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Her gloved fingers were twisting on her reticule, worrying it, her lush lips tightened. “I will not… I have no intention of… You may do whatever it is you like with someone else. This is a business arrangement. I am providing your guests with desserts for a week. That is all.”

Watching her attempt to avoid repeating what he had just said made his cock twitch. If only she knew how tempting she was, she would likely pitch herself from the conveyance here and now, the danger to herself be damned.

“Of course,” he agreed. “Unless you change your mind, that is.”

“I shan’t.”

Rhys smiled. “As you wish.”

“You say that in a tone of disbelief or perhaps mockery, as if I could not possibly refuse you.”

“To be fair, no woman has.”

Her nostrils flared as she sucked in air. “Then I shall be the first.”

Rhys said nothing, merely continued smiling.

She could keep telling herself that all she liked. They both knew it wouldn’t be true.

She was trapped in a hell of her own foolish making.

Trapped in a carriage with the Duke of Whitby, who was unfairly dashing this morning, his hat settled on the squabs at his side to reveal his blond hair.

Sunlight was presently streaming through the slats of the Venetian blinds, making his wavy locks glint as if they were fashioned of spun gold.

His long legs were stretched out, his ankles crossed, his trousers brushing her skirts with each sway of the carriage over the roads carrying them farther from London.

Farther from sanity as well, it seemed.

This was her fault.

She need not have agreed to the rogue’s scandalous invitation.

She could have turned away from the three thousand pounds he had offered, particularly after he’d made his true intentions known.

And yet, she had not. She had believed herself capable of remaining unaffected by his handsome face, his charm, and his every heated, rakish look that suggested they ought to adjourn to a bedroom at once.

Digging into her reticule, she fished out a fan.

Heavens, she was overheating. With a snap of her wrist, it opened, and she proceeded to wave the stagnant air in an attempt to cool herself.

But that was all wrong, because the air smelled of him.

And he smelled despicably inviting. Like a forbidden forest tinged with musk and sin.

It didn’t help that he was so elegant, so sure of himself, so quick-witted and confident, everything she could not resist.

And then, there were his words. His wicked, wicked words. I don’t court, my dear Miranda. I fuck.

She went even hotter just thinking about them again. How would she survive the week? How would she resist him? He was like the sun, burning hot and bright, dangerous to look upon for too long.

At the moment, resistance was not her problem, at least. Because the Duke of Whitby was sound asleep. Head tipped back to reveal the sturdy column of his throat, his Adam’s apple a prominent bulge, his lips parted, his breathing even, those storm-filled eyes thankfully closed.

How could he sleep in a time like this?

He had cozened her into sharing a carriage with him, said all manner of sinful, wrong things, had scorched her with his words, with his stare, with his blatant intent to seduce her.

And her body had a mind of its own, still reeling.

Still filled with unbearable, unwanted desire.

She was not meant to be a creature of passion.

She was meant to remain stoic. To cling to her honor. She needed her reputation.

She was beyond discomfited. She was…bothered. She was overheated .

Miranda shifted on her seat, pressing her thighs together to stave off the unsettling ache between them. But it was no use. The longing just persisted—if anything, growing stronger. And meanwhile, her fellow passenger was blissfully asleep.

Why couldn’t he snore?

Or drool?

Why did he have to be so unfairly breathtaking and elegant and handsome, even in slumber? She huffed an irritated sigh and fussed with her skirts to distract herself.

“Are you uncomfortable, Miranda?”

The velvet-soft question had her gaze jolting back to Whitby, whose eyes were still closed.

“I thought you were asleep.”

His lips curved upward in a slight smile. “Merely resting. Do you know I had to wake despicably early today? Ye gods, I daresay it was even before the sun rose. A terrible travesty, really. Travel can be so tiresome.”

“I have been awake for hours already,” she told him pointedly. “Rising with the sun is good for one’s constitution.”

He opened his eyes, nary a hint of drowsiness in their glittering depths. “I would beg to differ.”

Of course, it would not be done for a duke to rise early.

Waking at dawn was for lower classes. But Miranda now found herself in a curious world where she no longer belonged anywhere.

She had been born a lady, but the scandal of her divorce had stripped her of everything, save a few treasured, loyal friends. Even her own family had disavowed her.

But she mustn’t dwell on such unpleasantness, for the Duke of Whitby was watching her again. Seeing too much, she feared.

“On this matter, we shall have to agree to disagree,” she told him, attempting a politic air she scarcely felt.

“I might be persuaded of the merits of rising early, given the right reason,” he drawled.

There was no mistaking the underlying implications in his smooth baritone. Or in his frank gaze. He was challenging her.

She whipped her fan back and forth, thinking she would need to gird herself for his full assault over the coming days. The Duke of Whitby was like a cavalry brigade charging determinedly across an open field, and she wasn’t certain she possessed the defenses to stay the enemy racing toward her.

“A dog,” she ventured.

His golden brows drew together. “I beg your pardon. What did you say?”

“I said that if you require early-morning persuasion, you ought to get a dog. I had one as a girl, and she was remarkably adept at urging me from slumber each day.”

He chuckled. “Somehow, I find the notion of a little Miranda being awakened by a hound ridiculously endearing.”

There was an open warmth in his smile, in his voice, that had been absent from her life in the wake of the scandal.

But even before her divorce from Ammondale, it had been far too long since a gentleman had looked at her or spoken to her with such intense regard.

