Bran supervised the hanging of the framed flowers around the house. They’d been delivered yesterday, and he was thrilled to see them on the walls. Evie had decided where to put each one, including the four that were now forming a square pattern where his mother’s portrait had hung in the sitting room.

Thinking of her dampened his mood, but since she was due to arrive any moment, it was bound to happen.

The day before, Jo had attended a tea at Lady Satterfield’s. People had gossiped about Evie riding in the park, which had absolutely infuriated him, and then his mother had made comments about him being a difficult child.

Jo had vacillated on whether to tell him—she didn’t wish him to be upset. He’d been glad she had, but maybe it would’ve been better not to have known. Since then he’d been a bundle of tension. Hudson had performed numerous massages, and Bran had taken dinner in his chamber last night completely nude. In front of a fire because it was bloody cold in England, even in April.

He’d gone to Jo’s chamber later, and she’d warmed him quite thoroughly.

When he’d awakened this morning, he’d sent a note to his mother summoning her for an appointment this afternoon. He meant to tell her to keep her mouth shut where he was concerned. And if she didn’t, well, he had no compunction about cutting her out of his—and Evie’s—life.

A few minutes later, he heard the door and knew she’d arrived. Bucket showed her into the sitting room.

“Knighton,” she said, “I was so pleased to get your invitation.” Her gaze fell on the newly hung flowers. “Those are lovely.” She went to look more closely. “Are these from your island?”

“Barbados, yes.”

“Exquisite. Did you bring any plants with you?”

He hadn’t but had been thinking today, looking at all the flowers, that he should have. “No.”

“Pity. There’s a marvelous conservatory at Knight’s Hall, if you remember. And nothing in it really.”

Hell, he’d completely forgotten. He’d done his best to block many of his memories.

“Perhaps you could have some sent over.”

He stared at her, somewhat shocked that she’d made a suggestion he actually liked.

She turned from the wall and strode toward him. “I’ve brought something for you.” She pulled an envelope from her reticule. “It’s a letter from your father. I’d like you to read it.”

Now? He took it from her hand. “I’ll read it later.”

She sat down in a chair and stared at him expectantly. “I’d like you to read it now.”

“If it’s so bloody important, why did you wait to give it to me? In fact, why am I just receiving it when he died over a year ago?”

“Because your father asked me to hold it for you and give it you after you arrived. It was too important to chance being lost.” She looked away from him. “I didn’t want to bring it the first time I saw you. I wasn’t sure what to expect.”

“You mean you had to decide whether you should give it to me.”

Color stained her cheeks, and she flashed him that icy stare. “Just read it.”

His mind warred with itself. Curiosity about the contents fought with his reluctance to capitulate to what she wanted. In the end, curiosity won. He went to the windows and turned his back to her.

Opening the letter, he saw his mother’s handwriting, not his father’s. He turned his head to look at her. “You wrote this.”

“He dictated it to me. He wasn’t well enough to write.”

So she already knew what it said. Perhaps that was why she wanted him to read it in front of her. He began to read.

Bran read it a second time, then stared at the words until they blurred together. Blinking rapidly, he refolded the paper and turned toward his mother. “I’m surprised you gave this to me.”

She stiffened. “I promised him that I would. I am a dutiful wife.”

There was that word again—duty. For the first time, Bran felt more than a nagging responsibility. Perhaps he was meant to be the earl. And if he wasn’t, it didn’t matter. He was the earl.

His father was right that he’d built a grand life for himself on Barbados, and he’d done it from nothing. He’d already started to think of things he could do for Barbados now that he was the earl, such as working to free the slaves. Last year’s rebellion had been terrifying and had made Bran take a stand against slavery. He was still in the minority, but perhaps he could use his position to change that.

“You’re rather quiet,” she said, interrupting his reverie. “But then you have a tendency to run toward sullen.”

“I learned to hold my tongue around you. It was that or suffer the consequences.” He took a few steps toward where she sat. “I’m still surprised you gave this to me. Or at least didn’t amend it.”

Her eyes flashed a chill once more. “Duty is the most important thing. Without it, what is our purpose, our worth? We could’ve been born anything—a hapless beggar on the street—but we weren’t. You weren’t.” She spoke sternly, her voice carrying through the room. “You will be the earl, and you will be magnificent.”

It wasn’t exactly a rousing speech in the spirit of his father’s endorsement, but it was almost certainly the best she could do. “I am the earl, magnificent or not.”

She blinked at him, seeming a bit surprised. “Good. I hope that means you’ll crop your hair and accept more invitations. You must get out more. I heard from many ladies yesterday with marriageable daughters. It’s time you searched for a countess.”

