Don’t react as though you were flattered, she told herself sternly. Do not take perverse excitement in the fact that the Duke of Morland has evidently given a good deal of thought to the idea of bedding you, perhaps even imagined the act in detail. Do not—do not—dream of imagining it yourself!

Too late, too late.

Amelia pushed the carnal image away and struggled to tamp down any sensation that might be construed as a thrill. The duke had not called her desirable. He had deemed her beddable, and in highly insulting fashion at that. No doubt he would say the same of any chambermaid.

“I cannot credit this,” she finally said.

“You believe me insincere?”

“I believe you inconsistent. Here you are offering to marry me this morning. Yet not seven hours ago, you were ready to duel Mr. Bellamy rather than offer for Lily. And she, I might add, has a greater claim on your honor.” And more beauty. And more grace. And more money.

“I did not wish to marry Lily.”

The back of Amelia’s neck prickled, against all her attempts to remind it that the duke’s statement was not a compliment to her.

“Lady Amelia,” he continued, “in all our conversations, you have paid me the compliment of unflinching honesty. May I be completely frank with you now?”

She waved her hand in invitation.

“As Lily advised, I have taken Leo’s death as a reminder of my own mortality, and as a call to action. I have a ward, several years my junior. It will be two years before her introduction, and longer still before she is ready to wed. If some misfortune were to befall me in the interim, my title and estate would pass to distant relations, and her fate would be in the hands of strangers. I cannot risk it. Therefore, I have decided to marry and produce an heir.”

“Just this morning, you have decided this.”

“Yes.”

“Why me, and not Lily? Why not one of the other ladies you’ve auditioned, over the course of dozens of balls?”

He looked taken aback. “Auditioned? Is that what people believe, that I have been conducting a search for my bride? Trial by waltzing?”

“Yes, of course.”

He laughed again. Twice in one morning now. Astonishing. And this time, his laugh had a rich, velvet quality that stroked her with heat from crown to toe.

“No. That has not been my purpose, I assure you. But I will answer your question honestly. I wish to produce an heir, as quickly as possible. I have no inclination to court, flatter, or otherwise woo some silly young chit scarcely half my age. Neither do I have the patience to engage the hand of a grieving woman who will be in mourning for the next year. Dowries are of no importance to me. I simply need a sensible woman from suitable bloodlines, of robust constitution and even temperament, with whom to create a few children.”

She stared at him in horror. “You want a broodmare!”

He said evenly, “When you draw that comparison, you demean us both. I have many fine mares in my stables, and yet there is not a one of them I would allow to mother my children or manage my household, much less introduce my cousin to society. No, I do not want a broodmare. I want a wife. A duchess.”

At that moment, the magnitude of his offer struck Amelia with sudden force. It was fortunate she was still sitting down. This man would make her the Duchess of Morland. If she accepted him—barbaric, unfeeling creature that he was—she would become one of the highest-ranking, wealthiest ladies in all England. She would host grand parties, move in the most elite circles of society. And at last—oh, her heart turned over at the thought …

“I would be mistress of my own house,” she whispered.

“In point of fact, you would be mistress of six. But I almost never travel to the Scottish one.”

Amelia gripped the arm of the chair, hard. As if she might slide right off it and fall into wedlock if she didn’t hold on with all her strength. Good heavens, six estates. Surely one of them could use a vicar. She could convince Jack to resume his studies and take orders, see him settled in a wholesome country vicarage, far away from his ruffian friends …

No, no, no. There were a thousand reasons why she must refuse the duke. There had to be. She just couldn’t think of them right now.

“But …” she stammered, “but we scarcely know one another.”

“In the past several hours, I have observed you at a social event, witnessed your composure during a difficult ordeal, and engaged you in conversation that hovered some distance above the usual banalities. I am familiar with your ancestry, and I know that you come from a family rife with sons, which bodes well for my purposes of getting an heir. For my part, I am satisfied. But if you wish, you may ask me questions.” He cocked an eyebrow in anticipation.

She swallowed. “What is your age?”

“Thirty-one.”

“Have you other close family, besides this cousin?”

“No.”

“Does she have a name?”

“Of course. She is Lady Claudia, fifteen years of age.”

“Is she here with you, in Town?”

“No. She has spent the past few months in York, visiting her mother’s relations.”

Amelia paused, uncertain where to go from here. What sort of questions did one ask a gentleman of his stature? It would seem absurd to inquire after a duke’s favorite color, or preferred glovemaker. Finally she blurted out, “Do you object to cats?”

He grimaced. “Only in principle.”

“I should like to keep cats.” She perked in triumph. Here it was, her escape route from this bizarre proposal.

He tapped a finger on the desktop. “If you can keep them out of my way, I suppose that desire can be accommodated.”

Drat. No escape there.

She tried again. “What is the last book you read?”

“A Vindication of the Rights of Woman, by Mary Wollstonecraft.”

“You are joking.”

“Yes, I am.” The corner of his mouth curled in a sly, sensual manner. “Actually, I read that book some years ago.”

