Accompanied by Marianne, Emma returned to Strathaven’s residence two days later. The Palladian townhouse looked even more imposing with the armed guards flanking the entrance. Mr. Jarvis showed them inside, and she saw that his gait was as slow and shuffling as the last time. Removing a jar from the basket she was carrying, she handed it to him.

“’Tis a salve that relieves aching joints,” she said. “I thought you might like to try it.”

“Right kind o’ ye, miss. Much obliged,” he said with a wide smile.

As he led her and Marianne through the foyer, she asked, “How is His Grace faring today?”

“He’s much recovered. Been through worse. His Grace ain’t no dainty English fop, but a Scot through and through.”

Emma heard the pride in the butler’s voice. “Have you worked for him long?”

“Worked for Strathavens my whole life, miss. I was there that first day His Grace arrived at Strathmore Castle. Nine years old, he was, and the new ward of the former duke.”

Emma recalled what Annabel had said about Strathaven being raised apart from his brother at a young age. “Why did he come to live here when he had his own family?”

“His father was a distant cousin to the old duke. When the duke’s own son died and he and the duchess couldna have another, he took the young master in.”

Emma pondered this as the butler slowly led them up one sweeping wing of the double staircase. “Wasn’t he sad to be parted from his family and at so young an age?” Put in his situation, her heart would have torn in two.

“Not every family is a happy one, dear,” Marianne murmured.

“Canna say I know much about that. Even as a lad, His Grace was never the sort to wear his heart on his sleeve.” Pausing on the landing, Mr. Jarvis looked back at Emma, his rheumy gaze unexpectedly shrewd. “He’s got his reasons to protect it, but if you approach with a patient, kind hand, you’ll see his bark is worse than his bite.”

Before Emma could digest that, Mrs. McLeod came toward them.

“Emma, thank goodness you’ve come,” the auburn-haired beauty said. “Strathaven is in quite the temper today.”

“I may not improve that situation,” Emma said truthfully.

“Nonsense. He has been asking for you.”

“He has?” Her heart gave a silly little hiccup. “He wants to see me?”

“His precise words were I thought the chit was supposed to be here at two.” Winking, Mrs. McLeod nudged her toward the door. “Why don’t you go on in, dear. I have something to discuss with Marianne, and we’ll be in shortly.”

With a fortifying breath, Emma ventured into the bedchamber.

Strathaven was sitting up in his tester bed, lounging against pillows, a portrait of sartorial elegance in his black silk dressing robe. At the same time, there were hints of vulnerability, too: his thick raven hair was tousled, and shadows hung beneath his eyes. He studied a letter, then tossed it impatiently onto the pile of correspondence on the bed.

“Good afternoon, Your Grace,” she said.

His head jerked up, and pale green eyes roved over her. “You came after all.”

“I said I would.”

“How rare. A woman who keeps her word,” he drawled.

She was about to retort in kind when Mr. Jarvis’ words came back to her. Was the duke’s surliness a shield of sorts? Had he been hurt in the past—by his family? Or someone else?

Even so, it’s no reason for him to snap at me.

With a patience honed from raising four siblings, she counted to ten in her head. “I’m only late because of this.” She tapped the wicker basket. “Our chef is territorial when it comes to the kitchen. I had to wait until he went out to the market before I could use it.”

His dark brows came together. “Why would you need to use the kitchen?”

“To cook, of course.” Spotting the tray on the side table, she went to unpack the basket’s contents. She brought the tray over to the bed and placed it over Strathaven’s lap.

He stared down as if he’d never seen stew or bread before. “You made that? For me?”

The odd note in his voice reminded her that ladies of the ton didn’t prepare meals, leaving such menial tasks to the staff. Emma, however, had cooked all her life, and back in Chudleigh Crest, it had been a gesture of goodwill to bring sustenance to sickly neighbors.