Jo rose in his mind, only to be overtaken by his father’s words: I can think of no better person to carry on the mantle of duty and ensure our legacy for generations to come. If she couldn’t give him an heir, how was he to ensure his family’s legacy? His muscles bunched up, and his clothing grew tight.

“When you do go out, you need to act appropriately, as does Lady Evangeline. No more allowing her to gallop about the park astride a horse.” She pursed her lips and scrunched up her nose, looking as if she’d just smelled bad fish.

He’d nearly forgotten why he’d invited her here in the first place. “I don’t need to do anything. As you so aptly pointed out, I’m the earl. I can do whatever I damn well please.”

She stood, staring him down with the frosty glare he recalled so well. “You’ve always been defiant. I suppose it’s too much to expect you to change. I’d say you’ve earned your nickname.”

His neck pricked. “What nickname?” He recalled the ridiculous names Kendal and his friends had told him.

“The Duke of Defiance. Apparently it’s some sort of convention for categorizing eligible bachelors.” She waved her hand. “Nonsense, but in this case accurate.”

Who the hell had started calling him that? “Did you come up with that name?”

She looked affronted. “Of course not. I heard your governess’s sister use it the first time, but by the end of the tea yesterday, I’d heard it from several people.” She took a step toward him. “You see, you must make appearances. Your absence begets rumor.”

“No, you start rumors. J—Mrs. Shaw said that you told everyone I was a difficult child. That doesn’t exactly help me.”

“I was trying to explain away your bad behavior in the park. Do not blame me for your mistakes.”

Talking to her was like trying to sail in a hurricane. You could try, but you’d be much the worse for wear—if you made it through. “Get out.”

She opened her mouth, but he cut her off. “Now. Before I ask Bucket to escort you.” His lip curled, and for the first time, she shrank back.

Pursing her lips again, she spun around and stalked out.

Anger and frustration and deep-seated resentment boiled to the surface. He tossed the letter onto the settee and began to tear his clothes off. One by one, each piece landed in a heap on the floor until he stood in his smallclothes. He managed to stop before he’d completely stripped.

“Bran?”

Jo’s familiar voice cut through the haze of disorientation and lingering rage. He spun toward her and closed the distance between them, tugging her into the room and then slamming the door shut.

“What did your sister call me yesterday?”

She blanched. “The Duke of Defiance.”

“Why?” It was a question but he ground it out through his clenched teeth like a demand.

“She was trying to defuse the situation. People were gossiping about Evie riding in the park and you being rude to Talbot. Then your mother jumped in and told everyone you’d always been defiant. As you can imagine, that didn’t really improve things. Nora sought to make you sound dashing and…desirable?”

He would maybe laugh at that absurd progression if it hadn’t been about him. If it hadn’t been about the one thing he despised being called. Because it was true, and he was powerless to stop it.

“Yes, I was difficult and defiant. Have you any idea how hard I tried not to be? How worthless I felt because I couldn’t seem to help myself? All my problems were beyond my control. I wanted to be a good, dutiful son, but I just couldn’t.”

Her eyes were wide as she listened. Then her gaze roved over him. “You’re practically naked.”

He said nothing, just glowered at her. But she didn’t flinch. Instead, she came toward him. “What can I do?”

It was a curious thing, that as a general rule he didn’t like to be touched, and yet Hudson’s daily massage ensured that he didn’t get too overwhelmed. He did, however, like to be touched by Jo. “Come here.” He held out his hand. “Massage makes me feel better.”

She took his hand between hers. “What do I do?”

“Apply a bit of pressure. Like this.” He demonstrated on her hand. “But a little more firmly, if you can.”

She started along his fingers and worked up his hand to his wrist.

“Press here.” He showed her the spot on the underside, and she followed his direction. “Now up to the elbow. And press here.” He showed her that spot as well. She worked slowly and methodically. “The shoulder. It’s better if I sit.”

He went to the settee and sat down. “Come stand here.” He gestured for her to move between his legs. “Put your palms on my shoulders and press down, then work your fingers in as hard as you can.”

She pushed on him. “Like that?” He nodded, and she did it several more times before digging her fingers into his muscles. She massaged him for several minutes. He closed his eyes and immersed himself in the calming sensations.

Gradually, he became aware that his cock was hard as stone. At about that same moment, he heard a click. He opened his eyes and saw her walking back from the door. She’d locked it.

He closed his eyes again, wanting to lose himself once more in her touch. She massaged his other elbow and wrist, finishing with his hand. Then he felt her lips on his ear, her tongue tracing along the edge down to the lobe, where she suckled his flesh.

