Page 12 of The Duke of Pain

Lord Craven sat the glass on the table, swung his long legs over the side, and stood. Broad shoulders tapered to narrow, muscular hips. Tall and athletically built—but of course, he was.

How remarkable to discover he appealed as no man ever had. Olivia tamped down the spark of attraction. Merely the twitching of a corpse, she reasoned.

It had to be.

“Mistress Birch, I presume?” His voice was deep but raspy.

“Yes. And how shall I address you?”

He bowed slightly. “Gideon Broyles, the Duke of Watford, at your service. I cannot abide the Lord Craven sobriquet.”

“I rarely take on appointments at short notice, Your Grace.”

“I am honored, then.” He swept his arm toward the nearby chair. “Shall we discuss terms?”

Taking a seat, Olivia watched as he sat opposite on the edge of the bed. Clearing his throat, the duke crossed his long legs and gave her his complete attention.

“What terms do you mean, Your Grace?” she asked. “I am sure Pan informed you that I allow a maximum of three strikes. How hard and deep I wield the crop is up to you. There is no bloodletting. As he also no doubt told you, I am not to be touched, nor will any sexual congress pass between us.”

His eyebrows arched in question. “Indeed? Is that why your photograph was not on display with the others? Fascinating. Seems to me a vast amount of coin paid out for the privilege of being whipped like a naughty schoolboy. I have another proposal in mind.”

The duke was used to getting his way. Olivia could tell by the determined set of his jaw and the fact his onyx eyes glittered with interest.

“Pray tell me what manner of perversion you require. I have heard of your reputation, Your Grace.”

A deep laugh rumbled in his chest. “I can well imagine. Let us disperse with the ‘Your Gracing’ as well. My name is Gideon. I want you to use it. Do you agree?”

“As you said, you are paying a good deal of coin. So yes, I agree.”

“This is not my chosen form of pleasure, submitting in this setting. Agreeing to this was the only way I could see and talk to you. If I must endure a flogging, so be it. My proposal is this: For each strike, you will give me something in return. But not all on the same night.”

This man was beyond arrogant. She heard that he reveled in being in control. Be damned she would let him wrestle power away from her in this situation.

“Explain what you mean, Your Grace.”

“Gideon, please. I want to visit you for consecutive nights. One strike each night.”

Olivia crossed her arms. “I do not make those types of arrangements. This is not the marketplace at Bethnal Green, where we will haggle over the price of fresh fish or a loaf of bread. Take what is offered, or I am leaving.”

He smiled a predatory grin of a crafty fox.

“Why do you flog men?” the duke asked. “If you do not allow anyone to touch you or engage in rutting, then sexual gratification for yourself is not the goal. Do you seek to punish them—or all men in general?”

His clever observation hit too close to the mark.

Olivia struggled to hide her reaction, but she knew she had revealed her conflicting emotions. This dark duke threatened her shielded reserve. She remained silent.

“Come. Think of the contentment you will derive in bringing such a supercilious man to his knees. You will be the first to make me surrender,” he crooned, his deep voice causing sparks to ignite along her spine.

She cocked her head as if studying him. “I have brought many such men to their knees. That is hardly an inducement.”

Gideon strode toward his coat and pulled out a velvet pouch. He dropped it on the bed.

Yes, she was thinking of him as Gideon. That was not wise.

“Then perhaps more money will convince you. There are thirty gold sovereigns in the sack. All yours, no splitting with Pan. A side exchange only between us. What I propose is sharing: for every strike of your crop, you will allow me to touch and kiss you. We will also share something of our lives. Imagine, neither of us in control, neither of us submitting. We will both give and take.”

What on earth was this nonsense?