Ash startled, flung the walking stick aside in a stupid attempt to dispose of the evidence, and then stood motionless as his beaver hat plummeted toward the earth out of nowhere, glancing off his shoulder before crashing to the floor. It must have looked as though he’d been the target of some sort of lightning bolt from Olympus, only a more

Women who might appreciate her efforts, unlike a certain ungrateful duke. “Wienerbrød.” This non sequitur came from Nicola.

“Don’t lie to me,” he thundered. She swallowed hard.

She was saved from answering when a pincushion nestled in a nearby darning basket unfurled itself and toddled away. “Was that a hedgehog?”

“You will not speak to me that way, Emma Grace Gladstone.” “Emma Grace Gladstone,” she echoed. “No, Emma Grace Gladstone would not have dared to speak to you that way. But I’m Emma Grace Pembrooke now. The Duchess of Ashbury. And if you ever speak to me again, you will address me as Your Grace.”

“You’re mine,” he said hoarsely, lifting his head and staring deep into her eyes, willing her to believe. “If you leave, I will follow. Do you hear me? I will follow and find you and cart you home.”

“It’s a ring,” he said. “I love it.” “Emma, you haven’t opened it.” “Yes, I know. I don’t have to. I love it already.”

The female body came in all shapes and sizes, and he’d never seen any reason to complain about the variety.

You crusty botch of nature. You poisonous bunch-backed toad. Sitting in this weaselly little house full to reeking with betrayal and . . .” He waved at the nearest shelf. “And ghastly curtains.” “What’s wrong with the curtains?” “Everything!” he roared.