He inhaled sharply. Her mouth continued a path along his throat, then down to his collarbone. He felt her hand brush his thigh. Then her fingers stroked his cock through his undergarment. He pushed forward, seeking more of her touch.

She pulled at the waistband, and he lifted up so that she could pull his smallclothes down his hips and strip them away. He opened his eyes and saw that she was lifting her skirts. With one hand, she pushed him back against the settee. She put one knee next to his thigh and straddled him, setting her other knee on the opposite side.

Her eyes held his as she reached between them and stroked his length, pulling along his flesh—up and down and back again. Need gathered in his belly, his balls, everywhere. He arched into her hand, seeking more.

She lowered herself, and his tip found her wet heat. She guided him inside, slowly, torturously. Impatient, he thrust up, impaling her.

She sucked in a breath and clutched his shoulders, applying as much pressure as she had moments ago. But this was so much better.

Wiggling her backside, she settled on him, taking him as deep as he could go. Her lips took his in a searing kiss as she began to move. He gripped her hips and helped guide her up and down, sheathing and unsheathing his greedy cock.

She dug her fingers into his shoulders and tore her mouth from his. “Let me.” She took his hands from her and pushed them up next to his shoulders. Staring into his eyes, she lifted herself almost completely off him before sliding back down. She did this several times, increasing her speed incrementally.

He feared he would die from the anticipation. The pleasure building inside him was a blessed torture. She brought him to the edge time and again before flinging him back from completion.

Then something shifted, and she gasped. Still, she kept her gaze locked with his, though her eyes narrowed. She began to move faster, her thighs slapping against his as she rode him fast and hard.

He rose off the settee, driving into her with fierce abandon. She kept his hands captive, and the sensation was incredibly erotic. He felt her muscles contract as her orgasm claimed her. She let him go and clasped his neck, gripping him tightly with her hands and her sex.

Blood pulsed to his cock, and his own orgasm came with a blinding white light. He grabbed her waist again, holding her while he thrust deep and let loose his seed.

She collapsed on him, her breathing ragged but so sensual. He could scarcely believe what she’d just done. In all the nights they’d lain together, she’d never taken command like that. He liked it.

He caressed her jaw and kissed her, his lips moving softly over hers. She kissed him back, her tongue teasing his before she gathered her skirts and pushed herself off him. He watched as she used her petticoat to dab between her legs, then let the garments fall. With the exception of her rosy cheeks and still elevated heart rate, she didn’t look as if she’d just seduced him.

He, on the other hand, was sprawled nude and likely looked as if he’d been well and truly shagged. He couldn’t help but smile.

She picked up his smallclothes and handed them to him. “You may want to dress.” She picked up the letter, which had fallen to the floor amidst their exertions. “What’s this?”

He pulled on his undergarment. “A letter from my father. You’re welcome to read it.”

She arched a brow in question before opening the parchment and scanning the missive.

Locating his breeches, he pulled them on while she read. He gathered the rest of his clothing, but merely piled it onto the settee.

She looked up from the letter. “He sounds like a proud father.”

“He wasn’t always. While he wasn’t like my mother or brothers, he didn’t put a stop to their cruelty. I never understood his complicity, but then I never understood why any of them despised me so.”

“Your father didn’t despise you.”

“No, he gave up on me. Which is worse, really.” He watched her face, afraid she would pity him. He didn’t want that. “Still, I’m glad he wrote it.”

She nodded once. “That he came to have such faith in you must be gratifying.”

“Yes. And, surprisingly, a bit inspiring.” He scratched at his jaw, feeling the slight growth of his beard. “I resented coming here, having to be the earl. I never expected it and sure as hell didn’t want it. My brothers’ death forcing me to come back here felt like their final taunt, as if they’d orchestrated the entire thing just to torture me from the grave.”

“They didn’t, of course, but if they had, you think they expected you to fail.”

“Most certainly. But I’ve decided to succeed in spite of them. I find I’m quite eager all of a sudden. It feels…good.”

She gave him back the letter. “I’m glad. Well, I need to get back upstairs.”

The energy in the room had shifted during their conversation. The welcome languor of their postsex haze had dissipated far too quickly. But then he supposed that was to be expected given that it was the middle of the afternoon and they were in the sitting room.

She went to the door.

“Jo.”

She turned, her hand on the latch.

“Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.” Her gaze was enigmatic as she unlocked the door and left the room, closing it again behind her.

He frowned, thinking he ought to feel completely relaxed. Instead, a bead of discord had tunneled into his brain, unsettling him. He looked down at the letter in his hand, hearing that word—duty—like a relentless chime.

Doing his duty could mean a future without Jo. He wasn’t sure he wanted to contemplate such a thing, but acknowledged that, as the earl, he might have to.