Page 10 of The Duchess He Couldn’t Resist

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If Marigold could spare the paper, she would have written down all the reasons why she would have to ignore his summons. And yet she had laid out her mourning clothes, the only dark dress that she owned, and the black coat. She could also list things that she should instead do: tell Alfred, confide in her mother, ask a priest for confession.

But all she could think was that this man had saved her twice, he was powerful, and he had created a problem only he could solve.

Very quickly and efficiently, she put on the dark clothes and left the room. The upside of not having any staff was that it was much easier to sneak out under the nose of a very old butler and her mother, who was absent.

Marigold snuck out into the foggy London night, half expecting to find the corner empty and that this was all an elaborate joke. Yet, as she turned on the twelfth strike of midnight, she saw an unmarked black carriage waiting for her. She was equally deflated and secretly excited.

The driver said nothing and opened the door for her. The curtains were already drawn. The inside screamed of aristocratic wealth, and involuntarily, Marigold calculated how much money she could make selling the brocade of the seats. Or perhaps mathematical calculations were a way to calm her nerves.

The ride didn’t last very long, so Marigold knew that they were still in London. She had no friends to gossip with, no invitations to balls and gatherings, so she didn’t know where the Duke of Voss resided, but she was about to find out.

The driver opened the door and helped her out of the carriage, and she found herself at the servants’ entrance of a massive London townhouse. There, a butler awaited her, straight and proper and with a pin on his lapel that could have made her concerns over her butcher seem quite insignificant.

She pulled the hood tighter over her face, but neither the butler nor the staff that they passed in the corridors of the estate spared her their attention. It seemed that women being ushered in the middle of the night to the Duke was not a novel spectacle. Marigold surmised that the Duke must be a rake, though such rumors hadn’t reached her ears. Then again, she had no friends or confidants, and she couldn’t even afford the sheets, so she was not up to date with gossip.

She was guided into a drawing room, and the first thing she noticed was the Duke himself, simply because he was dominating the space. The light from the large fireplace cast an amber glow on the expensive tapestry on the walls as he stood in the middle of the room.

“Good evening, Lady Marigold.”

Marigold pulled down her hood and curtsied. And then the small room echoed with his laughter. It had been a while since Marigold had heard someone laugh, but she was sure that true laughter was not supposed to leave the metallic feeling that the Duke’s laughter left behind.

“What exactly are you doing, Lady Marigold?”

“Though you have failed to properly introduce yourself, I was informed that you are a duke, and this is the proper way to greet a duke.”

That earned her a chuckle. Marigold saw that he was in a perfectly pressed white shirt, breeches, and suspenders, but he had no coat nor a cravat although, thankfully for her sanity, he had kept the shirt buttoned up.

“Lady Marigold,” his voice dropped in a dangerous purr, “you’re alone in my house in the middle of the night, and yet you insist on decorum.”

“It is precisely because I am alone in your house that I must maintain decorum,” she insisted. “After all, I am not here for salacious purposes.”

The Duke lowered his chin and pinned his eyes to hers. He took three steps towards her, dangerous as an apex predator prowling for food. It was not her first time as prey, but it was the first time that she didn’t feel disgust, that bitter bile rising from her stomach. Instead, her stomach had a completely different reaction to his approach.

“You seem quite certain, Lady Marigold,” he said slowly. “You’re here in the middle of the night because I summoned you, right after you were quite insistent on repaying me.”

He took another step towards her. Marigold felt her body tense, but not the same way it did when Donny leered at her. She looked up, his broad shoulders restricting the view to him only.

“Perhaps you are indeed here for my own pleasure.”

Marigold inhaled sharply, her gloves straining from the force she used to tighten her fists. And yet it was a different kind of tension. Yesterday in that alley, what she felt was disgust, but now, what she got was goosebumps and an eerie tightening low in her stomach. One more step, and the Duke loomed over her.

“Would you deny me my payment, sweetheart?”

Her eyes snapped to his in pure surprise. She was fooled by his refined speech, the luxurious carriage, and the impressive house. This man before her tightroped dangerously on the edge of civility and barely restrained chaos.

Her jaw locked tight, her lower lip trembled, and cold sweat ran down her spine. And yet there was no way to drag her eyes away from his black ones. For one imperceptible second, his eyes dropped to her lips. The effect was so sweeping that she fought the urge to lick her lips. She proudly managed to hold back, or else the night would have taken a completely different turn.

The Duke turned away from her and made his way to a table with a whiskey decanter.

“You don’t need to worry, Lady Marigold,” he said, his back still to her, “I am not that kind of criminal.”

Marigold was tempted to ask what kind of criminal he truly was, but she refrained.

“Would you care for a drink?”

“I would care for an explanation, Your Grace.”