Chapter One

L ady Gemma Caster was afraid to open her eyes.

Morning sunlight seared through her closed eyelids, making her dimly aware of the thumping in her head, the scratchiness of her throat, the dryness of her mouth.

But none of these things made her fearful as she lay on her back beneath the silky covers of this palatial bed.

It was the fact that Gemma could tell she was not in bed alone.

She could hear soft snoring coming from beside her. Too deep, too manly to be one of her sisters. And, even more tellingly, as she shook away the last blissful shadows of sleep, she could feel the warmth of another's body beneath her fingertips. Firm and broad. A shoulder, or a chest, or…

No. It cannot be…

As if they had a mind of their own, her fingers began to move slightly, in a deviously exploratory way.

Whoever this figure was in bed beside her, he was utterly, intoxicatingly male.

Because although she had little knowledge with which to verify it, Gemma was suddenly, excruciatingly aware that her hand was resting on his… manhood!?

Oh God, oh God, oh God!

Her eyes flew open and she scrambled into sitting, the strangely dreamlike pleasure of the realization yanked away by reality. She was the unmarried daughter of the Earl of Volk. And being discovered in bed with a man—with her fingers doing this sly little dance, no less—would destroy her.

Gemma's flurried movements caused the man beside her to wake. She watched in horror as he took in his surroundings. Took in her . She watched his eyes widen, as though in slow motion. And she knew at once that the horror in his face was reflected in her own.

“Lady Gemma?” His voice was husky, thick with surprise. And something bordering on dread.

A quick glance down told Gemma, with no small amount of relief, that she was still dressed in the pale pink gown she had been wearing the night before, even if it was now hideously creased. Her shoes were missing, as was one garter, and her left stocking had gathered in a mess at her ankle.

She scrambled out of bed, backing toward the wall, and folding her arms across her body as though in a vain attempt to protect herself.

Pieces of the evening flew at her. A house party to celebrate the upcoming wedding of the Duke of Larsen and Miss Henrietta Henford, thrown by the family of the bride.

Gemma remembered an elaborate dinner, remembered sitting beside her two sisters at the table and keeping a stern eye on her father, and remembered drinking nothing more than lemonade.

Nonetheless, though she had never been drunk in her life, she imagined it might very well feel like this. Her head was thudding, and her mouth felt horribly dry. But she could not even begin to make sense of how she might have come to feel that way.

She shoved the thoughts aside, knowing they did not matter a scrap right now. All that mattered was the man sitting up in her bed, his dark hair mussed with sleep and flattened on one side. His piercing blue eyes portrayed the shock Gemma knew was etched into her own features.

Because this situation had just gone from bad to worse. The man sitting up in her bed was the Duke of Larsen.

“Your Grace,” Gemma squeaked, “I…” In an instant, her terror gave way to wild anger.

Because she knew all too well of the Duke's reputation.

A damnable rake. A scoundrel. A man that was not to be trusted.

Even, it seemed, two days before his own wedding, at the party thrown in his honor.

“How dare you?” Gemma demanded. “I have no idea how you managed to get in here, but I demand you explain yourself at once!” Rage tore through her.

Wild fury at the Duke. And anger that she might have let herself be drawn into such a compromising situation.

“What in hell happened last night?” she demanded.

The Duke rubbed his eyes blearily, unfazed by her unladylike outburst. Gemma could tell he too was trying to untangle his hazy recollections of the previous evening.

He sat up, the white sheets falling down his body and revealing a bare torso.

Gemma swallowed hard. In spite of her best intentions, she found her gaze drawn to the smooth planes of his chest; to the sparse curls of hair that trailed down from his collarbones over the taut muscles of his stomach.

And then down to… Gemma shook her head hurriedly to try and discard the thought.

“I do not know,” he admitted. “I remember taking a drink or two with Lord Anderson. And then…”

“A drink or two?” Gemma repeated. “I know you and Lord Anderson well enough to know you never stop at a drink or two .”

“And nor,” said the Duke, “did you, it would seem.”

Gemma's eyebrows rose in indignation. “You think I was drunk last night?” she demanded.

The Duke chuckled. “The situation we find ourselves in would seem to suggest so.”

Gemma's cheeks reddened.

How can he be making light of such things?

“I'll have you know,” she said, “that I did not touch a drop last night. I had nothing more than lemonade!”

The Duke grinned an infuriatingly playful smile. “If you say so. In any case, I remember speaking to you. At length. About… something.”

Gemma faltered. “You are mistaken, Your Grace. I would never waste my evening in your company.”