“It’s just hotchpotch,” she said with sudden embarrassment. “Mrs. McLeod said you weren’t eating, so I thought you might like to try it. It’s quite restoring—my brother Harry always asked for it when he was ill.”

Strathaven gave her an unreadable glance. He picked up the spoon and dipped it into the simmered medley of meat and vegetables. Gingerly, he brought it to his mouth.

What was I thinking, preparing a simple country dish for a duke?

He probably had a team of French chefs producing cuisine suitable for his refined palate. She wanted to groan at her gaucheness.

It was too late. He’d sampled the spoonful.

“It’s good.” He sounded surprised. “Delicious, actually.”

Flustered by the compliment, she said, “It probably just seems so compared to the bland sickroom foods you’ve been eating. I’ve never understood why a sick person should have to eat food a healthy person wouldn’t.”

“I’ve never understood it myself,” he said.

He flashed a smile at her—a crooked, boyish one that transformed him, in a blink, from a wickedly brooding duke to a devastatingly handsome man. Her senses reeled.

He waved her to a chair at his bedside, where she sat, further astonished when he proceeded to tear off a piece of the loaf she’d baked, dipping it into the bowl. This was something any member of her family would have done, but he seemed too sophisticated, too ducal, to mop up hotchpotch with bread.

Nonetheless, he ate with seeming gusto, and her gaze wandered to the painting on the bedside wall. The dark, grotesque picture depicted a man—an ancient soldier, she would guess, from his crested helmet and gladiator-like garb—held captive in ... an urn? His expression ravaged, the poor fellow pummeled his fists futilely at the walls.

Who in their right mind would want to wake up to that? she mused.

“Can you cook anything else?” Strathaven drew her attention back to him.

She nodded. “My mama taught me. Being the eldest girl, I helped her in the kitchen as soon as I could peel a potato. After she passed, I took over preparing the family’s meals.”

“How old were you when she died?”

“Thirteen.” Were they having a ... normal conversation?

“That explains it.”

“Explains what?”

“Your tendency to take charge.”

Her shoulders stiffened. “I do what needs to be done, Your Grace. If you want to call that managing, then so be it.”

“You needn’t take that tone.” He put down his spoon, wiped his mouth with a napkin. “Tell me, Miss Kent, are you always this difficult? Or is it merely with me?”

“No one has called me difficult before you.” At least, not to her face.

“It’s me, then.” His mouth curved in the faintest of smiles. “’Tis only fair, I suppose.”

“What is fair?”

“Given that you seem to bring out the devil in me, it is only fair that I should have the same effect on you,” he said dryly.

She was about to argue that there was no devil in her—but that wasn’t true, was it? Since meeting him, she’d interfered with justice, visited a bawdy house, and engaged in a reckless embrace. She’d discovered her susceptibility to wanton impulses; her once sturdy morals lay in shambles. With a feeling of resignation, she decided not to add lying to the list.

“Fine. We bring out the worst in each other,” she muttered. “Satisfied, Your Grace?”

He laughed, the husky sound ruffling her senses further. “I believe that this is the first time we have agreed on anything.”

Wry humor tugged at her lips. “We agree that we disagree?”

He gave a slow nod. "To celebrate the momentous occasion—and also because it seems ludicrous not to do so at this juncture—let’s skip the formalities, shall we? My name is Alaric.”

“Oh. Well, I’m Emma. As you know.” She fought to keep from blushing.

His smile faded, and his gaze grew intent. “Tell me, Emma, why are you being so nice?”

“I’m not acting any differently than usual.”

“Let me rephrase, then: why are you being nice to me?”

Right. Now that she could see that his health was improving, ’twas time to proceed with the other purpose of her visit.

Alaric was in danger, and he needed help. Ambrose was making some headway, but his interrogation of Alaric’s staff had turned up no clues. Desperately, Emma had begged her brother to let her have a go with the maids. He’d adamantly refused.

