The trip to London had not been an easy one. The overcast day had given way to rain and mist, and the only horse available to Matt from Mayfield’s stables had been a difficult mare with her own mind. Matt and the blasted animal had argued from the moment he’d left his stable door until the reins had been turned over to a street lad to keep the mare walking to cool her down.

So Matt was not in a conciliatory mood.

Especially toward females.

He had also not bothered to stop at his London home to change. He wasn’t afraid to let Miss Reverly see him in his mud-splashed boots and breeches. Let her know that he had taken her letter seriously.

And he had.

Her terse wording was branded in his mind: We are not suited. I am releasing you of any obligation to me. Sincerely, W. Reverly .

What was she, a solicitor? She was releasing him with two sentences?

Miss Reverly’s curtness was not how a woman should write to a man to whom she’d been promised. She hadn’t minced words but had been clear she was willing to mince him.

The closer he’d come to London, the more he’d wanted to know why . What had he done to set her off? He hadn’t even been in London since the evening of their betrothal party.

And now here he was cooling his heels in Reverly’s palatial London home that spoke of money and power. All the furniture was gilt-painted wood. There wasn’t a worn carpet or threadbare pillow in sight. The air was scented with beeswax and the room showed the meticulous care of dozens of well-paid servants.

Gracing the walls were as many paintings as could be found in any stately house. A few were of landscapes or good horseflesh. Most were portraits, although Matt doubted if any were of Reverly’s ancestors. The man had supposedly come from humble roots, worked hard, and married well.

Matt suspected some of those paintings could have been those sold from Mayfield. Reverly was known to have a fondness for a bargain. He’d turn any agreement in his favor. “Greedy as a fox,” one lord had warned Matt.

Well, God willing, the man would be his father-in-law.

Matt paced the length of the receiving room, struggling with his pride and temper and considering how best to approach the rebellious Miss Reverly.

Someplace in the house, footsteps could be heard. A clock chimed the hour. Late afternoon. He’d made good time from Mayfield.

A footman had taken his greatcoat and hat. However, his hair was damp. He combed it back from his face with his fingers just as he heard voices, feminine ones. He squared off with the closed double doors.

One half opened—and Miss Reverly seemed to float into the room.

For a moment, he was caught off guard. He’d forgotten how graceful she was. She reminded him of a petite opera dancer. Perfectly formed, no movement wasted, comfortable in her own skin.

And lovely. Far prettier than he remembered.

Four months ago, Matt had still been preoccupied with thoughts of Letty. Now, he was struck by what he hadn’t noticed about his intended.

Yes, Willa Reverly was a mite of a thing . . . but there was something about her presence that made her seem taller and stronger than her size indicated. Dark, thick hair and clear skin made her conventionally pretty. What set her apart was the intelligence in her snapping blue eyes and the determination in her attitude.

For the first time, Matt realized perhaps one shouldn’t underestimate an heiress.

She was not alone. To his surprise, Cassandra, Soren’s wife, was with her. Any other time he’d be delighted to see her because this meant his good friend was in town.

However, now he struggled not to frown. He had no desire to have an audience for this interview. At least he liked Cassandra. Soren had chosen well. And yet, there was nothing he could do about the matter of her presence but play his part.

“Your Grace.” Miss Reverly made the barest of curtseys.

He returned with the barest of ducal bows. They were as formal as strangers.

“Miss Reverly, you could put a garden full of flowers to shame.” One thing Matt had learned about London ladies, they lapped up this nonsense. He truly believed it was impossible to overflatter one of them.

Willa Reverly disputed his theory. Annoyance and, yes, disappointment, crossed her face. “One should expect a better compliment from a poet.”

So much for pleasantries . . . and his assumption that Willa was like all London ladies.

Riding had given Matt time to think and face some hard truths about himself. He had taken her sizable dowry for granted.

His sojourn in the country? Yes, it was true that Letty had broken his heart, except that, to be honest, he’d latched on to her because being named Camberly had been overwhelming. He’d never imagined he’d take on the title, even after his uncle had died. He’d naïvely assumed his grandfather would live forever. The old man must have thought the same or else he would have helped Matt become better prepared.

However, a blackmailer and a sharp-tongued heiress were waking Matt up.

Unfortunately, he was not liking Miss Reverly very much.

Perhaps because she was right? He hadn’t given much thought to her. Guilty as charged?

He turned his attention to Cassandra. “How are you, Lady Dewsberry? Married life appears to suit you.”

