The Bad Boy Billionaire's Wicked Arrangement by Maya Rodale

French doors that the duke deliberately closed behind them—with an apologetic grin to all the ladies, of course. Not one of whom moved, other than to obtain a better view of the unfathomable sight of Emma strolling arm in arm with London’s Most Eligible Bachelor Of All Time Ever.
    She inhaled deeply, discovering the duke’s manly scent of fresh linen and wool mingling with the fragrant flowers of the garden. She exhaled slowly. None of this could be real. At any second now, everything would return to normal, or perhaps even worse.
    What cursed person had sent the letter? And heaven’s above, what was the duke actually doing here, in her garden, his muscled arm linked with hers?
    “It seems we are engaged,” Blake remarked casually. As if he were only commenting on the weather. As if they were acquainted, and not complete strangers to each other.
    “We did nothing to dispel the rumors,” Emma replied.
    “Rumors? It was printed in the paper.”
    “Very well, libel,” Emma corrected. “But you could still cry off.”
    She so kindly gave him the opportunity to live down to her expectations. She found herself holding her breath and glancing up at his impossibly handsome profile while she still had the opportunity to do so.
    “Do you not want to marry me?” he asked, as if that had anything to do with it. She had not even considered it.
    “Your Grace, I don’t even know you.”
    “A minor detail, and one that is easily remedied.” Then he glanced down at her with dark eyes and a suggestive smile. “It would be a pleasure to become better acquainted.”
    He said this, of course, in a manner that left no doubt as to what sort of pleasure or acquaintance he intended. Emma felt her temperature rising, but would not allow herself to engage in his flirtations. She did not want to be swept away upon some flight of fancy, only to come crashing down when the world inevitably restored itself to the proper order in which the likes of him did not engage with the likes of her.
    “I should think our lack of acquaintance is a significant detail, actually,” she said. “And one not necessarily in need of a remedy.”
    The duke paused, and turned to face her. She was struck by the perfection of him. She, who had a crooked smile and plain brown hair and perfectly fine features, could not even imagine possessing such beauty as he.
    He didn’t even seem aware of how utterly handsome he was, and how it made a girl lose her wits around him.
    Emma resolved then and there that she would be immune to the Ashbrooke Affect. She would not be yet another simpering, silly girl who flung herself at his feet. While the world as she’d always known it no longer made sense, Emma stubbornly clung to one truth: the likes of her and the likes of Ashbrooke could not belong together. Therefore, there was no point in acting prettily, as if she could 1) suddenly learn to flirt and 2) as if something would come of it.
    No, she wanted Benedict and their little townhouse full of books and babies. She wanted to be with a man who was safe, steady and constant.
    “I have a proposal for you,” the duke said, clasping her hands. His were large, warm and he scandalously did not wear gloves.
    “Another one?”
    He laughed, a rich, low, velvety sound, and she was overwhelmed by a flush of heat and pleasure just from the vibrations of it. Though she may have suffered a fleeting sensation that might have been the infamous Ashbrooke Effect, she would perish before admitting it.
    They did not belong together. She would do well to remember that.
    She promptly forgot as he dropped to one knee.
    “What in blazes are you doing?” Emma tried to yank him up to stand, but he held onto her hand firmly. She glanced, panicked, at the group of ladies pressed up against the drawing room window.
    The duke remained on one knee, peering at her with an earnest look in his eyes and a hint of a smile on his lips.
    “Emily, will you marry me?”
    “Are you