Perhaps not ever. Her debut and the beaux who had gallantly courted her seemed a lifetime ago now.

The closest she had come to male affection had been her dear friend the Marquess of Waring, but their relationship had been strictly platonic.

Either way, she mustn’t be charmed, just as she must not lower her guard.

“Miss Lenox,” she reminded the duke primly.

“Yes, but you were not Miss Lenox then, were you? Rather, you were Lady Miranda. You still are, despite your insistence to the contrary.”

“I have chosen to eschew all honorifics,” she said, plucking at the fall of her skirt as the familiar knife’s edge of sorrow burrowed itself between her ribs.

“Why?”

No one had questioned her on the matter before, and Mrs. Kirkeland had chosen to continue referring to her as my lady out of habit, one Miranda had not bothered to correct. Her friends had accepted her decision, not wanting, she expected, to pry.

She decided to answer him honestly. “I am no longer the Countess of Ammondale, and I have no wish to hold on to that courtesy title any more than I desired to remain married to the earl. And when my family refused to acknowledge our connection following my scandalous divorce, I decided to follow suit.”

His jaw tightened. “Your family has disavowed you?”

“Are they to be blamed? The scandal was tremendous.” Secretly, she did blame them. Their defection cut deeply.

But she could understand. Divorce was exceedingly rare for good reason, and she had been forced to obtain hers by resorting to extreme, disgraceful measures.

With the aid of Waring, she had feigned adultery, a sin that only the two of them knew had never been committed.

In the wake of the scandal, Waring had left for America.

Miranda would be forever grateful to him for the sacrifice he had made to his own reputation so she could secure her freedom.

“Yes, I do think they are to be blamed,” Whitby said, surprising her. “You are family, are you not? Blood ought to be thick enough to weather any gossip.”

She had thought so as well. How wrong she had been.

She could still recall Mother’s countenance when she had informed Miranda that she was no longer welcome. On account of your sisters , Mother had added. You cannot expect Daisy and Elizabeth to suffer because of your actions.

Her actions.

As if she were solely to blame for the misery of the marriage her parents had selected for her.

She had never wanted to wed Ammondale. It had been Father who had arranged the match with the earl’s sire.

Father who had urged her to marry in such haste, when she had been na?ve and young and eager to please.

“It proved considerably thin,” she said at last, her voice irritatingly thick with old emotion.

Miranda did her best to keep her thoughts from straying to hurtful happenings she was incapable of changing.

“Is that why you started your school?” Whitby asked softly. “Have you no other means of sustaining yourself?”

Her cheeks went hot. “That is none of your concern, Your Grace.”

“Rhys.”

She was lost. “I beg your pardon?”

He smiled, and this time, there was far less of the suave rake in his countenance than genuine tenderness, taking her aback. “My given name. It is Rhys. When we are alone, I hope you might call me by it. Your Grace is so dreadfully formal. Do you not agree?”

Formality was what she must cling to where he was concerned. Much to her dismay, she found herself wanting to try his name. Wanting that familiarity between them.

She stiffened, casting such treacherous notions away. “No, Your Grace, I very much do not agree. In this situation, you are my employer. We are not equals. Nor are we even friends.”

“But of course we are equals. You are the daughter of an earl. I am the son of a duke.”

And a duke in his own right. A gorgeous temptation.

Sin incarnate. A peril to her future in every way, lest she surrender to her attraction to him as he wished.

He held all the power in this game of theirs.

If he took her as his mistress for a month, he would walk away with his reputation intact.

Whereas Miranda’s future would be destroyed.

It was difficult enough trying to lure pupils to lessons being taught by a notorious former countess.

If she were a kept woman, it would be the end of the Lenox School of Cookery forever.

Miranda fanned herself with increasing vigor, nettled with him. “You know what I mean.”

He tsked. “I think this silly society of ours has left you suffering from the misconception that you are somehow lesser because you are a divorcée.”

“Because I am.” She snapped her fan against her palm, closing it with one frustrated motion.

“You may call society silly, but I haven’t the same luxury.

As a man—and a duke, at that—you have no need to adhere to propriety.

As a woman, I am treated with scorn for every mistake I make, perceived or otherwise. All the blame is heaped upon me.”

He stared at her, his expression pensive. She wondered if it was the first occasion in his life where he had been made to confront the disparity between men and women, a gaping chasm that only grew with scandal.

“I am sorry, Miranda.”

These were not the words she had expected from him. More subtle suggestions, more practiced wooing, yes. True understanding, perhaps even contrition, however? Decidedly not.

She shifted again, uncomfortable on the squabs for a new reason entirely. His kindness—seemingly genuine—made a rush of longing sweep over her before she could help it.

Summoning her bravado, she forced a smile. “You need not pity me, Your Grace. I have found that I would rather know the truth of the world around me. It’s far preferable to mistakenly believing in a falsehood.”

“It isn’t pity I feel for you,” Whitby said, his voice low. “Not at all.”

Miranda swallowed hard. Part of the ice inside her was melting already, and she didn’t like it. Couldn’t allow it.

Before she could say anything more, the carriage slowed to a halt.

Whitby leaned forward, peering through the slats of the blinds. “It looks as if we’re to have a little break in our travels. Just in time. I’m ravenous.”

The look he sent in her direction made molten heat pool between her thighs, pulsing like an echo in her sex. Miranda had a feeling he wasn’t merely speaking about food.

But that was too bad. He wouldn’t be getting anything from her during her time in Hertfordshire other than her desserts.