“It pleases me very well, Your Grace,” she replied smoothly, with enough of a twinkle in her eye that he knew Willa had confided in her about the note.

Did that mean Willa had also spoken to her father? Perhaps Leland Reverly was even behind the message? If that was the case, there would be no dowry.

Keeping his smile determinedly fixed on his face, Matt said to Willa, “May we sit and talk?”

“I have said all I wish to say,” was her rude reply.

“And yet, I apparently have much to explain.” His voice sounded genial, but tight. It was the best he could manage.

“Why, Your Grace, I have no interest in hearing explanations.”

She delivered her insults with a sweet, false smile, the sort of smile that meant she was furious with him—and that was good. Women never had strong emotions for things that didn’t matter to them. His sisters had taught him that.

The time had come for him to take command.

To Cassandra, he said, “Would you excuse us, my lady? Miss Reverly and I require a private moment.”

“Don’t you leave this room, Cassandra,” Miss Reverly countermanded. “My guests are not to be dismissed.”

“Not even to discuss an issue of importance between us ?” Matt asked. He attempted to sound polite. Instead, he came off testy.

“I’ve reached my decision. There is nothing to discuss.”

My decision . Interesting, and hopeful. Her father might not be aware of what she’d done. “I ask that you hear me out.”

“Your Grace, you may talk, but I will not listen.”

“Then perhaps I should discuss this with your father?”

Her shoulders came back, her chin forward. “He has nothing to say to you.”

“Then our conversation will be brief. I will have your butler ask him to join us.” Matt took a step toward the door.

She stepped in his path. “He is not at home.”

“He doesn’t know about your letter, does he?”

Miss Reverly looked to Cassandra, who had an I-warned-you expression on her face. Matt decided the time was right to repeat his earlier request. “Lady Dewsberry, I wish a word with Miss Reverly.”

“Yes, I believe that would be wise.”

“Cassandra, don’t leave .”

Her friend was already to the door. “I must, Willa. This is really between you and His Grace. My husband has taught me there are some conversations that should be private. But, please, give him a chance. Like women, men often do foolish things.” She gave Matt a considering look and then shrugged her shoulders. “He might make a decent husband in the long run.”

“Long run?” Miss Reverly echoed, her brows rising as if she couldn’t imagine such a thing.

“It all depends on how quick he is to train. No husband is perfect,” Cassandra allowed, and then added, conspiratorially, “If all else fails, the offer of our hospitality is still open. We will have the coach ready at midnight.” With those words, she left the room, closing the door behind her.

“The coach ready at midnight?” Matt repeated, intrigued.

“You would not understand,” Miss Reverly said dismissively. As if she was the queen of Sheba, she moved to the middle of the room and sat on one of the many brocade upholstered settees. “Speak your piece, Your Grace. Let us hurry through this. I have plans for the evening.”

Willa had learned long ago that when one was petite and female, she’d best be willing to know her own mind. Especially since society believed a woman shouldn’t expect very much from life. That she was really little better than a bauble, a pretty ornament.

Well, Willa had learned from her struggle with blank pieces of paper that she had no desire to be the wife of a man who behaved as if she was merely a task on his tally list.

She had been honest with Cassandra—she yearned for what her friends had discovered, even though she wasn’t quite certain what exactly that was. Or if she was even worthy of it. She felt pale and insipid when compared to the way her lovely friends took hold of life and found purpose in it.

Of course, after years of watching her mother, Willa knew she didn’t want a man who doted on his mistresses more than his wife. That would not make her happy.

She was also discovering it had been easy to release Camberly from his promise when he wasn’t standing in front of her. The duke was a good deal—no, a great deal—more handsome than she remembered.

In a capital filled with beautiful people, there wasn’t a male in London who could be compared to him. Not in height or in dark, singular looks. Few had that square jaw that suggested character, or such a straight nose, or finely proportioned, even features. Even his ears were excellently formed, and Willa never admired ears . . . but she’d noticed, and approved of, his.

Camberly also did not need padding in his jacket. He had a horseman’s build. His shoulders were broad and his muscles long. Her imagination did not rebel at the thought of seeing him naked.

She was also partial to deep blue eyes. Poet’s eyes, Cassandra had once called them when she’d been half daffy in love with him herself. But then, Cassandra had always fancied poets.

Willa did not. Not any longer.

Or, at least, that is what she told herself, in spite of the strange fluttering in her belly at being in this room alone with Camberly.

His hair was damp. There was mud on his boots and breeches. He’d come for her, his costume said. He’d ridden hard to reach her.

