Chapter One
Lady Gemma Caster was afraid to open her eyes. Morning sunlight seared through her closed eyelids, making her dimly aware of the thumping in her head, the scratchiness of her throat, the dryness of her mouth. But none of these things made her fearful as she lay on her back beneath the silky covers of this palatial bed.
It was the fact that Gemma could tell she was not in bed alone.
She could hear soft snoring coming from beside her. Too deep, too manly to be one of her sisters. And, even more tellingly, as she shook away the last blissful shadows of sleep, she could feel the warmth of another's body beneath her fingertips. Firm and broad. A shoulder, or a chest, or…
No. It cannot be…
As if they had a mind of their own, her fingers began to move slightly, in a deviously exploratory way. Whoever this figure was in bed beside her, he was utterly, intoxicatingly male. Because although she had little knowledge with which to verify it,Gemma was suddenly, excruciatingly aware that her hand was resting on his…manhood!?
Oh God, oh God, oh God!
Her eyes flew open and she scrambled into sitting, the strangely dreamlike pleasure of the realization yanked away by reality. She was the unmarried daughter of the Earl of Volk. And being discovered in bed with a man—with her fingers doing this sly little dance, no less—would destroy her.
Gemma's flurried movements caused the man beside her to wake. She watched in horror as he took in his surroundings. Took inher. She watched his eyes widen, as though in slow motion. And she knew at once that the horror in his face was reflected in her own.
“Lady Gemma?” His voice was husky, thick with surprise. And something bordering on dread.
A quick glance down told Gemma, with no small amount of relief, that she was still dressed in the pale pink gown she had been wearing the night before, even if it was now hideously creased. Her shoes were missing, as was one garter, and her left stocking had gathered in a mess at her ankle.
She scrambled out of bed, backing toward the wall, and folding her arms across her body as though in a vain attempt to protect herself. Pieces of the evening flew at her. A house party to celebrate the upcoming wedding of the Duke of Larsen and Miss Henrietta Henford, thrown by the family of the bride. Gemma remembered an elaborate dinner, remembered sitting beside her two sisters at the table and keeping a stern eye on her father, and remembered drinking nothing more than lemonade.
Nonetheless, though she had never been drunk in her life, she imagined it might very well feel like this. Her head was thudding, and her mouth felt horribly dry. But she could not even begin to make sense of how she might have come to feel that way.
She shoved the thoughts aside, knowing they did not matter a scrap right now. All that mattered was the man sitting up in her bed, his dark hair mussed with sleep and flattened on one side. His piercing blue eyes portrayed the shock Gemma knew was etched into her own features.
Because this situation had just gone from bad to worse. The man sitting up in her bed was the Duke of Larsen.
“Your Grace,” Gemma squeaked, “I…” In an instant, her terror gave way to wild anger. Because she knew all too well of the Duke's reputation. A damnable rake. A scoundrel. A man that was not to be trusted. Even, it seemed, two days before his own wedding, at the party thrown in his honor. “How dare you?” Gemma demanded. “I have no idea how you managed to get in here, but I demand you explain yourself at once!” Rage tore through her. Wild fury at the Duke. And anger that she might have let herself be drawn into such a compromising situation.
“What in hell happened last night?” she demanded.
The Duke rubbed his eyes blearily, unfazed by her unladylike outburst. Gemma could tell he too was trying to untangle his hazy recollections of the previous evening. He sat up, the white sheets falling down his body and revealing a bare torso. Gemma swallowed hard. In spite of her best intentions, she found her gaze drawn to the smooth planes of his chest; to the sparse curls of hair that trailed down from his collarbones over the taut muscles of his stomach. And then down to… Gemma shook her head hurriedly to try and discard the thought.
“I do not know,” he admitted. “I remember taking a drink or two with Lord Anderson. And then…”
“A drink or two?” Gemma repeated. “I know you and Lord Anderson well enough to know you never stop ata drink or two.”
“And nor,” said the Duke, “did you, it would seem.”
Gemma's eyebrows rose in indignation. “You think I was drunk last night?” she demanded.
The Duke chuckled. “The situation we find ourselves in would seem to suggest so.”
Gemma's cheeks reddened.
How can he be making light of such things?
“I'll have you know,” she said, “that I did not touch a drop last night. I had nothing more than lemonade!”
The Duke grinned an infuriatingly playful smile. “If you say so. In any case, I remember speaking to you. At length. About… something.”
Gemma faltered. “You are mistaken, Your Grace. I would never waste my evening in your company.”
In truth, she had never held such strong feelings toward the Duke of Larsen in the past. Some eight years older than her, he had always been a somewhat distant figure in her life, one she knew well enough to keep at a distance—or so she thought. Had she really been speaking to him at length last night? Why? And about what?
He chuckled lightly. “Your actions seem to betray your words, Lady Gemma.”
