took a step back, leaving her feeling oddly bereft as he swept into a courtly bow that would have been far more at home in a ballroom than in her small office.

“I will send the remainder of the information you require along with the payment. If you should need anything, only ask it of me. Otherwise, I shall see you in Hertfordshire.”

He straightened, turned, and began striding from the chamber with the same casual elegance he had used to enter it. She watched him go, fraught with a worrying sense of foreboding.

Just as he reached the door, he stopped, glancing over his shoulder at her with a look that could have sent her silk gown up in flames. “Oh, and Miss Lenox? I fully intend to do everything in my power during that week to persuade you to change your mind.”

Without awaiting her response, he left, the door clicking closed behind him.

“I won’t change my mind,” Miranda declared to the paneled mahogany.

If only she felt as certain of those words as she sounded.