Perhaps she was wrong about him—?

She quickly scrubbed the errant thought from her mind. One thing she’d learned from her father was that one must watch what men do, not what they say. The duke’s absence had been too great an insult, and Willa did have her pride. She’d hear what he had to say, and then throw his words back in his face. She’d been quite successful so far in their interview. It was obvious Camberly didn’t know what to do with her.

And then he surprised her. He left the room.

He shut the door behind him.

She found herself completely alone.

For the briefest moment, she debated going after him—

Oh, no, she would not follow after him. Even though she was brimming with curiosity—

There was a knock. Before she could decide to answer, the door opened. The Duke of Camberly swept inside, a pleasant smile on his oh-too-striking face.

“Miss Reverly, I’m honored you have a few moments for me.” He sounded . . . sincere.

He shut the door and walked toward her. “Please, don’t rise. Sit right there being your beautiful self.” He bowed with a great deal more respect than he’d shown her earlier. “I have pined these last few months for the opportunity to see you again.”

Ah, so this was his game: placating her.

Willa relished saying, “You have ‘pined’ for me? Pined? As if you were a tree?” She widened her eyes and batted her lashes, pretending to have bubbles for brains.

And he laughed.

The laughter caught her off guard. It was full-throated, strong, easy, and a far cry from the sound she imagined an arrogant duke would make.

He sat on the settee beside her and indicated the door with one hand. “Willa, I wanted to start again. I know I sounded silly, but sometimes being ridiculous is needed to break the tension.”

Willa. He’d used her given name. It was the first time she’d heard it from his lips.

“I’m not tense—” she started to deny.

“Of course not. I am,” he admitted freely, although that wasn’t true. He seemed relaxed while . . . she was tense.

When she’d written her letter in the early hours of the morning, she had anticipated some sort of response. After all, he needed her dowry. Money was important. But she hadn’t expected him to show up in person or so quickly.

If she’d thought about it, she would have anticipated manly bluster and stomping about. Or wheedling. Or he could have gone to her father to complain, but he hadn’t.

He’d come to her first.

Was that enough?

She didn’t know.

And she wasn’t certain she’d wish to find out. She was not one to go back after she’d made her decision.

“Your Grace—” she started. However, he interrupted.

“I’m Matthew. Or Matt. I actually prefer the latter. It is how I think of myself and the name my family and friends use. My grandmother calls me Matthew. You can make your own choice.” Without waiting for a response, he said, “I did not mean to ignore you after our betrothal—”

“You barely spoke two words to me before it,” she had to interject.

He nodded slowly. “I believe matters transpired rather fast—”

“You actually asked my father for my hand. Not me. You didn’t speak to me .” She wanted to be certain he understood her full complaint.

There was a beat of silence. “I might have done that.”

“Might have?” She faced him now, his offenses rising like bile inside her. “And everyone knew who you really wanted was Lady Bainhurst. That you were ‘pining’ for her. For all I know, the two of you have been carrying on scandalously over the past months while I have been left to wander around ballrooms like Kitty Pakenham.”

“Kitty Pakenham?” he repeated in confusion.

“Never mind,” she replied, not wishing to go into the details. “You won’t understand. Men don’t . . . because they can do whatever they wish. They can walk the earth as if they own it while expecting women to trail behind them, seeing to their needs and making their lives easier.”

Oh, that felt good to say. Willa was almost in awe of herself.

And now she could barely breathe, waiting for him to deny and lie and chastise her. Because that was what men did. That was what her father did. They told women that what they could see with their own eyes was not true.

An indecipherable expression crossed his face. “I had hoped my friendship with Letty Bainhurst had been more of a secret.”

“Everyone seems to know, except her husband.”

“Probably because he has been with her for the past few months. I have not been with Letty. We did have a . . .” He paused as if not knowing how to characterize their liaison. “It was over before I offered for you.”

So, rumors were wrong . . . ?

And then she heard herself ask a question she had promised herself she would never ask because she’d overheard her mother say it more than a time or two, “Do you love her?”

“I did.”

Willa’s stomach went hollow. She had not experienced such frank honesty. Her father had always denied any emotions for any women in his life.

She made herself speak, “Well, then you should be happy that you are free to pursue her.”

He reached for her hand. He was not wearing gloves. She wanted to refuse the contact but found she couldn’t.

Other than the dance floor, the last time they had been hand-in-hand had been when they stood together in front of a crowded ballroom and announced their betrothal. They had both been wearing gloves then. Now, she was startled by how strong, firm, and warm his grip was.

