The Devilish Duke by Alice Gaines Page A

took a breath and set her fork and knife aside. “I took the public coach.”
    “And then, walked here? All alone?”
    “It was the most direct way,” she answered.
    “When I last saw your father, he kept a carriage,” he said. “He hasn’t gambled everything away yet, has he?”
    “No, sir. Not yet.”
    “He doesn’t know you’ve come, does he?”
    She didn’t reply. He’d hardly see her if she shook her head, so she let silence be her answer.
    “You didn’t trust him, so you came on your own,” the duke said.
    “As your wife, I’ll have no secrets from you,” she said. “But, I’d rather not tell you now.”
    “It could have some effect on whether or not I want to make you my duchess.”
    “Please, Your Grace.”
    “Tom, more wine,” he said. “And pour some for Miss Weaver.”
    “I don’t drink.”
    “Try it,” he ordered. “It’s excellent.”
    When the footman filled her glass, she took a sip. It tasted dark and floral all at once. With nothing to judge it against, she couldn’t have spoken to its quality.
    “Now then, negotiations.” He leaned back in his chair and studied her. “You become a duchess. I give your father a large sum of money. What do I get?”
    “What you must have been looking for all along,” she answered. “It’s common knowledge you don’t have an heir.”
    “And, why you, Miss Weaver?”
    “Not all families will give their daughters to the devil duke.” There, she’d said what everyone called him behind his back. He had to know of it, even if it was never said to his face.
    “Repeat that,” he said.
    “They call you the devil duke.”
    The candle caught a light of something in his eyes. Anger? “Do you know why they call me that?”
    “Because both of your wives died.”
    “And the fools think I had something to do with it.” He sighed. “In truth, I did.”
    She set her wineglass down with a clatter.
    “Don’t look shocked,” he said. “I didn’t murder them, but I had a hand in their deaths, nevertheless.”
    If what she’d heard was true, the first wife had died in childbirth and the second had committed suicide. No sign of foul play, and yet, enough to rouse suspicions.
    “Are you still willing to give me an heir?” he asked.
    “I am.”
    He brought his glass to his lips and stared at her over the rim. “You know what that involves, do you?”
    “Of course, I do.”
    “All right. I have a test. If you pass it, you’ll become the Duchess of Fallon.”
    She lifted her chin. “I can pass any test.”
    He chuckled but without mirth. “You’re sure of that?”
    “Try me.”
    “All right.” He gestured to his footman. “Tom, have a bedroom made up. The way we discussed. And then, bring us our dessert.”
    When the man bowed and left the room, the duke turned his attention back on her. “When you leave this table, Tom will lead you to your room. Take off every stitch of your clothing. Put on the night rail laid out there—nothing underneath—and lie on the bed.”
    “And then?”
    “I’ll visit you.”
    “But you can’t,” she said. “We’re not married yet.”
    “I won’t ruin you. You’ll have your virginity when I’ve done.” He set down his glass. “But I will touch you.”
    “That’s a test?”
    “I want to watch you spend,” he said.
    “Spend?” she repeated.
    “Spend, climax. I want to witness your orgasm. Will you let me do that?”
    “Do I have a choice?”
    “You can go home to your father,” he said. “I’ll send you in my carriage.”
    Back to her father and to a different choice—either the man who’d offered more for her than the duke or to be put out into the street.
    “I’ll take your test, Your Grace.”
    “Good.” He leaned back against his chair. His expression might have been carved of stone.
    The footman reappeared carrying a tray.
    “Enjoy your dessert,” the duke said.
    * * *
     
    A queen might have occupied the bedroom Fallon had ordered for her. The huge four-poster