“You’ve been far too entangled with Strathaven already,” he’d said sternly. (You don’t know the half of it, she’d thought). “I won’t have you involved in this business any further, Em.”

There’d been no swaying her brother. Once he made his mind up, Ambrose was as stubborn as an ox. This left her one other option. If she could convince Alaric to let her talk to his servants, then maybe she could find a clue to the missing Lily Hutchins—and save his life.

She had to try.

“Since your life is in peril, I thought we should bury the hatchet,” she began.

“Consider it buried.”

That was easy. Too easy. His expression gave away nothing.

“You know my brother talked to your staff at the cottage—”

“And discovered nothing. As I predicted.”

“It can be difficult for women to talk to men,” she said diplomatically. “On the other hand, perhaps if I were to interview the maids—”

“Devil take it, I should have known.” He scowled at her. “You’re like a bloody dog with a bone, you know that?”

“I’m only trying to help,” she protested.

“Why?”

“What do you mean why? Someone shot at you. Your life is at risk—”

“I’m touched by your concern for my welfare. But there’s something else, another reason, isn’t there?” Beneath his piercing gaze, she found herself squirming. “Spit it out, Miss Kent, or I will drag it out of you.”

She huffed out a breath. “I do care whether you live or die—God knows why. But, yes, my plan does benefit us both. I tried to explain this to you last time, but you wouldn’t give me a chance—”

“Explain now.”

“By assisting in your case, I will prove to my brother that I am capable of doing investigative work. Joining Kent and Associates is my calling, and I’m going to fulfill it one way or another.” With a touch of defiance, she added, “What do you think?”

“You don’t want to know,” he said grimly.

* * *

He’d known the chit had something up her sleeve.

Alaric fought to control his anger at being manipulated. Cooking him stew, acting so concerned, being so sweet—all of it was a ploy. She was as cunning as all the females he’d known. To think, he’d been touched that she seemed to care ...

His gut balled as he thought of Laura. How he’d fallen for her words of love. After their wedding, her adoring whispers had warped into insistent demands for his attention. No matter how much he gave, it had never been enough. She’d goaded him, tried to make him jealous, bedded one man after another. All the while, she’d blamed him.

You’re a selfish bastard. You have no heart. You don’t know how to love.

Aye, she’d been a manipulative bitch—but she hadn’t been wrong, either.

He did lack the capacity for softer feelings, and it was a bloody good thing. Because they couldn’t be used against him. Because no one, not even Emma Kent, could twist him to her will. Her stupid whims. Fury frosted his insides. A female investigator? Who ever heard of that?

She shot to her feet, glaring down at him. “You’re as bad as Ambrose. Why won’t either of you at least give my plan a chance?”

With a curse, he yanked aside the covers.

She backed away. “Have a care. Your injury—”

“Damn my injury and damn your obstinacy.” He stalked toward her, backing her into a corner. Through his teeth, he said, “Next time, don’t bother with the stew and just say what you want.”

“What does stew have to do with this?” She sounded bewildered. “And I am telling you what I want!”

“You can’t seriously think you can be an investigator,” he snapped.

“Why not?”

“We’re talking about a murder investigation. A dangerous business and one that you are entirely unsuited for.”

She dared to glower at him. “And why is that?”

“Because you’re a bloody lass—and an innocent one at that!”

She scowled. “I’m not that innocent, thanks to you.”

Of all the times to remind him of blasted Andromeda’s—he set his jaw, struggled to think through his haze of anger and arousal. Why did she always push him to the edge? The idea of her hurt because of this mess set off a maddening beat in his blood. Protective instincts he’d thought long dead roared to life and angered him even more.

Why did she stir up his old, stupid dreams?

Experience had taught him that love was just a euphemism for power. In relationships, there were only two options: control or be controlled. He would never be anyone’s puppet again.

“You’re not getting involved, and that is final,” he gritted out.

“You cannot dictate what I do.” Her bosom surged.