“Letty claimed she was unhappy in the marriage. I was new to London and the title, and obviously in over my head. I appreciated her attention. She offered me guidance . . . and I believed her when she said that I was her savior.”

“She called you that?”

“Many times. Her husband didn’t understand her. He didn’t appreciate her. He ignored her.”

“Then why didn’t she live apart from him?” It was a question Willa had once asked her mother without receiving any meaningful response.

“Letty likes his money. And his power.”

Of course. Her mother had once noted every woman could tolerate a great deal of unhappiness in exchange for a secure life.

Willa just didn’t want to believe she was one of them.

She loved her father, but she clearly saw his shortcomings. She would not wish to be married to him.

“I was a bit of rebellion for Letty.” There was bitterness in the duke’s voice.

Willa tilted her head. Could a person be resentful over someone who no longer mattered? “They say Lady Bainhurst rebels quite often.”

“I have heard.” He straightened. “I wished to believe I was different. And isn’t that what we all want?” he asked with a slight, deprecating smile. “To be uniquely valued?”

Yes, that was what she wanted.

“Listen,” he said, claiming her attention and gently pulling her hand toward him, “I don’t understand the reference to or even who Kitty Pakenham is, but I have sisters who would tell me that I have been an ass. I do owe you an apology. I lost my way. I became wrapped up in my own problems these last few months.”

“You have sisters?”

“Four of them. And not one holds back on her opinion. They are brutally honest, much as I sense you are.”

“I am not that direct, but I wish to be.” That was true. His candor was a powerful lure for Willa. Her parents never conversed, not in the manner that she was talking to the duke—

Her mind stumbled over his title, and replaced it with Matt . Matthew.

Matt sounded right.

“I also believe,” he said, “that we should revive that point game you and your friends played.”

Her heart almost stopped in alarm. “The point game?” She attempted ignorance.

He straightened, even white teeth flashing in his smile. “Yes, the point game. Don’t pretend you know nothing. You and your friends had a competition to gain my interest.”

“You knew about it?”

“What was it, three points if I asked you to dance?” Matt said. “A point for an introduction? How many points did you receive when I invited you to a weekend party?”

“How did you find out about it?” Willa countered.

“Letty had heard—”

“Letty? ”

He held up his hand as if to ward off whatever she was going to say. “I shouldn’t have mentioned her. My apologies. However, the person-I-should-not-mention told me I had been singled out.”

“I did not single you out. It was happenstance. You were the catch of the Season. The game always focused on one man.”

“Why not all the others?”

“There is no sport in that,” she replied.

“And you caught me.” His voice took on a warmth. “Does that mean you ‘won’ the game?”

“I am not confessing to anything.”

He gave her a wicked smile. “I wonder if I should play?”

Willa went on alert. “What do you mean?”

“To prove to you my attentiveness. How many points for a call?”

“Three.”

“And for begging my intended for another chance?”

Their gazes locked.

“I don’t know if we should give points for that,” she answered, her throat suddenly tight. He sat closer than she had realized, and she did not mind.

“You are right,” he agreed. “It shouldn’t be a game.” His gaze went to her lips, or was she staring at his? She couldn’t take her eyes off them as he said, “However, will you let me try again? You have my complete attention now.”

He certainly had hers.

There had been a time not so long ago when she’d dreamed about what it would be like for him to kiss her. There had been a line in one of his poems that had caught her attention . . . My lover’s kiss is like no other, an answer to my soul .

Willa had never been kissed. Not once.

The night before their betrothal, she had anticipated he would kiss her. She’d practiced using the back of her hand. Her greatest disappointment had been leaving her own ball, still uninitiated in that practice that seemed the most common of all things between men and women.

But he could kiss her now.

Everything about him, from the laugh lines around his eyes, to the afternoon growth of his whiskers, to the scent of him, of horseflesh and rain and man, it all swirled around her, drawing her still nearer to him.

“Another chance?” his well-formed lips whispered. “Willa, will you marry me on the morrow—?”

The door opened.

Willa reacted by practically jumping to the other side of the settee and coming to her feet. Matt rose with more polish.

“Your Grace,” her father said in his heartiest voice, and offered a bow. He was not a tall man. Both of Willa’s parents were small in stature, but Leland Reverly could fill a room with the boom of his voice. “What a pleasure. No one told me you were here until just now.” He looked between the duke and Willa and then grinned. “Having a moment, eh?”

There had been a time when Willa would not have been allowed to be alone with anyone. Her father sounded happy to throw her at the duke.

