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“Ahhh, but we had met. Three years prior at a ball. When I went into the supper room, I noticed you immediately. You were surrounded by several men, all of whom were hanging upon your every word. I thought you were a beautiful young woman, flirting and flattering with her many suitors, but as I strolled past I heard you spouting advice about making an investment in the Lowry shipping company.”

“What was I saying?”

“A bunch of nonsense.”

Meredith frowned as she tried to recall the particulars. “As best I remember, I have never invested any money in a shipping firm of that name.”

“Well, some of us did.” The duke’s mouth curled in self-derision. “Lost a fair amount of coin, too. How in blazes could you, a mere slip of a girl, know the investment was ill advised?”

Meredith’s brow furrowed as she tried to remember the details.

“I always investigate a business opportunity thoroughly before committing any funds. There must have been something about this firm . . . wait! I remember now. It was the captain of the largest schooner. He drank heavily. It was obvious he could not be trusted. I concluded his successful trading runs of the past were merely luck and assumed his luck would eventually run out.”

“It did,” the duke grumbled. “Along with a good portion of my money.”

“You should have listened to my advice,” Meredith countered, trying to keep the smug edge of satisfaction from her tone.

“Investment advice from a woman? A young woman?” The duke shook his head. “Ridiculous.”

“I know ’tis practically a crime for a female to have a functioning brain that she often uses—”

“It is a serious liability,” the duke interrupted. “However, given the challenges you and my son are facing, I am hopeful that in your case it will prove to be an asset.”

Meredith was momentarily shocked into silence.

His confidence in her was both humbling and frightening.

If only she possessed the same degree of hope concerning the state of her marriage.

The coach halted a final time and Meredith realized they had arrived home.

The duke escorted her up the main staircase.

“Good night, sir. Sleep well.” Meredith leaned forward, raised herself to the tips of her toes, and kissed the duke’s cheek. This too had become a nightly ritual.

“Good night.” The duke turned toward his sleeping quarters.

Meredith smiled wryly as she began the lonely, solitary walk to her rooms. That nightly kiss was the only one she bestowed upon any man these days, unless her brothers came to call.

She turned the final corner on her meandering journey and immediately noticed something amiss. The door leading to Trevor’s rooms stood open. How odd. In the past weeks, the door had always remained closed. Why was it open now?

Nervous energy surged through her as she cautiously passed it. The hall was lit with candelabra set on various pieces of furniture, as well as several sconces. In comparison, the marquess’s chambers seemed dark, lit by three single candles, each placed in the darkest corners of the large room.

Though the light was poor, Meredith was unable to resist pausing so she could look inside. To her utter shock, she saw a male figure sitting in a wing chair near the window. Trevor?

She must have whispered his name, for the man looked up at her. Meredith gasped.

“Ah, there you are at last,” the marquess called out. “Come in.”

When she made no move to comply with his command, he stood up and walked to the threshold. Meredith found herself staring into his blue eyes. She had never known a man with eyes so extraordinary, so beautiful. They were perfectly formed, fringed with dark lashes and the color of a sun-kissed sky.

“Come in,” he repeated softly.

Meredith pulled her gaze away and licked her suddenly dry lips. She made a move forward, then stopped. The marquess had invited her inside, yet he blocked the entrance.

He seemed amused by her dilemma. She angled her shoulder and tried again. Her back brushed against his front. Meredith stifled a tremor of anticipation, angry with her traitorous body for feeling such an extraordinary rush of pleasure.

“Is there something in particular you wish to discuss?” she asked formally.

“Must a husband have a specific reason to speak with his wife?”

“In our case, yes.”

“Perhaps I want to change that situation.”

Meredith blinked, taken aback by his answer. “Do you?”

His jaw clenched. “Why else would I be here? Waiting for you?”

Meredith shrugged her shoulders expressively. Was that what he had been doing? Waiting for her? It seemed impossible. Or did it? Meredith shook her head. She had long since given up any hope of understanding the complex, moody man she had married.

Looking about, she took in the decor of his bedchamber. Her eyes came to rest upon a wooden table set next to the wing chair. It held an open decanter of spirits and a nearly empty crystal goblet.