In truth, she had never held such strong feelings toward the Duke of Larsen in the past. Some eight years older than her, he had always been a somewhat distant figure in her life, one she knew well enough to keep at a distance—or so she thought.

Had she really been speaking to him at length last night? Why? And about what?

He chuckled lightly. “Your actions seem to betray your words, Lady Gemma.”

Color flooded Gemma's cheeks. He was right, of course, and she hated that fact.

A horrifying thought seized her. “Did we… I mean, did you… take advantage of me?” The question was difficult to get out.

She rarely spoke of such delicate matters, and the words felt strange on her tongue.

The situation was dire, but possibly still redeemable if no one had seen the Duke make his way into her bedchamber last night.

But if he had… touched her, she would be ruined.

Completely and utterly. The thought was too horrible to even entertain.

Surely, Gemma thought, she would have some knowledge of it if she had lain with the Duke the previous night. Surely there would be some remembrance in her body, some primal knowledge that might hint at what they had done.

Unbidden, she recalled the feel of her fingers resting against his length. She recalled its hardness, the way it had twitched beneath her fingertips. A flush of something unidentifiable bloomed in her belly. Gemma forced it away.

The Duke slipped out of bed, reaching down for his discarded shirt. “No,” he said. “Your virtue is intact, Lady Gemma.” His blue eyes glittered, a hint of a smile appearing in the corner of his mouth. “At least, if it is not, it is no doing of mine.”

The blaze in Gemma's cheeks intensified. She could hardly believe he was speaking of such things so lightly. “How dare you! Have you no shame? Poor Miss Henford would be horrified.”

At the mention of his betrothed, something passed across the Duke's eyes, his expression darkening slightly.

He tucked his shirt into his breeches and took a step toward her as he slid his jacket on over his broad shoulders.

“You act so high and mighty,” he said, voice low and faintly threatening, “but how do I know this was not your doing?”

“My doing?” Gemma could hardly get the words out, so incensed was she at his accusation. “I wake up to find you in my bed, and it's my doing?”

The faint smile returned to the Duke's face. “As I remember it, I woke up to find you with your hand in a very compromising position.”

Gemma gasped in horror. She had believed—or at least desperately hoped—that the Duke had been asleep during her… exploration.

“For all I know,” he continued, “you were trying to trap me into marriage. Or provoke me to do something…”

Gemma sucked in a breath. As much as she hated to admit it, she could see how such a conclusion might be reached, not only by the Duke but—Heaven forbid—anyone else who had seen the two of them together last night.

She straightened her shoulders and forced herself to meet his intense blue eyes.

“Your Grace,” she said, wrestling the tremor from her voice, “I'll have you know I would never do a thing so… immoral. Especially not to a man who is about to be married. And especially not to a damnable rake like you.” Her jibe brought an infuriating smile to the Duke's lips.

“Even if I were utterly desperate, which I am not,” she added, for good measure. His smile did not falter.

“Well,” the Duke said airily, as he knotted a dark blue cravat at his throat, “word is, desperate is exactly what you are. I hear that drunkard of a father of yours has nearly gambled away his entire estate. I would not put it past him to put his daughter up to such a trick as this.”

Gemma pursed her lips. She had brought the insult on herself, she knew well.

Her father's drinking and gambling was no secret.

She knew it was spoken of throughout the ton .

Besides, everyone who had been at the Henfords' dinner table last night could see with their own two eyes how reliant the Earl of Volk was on the drink.

By the time the main course had been brought out, he had barely been able to string a sentence together.

Nonetheless, hearing the Duke speak so brashly on the issue brought an ache of shame to Gemma's chest. She tried to look behind his eyes; tried to determine if he truly believed her responsible for the two of them ending up in bed together.

Of course, he does not think me responsible. No doubt he knows this is all his doing, and is too much of a scoundrel to admit to it.

“Leave,” she ground out. “This instant.”

He gave her a crooked smile. “As you wish.”

“And be careful,” Gemma hissed. “You cannot let anyone see you.”

She half expected another jibe about it being her intention for the two of them to be caught, but the Duke merely nodded. He made his way to the door, giving her one last wordless look. And causing one last flutter in her belly.

“Wait.” Impulsively, Gemma's hand shot out, snatching his wrist. Surprise flashed across the Duke's face and she released her grip suddenly. “Are you certain nothing… happened between us last night?”

He chuckled, then took a step toward her, his nose close to hers. “Believe me, my lady,” he said, a look of faint irritation in his eyes, “it does not matter how much I drank last night, it would never be enough for me to do that with you.”

Even though his certainty was what Gemma needed to hear, she could not help the ache his cold and heartless words left inside her.