“We were just discussing the wedding, weren’t we, Willa?”

She found herself nodding.

Yes. Yes, she would marry him . . . because she really hadn’t known how to confront her father and risk his wrath . . . because maybe all she’d really wanted was a sign from Matt that he knew she was there . . . that she mattered.

And because she really wanted a kiss.

Was she being foolish?

She didn’t know. But right now, it seemed like every muscle in her body, including deep-seated ones, hummed with awareness of him.

And it had happened so fast.

Desire surprised her with its intensity, with its willingness to trust.

“You know the invite to the wedding breakfast has been deemed the invitation of the year,” her father said proudly.

“It will be a big day,” Matt agreed. “Although for me, the prize will be Willa.”

He spoke her name as if it was a caress. She remembered another piece of gossip she’d overheard—Letty Bainhurst claimed Camberly was a prodigious lover. None better, she said.

And Willa wondered exactly what Letty meant, even though her imagination sent heat to her cheeks and other regions of her body.

Matt took a step toward the door. “I should take my leave. I don’t want to overstay my welcome.” He looked to Willa on the last word, and she felt herself blush again.

He’d won her over. Effortlessly.

“Of course. Of course. You will see plenty of your bride after the morrow when you join the ranks of the rest of us poor husbands who find ourselves unable to escape the weight of the parson’s knot.” Her father laughed at his own jest and escorted Matt out into the hall, where a footman waited to help him with his oilskin coat, gloves, and hat.

Her father was beginning to say something else to Camberly when the corners of his mouth tightened. Willa moved forward so she could see what had displeased him. Her mother lingered in the hallway as if she had just come out of one of many rooms.

Joanne Reverly was a touch taller than Willa. She’d been a fiery redhead in her youth but now her hair had turned the color of a mouse pelt. She had a habit of staying in the shadows or tucked away in card rooms among her friends as if she didn’t wish to draw attention to herself.

Her husband had always been the one to make the decisions. Her responsibility had been to carry out his wishes. Her acquiescence had never gained her his respect.

Willa walked down the hall and took her mother’s arm. “Come, the duke has paid a call.”

“That is nice,” her mother answered, allowing herself to be directed to the gathering by the door. She gave a small curtsey to Camberly. “It is good to see you again, Your Grace.”

“Especially under such happy circumstances, no?” he answered, pulling on his gloves.

“Ah, yes,” her mother agreed. Her glance shifted to her husband. “All is good.”

“It will be the affair of the decade,” her father promised the duke. “It will be remembered throughout all of history.”

The pleasant expression on Matt’s face didn’t waver, except Willa noted his gaze went from one parent to another with sharp scrutiny, and she wondered what he was thinking. Few people cared about the dynamic between Leland Reverly and his wife.

And Willa realized that if she had cried off, it was her mother who would have paid a price. Her father would have blamed her for Willa’s rebellion. Willa was now thankful that Matt had eased her doubts.

Peters, the butler, held the front door open, but Matt eased closer to Willa. “I’m sorry we were interrupted.” He spoke for her ears alone.

She was as well, but she didn’t trust her voice to speak, not when her father was obviously straining to catch every word between them.

Matt took her hand. Lifting it to his lips, he surprised her by turning it over and kissing her wrist. His lips lingered there a moment, right upon her pulse, and she thought she might faint from the surge of heat that shot through her.

He met her eye and then smiled. “Six points,” he whispered, reminding her of his intent to play the “game.” His husky tone hummed through her body.

“Four points,” she managed to croak out. “That wasn’t worth six points.”

His grin turned wolfish. “I shall take that as a challenge.”

“I pray you do.”

Where had that come from? She had started off so angry with him that she had been willing to risk scandal, to now counting the minutes until she would see him again.

He had convinced her to trust him. He’d slipped past her doubts and wariness. Although the impetus for their marriage was money, she was beginning to believe there could be something meaningful between them.

It had also not escaped her notice that when the servants had helped him with this coat, he’d murmured a thank-you. He was male, and he was appreciative?

Perhaps Camberly was different.

He released her hand. “Until the morrow, Willa. I shall be waiting for you at the church.” With a cocky set of his hat, he was out the door.

She watched him toss the street lad a coin and gather the reins of his horse. The animal seemed hardly tamed, and yet, he was up in the saddle and on his way.

She placed her hand over her wrist where he had placed his kiss. She’d lied. It had definitely been worth six points.

My lover’s kiss is like no other, an answer to my soul .  . .