He did not seem to be in his cups, but obviously Trevor had been drinking. This might not be the most appropriate moment to have an important discussion, Meredith concluded.

Leave, her mind screamed. Leave before he makes a complete fool of you . It was the cautious, wise choice, yet her wayward heart would not obey. Each day since her wedding, Meredith had hungered for a glimpse of him, a chance to have a conversation—any sort of conversation—with him.

If he was sincere about effecting a change in their relationship, she was more than anxious to listen. Yet hope was a frightening commodity and something she could ill afford. Her heart was already bruised, her self-confidence on the brink of falling apart.

“Will you take a seat?” He indicated the chair opposite his.

“No, thank you. I prefer to stand.”

“I would think your feet are tired from all the dancing you did tonight.”

There was a long pause. The marquess settled himself in his chair and stared at her expectantly.

He wore a starched white shirt, a perfectly tied silk cravat, black knee breeches, white silk stockings, and black shoes polished to an impeccable gleam, but no waistcoat or evening coat.

She was unsure if he had recently returned from an evening on the town or was preparing to go out.

Meredith came closer to him. Her senses were assaulted by the distinctive scent of soap and mild cologne that was unique to him. She closed her eyes and breathed deeply. It was erotic and mildly disturbing. Her poise began eroding rapidly.

“I danced but three times tonight,” she whispered.

“All with the duke?”

Her lips twitched in amusement. “So you have heard about that?”

“Ad nauseam.” He lifted the glass off the small table beside him, drained it, then held it in her direction. “Would you be so kind as to pour me another?”

A scowl settled over her features. Was that why she was here?

To act as his servant? Or to listen to him complain about her social activities with his father?

Meredith was of a mind to empty the contents of the decanter directly into his lap, but at the last moment refrained from giving in to her temper.

It gave her the oddest feeling to lean toward him and pour a thin, steady stream of liquid into the glass. He watched her intently as she performed this simple task, and she, in turn, felt unable to drag her eyes from his.

“Thank you.”

Shivers trickled down her spine. The mood had changed noticeably—tense and charged. More than anything she wanted to lean even closer, to press herself against his solid warmth. Yet she did not dare.

Keeping his gaze firmly locked with hers, the marquess put his glass back on the table without taking a sip. Then he reached forward and took the decanter out of her hands, setting that beside the glass. Her entire body felt singed by the look he gave her.

His hand thrust out suddenly and grabbed her wrist. She realized she was still bent over him and tried to straighten herself. He tugged harder and she lost her balance, falling forward to land in his lap. She tried to push herself away, but he held her wrist.

Mere inches separated their lips. A tide of sexual awareness swept over her. Something hard and masculine pressed insistently against her soft lower belly.

He smiled at her. Wickedly, sensually, irresistibly. The impact felt like a blow. Her heart thundered painfully in her chest. Though they supported only a small part of her weight, Meredith’s legs began to tremble.

She felt the warmth of his breath skimming her face. It filled her with a mixture of elation and excitement, yet also dread. For if he did not kiss her now, she would surely wither and die.

As if reading her desperate thoughts, he closed the slight gap between them.

His lips brushed lightly against hers. She whimpered softly as the sensations strummed through her body.

He released her wrist, but she did not move away.

Instead she moved her mouth against his, her tongue stroking his lower lip.

The marquess reached out and cupped her face.

He tilted her head, positioning her to accept his kisses, which grew progressively deeper, more intimate.

His tongue parted her lips. He tasted of wine and sin.

The fingers of one hand threaded through her tightly coiffed hair, while his other hand rested against her bottom.

Trevor then began to stroke her with that hand—pet her, really, like a purring kitten. Across her shoulders, down her back, a tight squeeze on her bottom. Then back again. She felt her body begin to heat, to ready itself for him.

Meredith arched into his palm as he shifted his fingers to the front of her body.

Sighing with pleasure, she pushed her full breast into his hand.

His fingers were teasing and exciting, but the silk of her gown was a barrier that frustrated her.

Hastily she tugged at the low-cut bodice, yanking it away along with the thin chemise, exposing herself to the waist.