“Truly? And what did you think?”

“I think …” He pushed off from the desk and stood, regarding her with cool challenge in his eyes. “I think you are stalling, Lady Amelia.”

Her pulse did stall, for a moment. Then it jolted back to life, pounding feverishly in her throat. Why didn’t God apportion fine looks in equal accordance with deserving personalities? A horrid man ought to be horrid-looking. He should never be gifted with dark, curling, touchable hair; nor the noble, sculpted cheekbones of a Roman god. He most especially should not possess entrancing, deep-set hazel eyes and a wide, sensual mouth that was near devastating in repose, but even further improved by the presence of a knowing little smile.

Time for desperate measures.

“If I marry you, will you forgive Jack’s debt?”

Say no, she willed silently. Please say no, or I cannot be responsible for my actions. If you say yes, I may be driven to embrace you. Or worse, give my consent.

“No,” he said.

Waves of relief and disappointment crashed within her, leaving Amelia feeling rather adrift. But her course was now clear. “In that case, Your Grace, I’m afraid I cannot—”

“I will, of course, settle a substantial sum on you, as part of the marriage contracts. Twenty thousand, I should think, and some property. In addition, you would receive a generous allowance for your discretionary spending. Several hundred pounds.”

“Several hundred pounds? A year?”

“Don’t be absurd. Quarterly.”

Amelia’s mind blanked. In recent years, she’d become expert at counting up small sums of money, down to the last ha’penny. Two shillings, ten pence at the draper’s, and so forth. But sums so large as these … they simply weren’t in her arithmetic.

“Your allowance will be yours to spend as you wish, but I would advise against wasting tuppence on your brother. Even if you pay his debt, you won’t be summering at your cottage. You’ll come to my estate in Cambridgeshire.”

“Braxton Hall.”

He nodded.

She knew it well by reputation. Though the current duke never entertained, his aunt and uncle had, and the older society matrons sometimes waxed nostalgic about the epic grandeur that was Braxton Hall. It was said to be the largest, most lavish house in East Anglia, surrounded by beautiful parklands and gardens.

She allowed herself one quiet, plaintive sigh for those gardens.

“Have no doubt that I will provide for your every material comfort. In return, I ask only that you continue to receive my attentions until such time as a son is born. And of course, I will demand your fidelity.”

She recalled his terse words last night, when he spoke of that blasted stallion: I am not interested in breeding privileges. I am interested in possession. I do not like to share. Such words, such a tone, such an attitude of absolute entitlement—they were repugnant in reference to a horse. They were perfectly debasing, when applied to a woman. Debasing and demeaning and … God help her, arousing.

“I see,” she said, struggling for equanimity. “And may I expect your fidelity in kind?”

“Curse that Wollstonecraft woman. Very well. Until you have birthed a son, you may be assured of my faithfulness. At that time, we can revisit our arrangement. If you wish, we need not even live on the same estate.”

It only became worse. So she was not even to be possessed, but merely to be rented.

When confronted with her stunned silence, he added, “Is that not egalitarian?”

“Egalitarian, yes. Also cold, convenient, and heartless.”

“Well, you can hardly be expecting romantic declarations. They would be transparently false, and an insult to us both.”

Amelia rose to her feet and said calmly, “I do find myself sufficiently insulted for one morning.”

“My patience is also at an end.” He met her in the center of the room. “I have made you an offer of marriage. I am certain it is the most generous and beneficial offer you will ever receive—likely the last such offer you will ever receive. I have answered all your impertinent questions and made you some extremely generous promises. Now, madam, may I have your answer?”

Oh, yes. She would give him an answer.

But she would take some satisfaction from him first.

“One last question, Your Grace. You have said earlier, you would not find it a chore to bed me. How am I to be assured of the same? Perhaps I would find it a chore to bed you.”

He took a step backward, as though he needed the extra distance to properly glare at her. Or perhaps because he suspected her of carrying an infectious disease of the brain.

She smiled, enjoying the triumph of setting him on edge. “Don’t look so alarmed, Your Grace. I do not intend to squeeze your thigh.”

At this moment, she made the error of dropping her gaze to those thighs. Those very thick, very muscular thighs that looked as squeezable as granite.

“Don’t you?”

She wrenched her eyes back up to his face. “No. You see, when it comes to such matters, women appreciate a touch more finesse.”

He gave a derisive, but—she imagined—also defensive laugh.

“I may be a virgin, Your Grace, but I am not ignorant.”

“Don’t tell me. More subversive reading material?”

She ignored his feeble attempt at taunting. “Before I give an answer to your proposal, I would like to perform an experiment of my own.”

A wild panic flared in his eyes. Or perhaps that amber spark was desire?

Don’t be ridiculous, she chided herself. It was panic, surely panic. And she relished it.

“What sort of experiment did you have in mind?”

“A kiss.”

“Is that all?” He stepped forward, angling his head as though he would press a chaste kiss to her cheek.