“Can’t I? I believe I proved you wrong two nights ago in my library. Care for another demonstration?” Because he burned to give it to her.

“Stop trying to intimidate me with your … your seductive wiles!”

“So you do find me seductive.”

“I do not.”

“You can’t hide the truth from me, Emma.” In a swift motion, he caught her wrists in one hand, pinned them above her head. He leaned in, heat sizzling in the sliver of air between them. “You melt for me every time we touch.”

“No, I don’t—”

In favor of expedience, he kissed her.

She struggled, and he gave her no quarter, holding her in place. He took her mouth, her flavor flooding his senses, his anger exploding into raw desire. Within seconds, she surrendered, yielding with a delicious sigh. Driving his tongue home, he pressed his hard, aroused body against her willing softness.

Restrained, her passion burned even more brightly. Her soft little body stretched tautly against his own hard edges, and he felt like he was on a rack of pleasure as she strained against him, her eyes glazed with desire, her stiff nipples teasing his chest through layers of fabric.

His mind warned him of the dangers; the door was open, anyone could see them.

That only heated his blood more.

He tossed up her skirts with his free hand, his lungs burning as he encountered the silken softness of her thighs. He covered her mouth with his own, drinking in her gasp, shuddering as his questing fingers found her damp curls and the slick petals within.

By God, she had the softest, wettest little cunny.

When he circled her pearl, she moaned.

“Be very quiet,” he whispered. “Unless you want to get caught.”

Understanding widened her eyes. At the same time, her hips lurched helplessly against his hand. She bit down on her bottom lip as he played with her love-knot, stroking it, titillating the bold nub as he held her against the wall. Her color rose, her bosom surging, and he knew she was close to her climax. Rolling her clit with his thumb, he slid his middle finger along her plump cleft.

He held her gaze as he pushed inside her virginal hole.

She was hot, wet, so tight. So bloody perfect.

“God, why can’t I get enough of you?” he rasped against her ear.

Her lips parted on a soundless cry.

He barely restrained his own groan as she came, the lush flutters making his erection jerk beneath his robe, a spurt of pre-spend scorching his belly. He gritted his teeth, fighting the urge to replace his finger with his cock, to take her here and now—

“Annabel, it’s been lovely chatting.” Marianne Kent’s overly loud voice drifted through the doorway. “I think it’s time we go check on Emma and His Grace.”

Panting, Emma stared at him in mute panic.

In the next instant, he shoved himself away from her. In the nick of time, he got back into bed and tossed the covers over himself. His heart hammered, his loins throbbed. Every cell of his body hummed with need.

“Emma, are you finished visiting?” Mrs. Kent entered with Annabel behind her. “I have other calls to make today.”

“Y-yes,” Emma stammered.

“We’ll take our leave then, Your Grace.” Mrs. Kent took her charge’s arm, turned to go.

He collected his wits. “Miss Kent?”

“Yes?” Emma faced him, her color heightening.

“I trust you will not forget our tête-à-tête today.” He gave her his most quelling, ducal stare. “There’s to be no more talk of you sleuthing about. We have an understanding, do we not?”

Annoyance flashed in her gaze. Her chin high, she said, “You have yours, and I have mine.” Even her curtsy was defiant. “Good day, Your Grace.”

Goddamnit. Frustration and desire roiled in him as she walked out with the other two.

Clearly, Emma meant to meddle further in his affairs. His title, his wealth and power—hell, his sexual dominance—none of it intimidated her one bit.

He wanted to bare his teeth.

He wanted to screw her senseless.

He shoved his hands through his hair. Even if he felt the tiniest tug of respect for her audacity, no way in hell was he going to let her run amok in his life. He’d have to keep her under watch. If—when—her behavior went out of bounds, he would intervene. Swiftly and decisively. He would show her once and for all who was in control.

Anticipation flared in him. The blood of his ancestors drummed in his veins.

That’s how you want to play it, lass? Then let the games begin.