Page 13 of Mad Duke March

A look of confusion passed her pale features. She was not the kind of woman he found attractive. Her lips were pressed into a thin line, her brows knitted in a frown, and her hair was hidden under a hideous-looking bonnet with a few short curls framing her rounded face. She looked like a prim governess. And while some men enjoyed playing the conquerors of virtuous women, Tyrone preferred his women loose. Unburdened. Passionate.

He would never turn her away, however. She was a woman. And there was no such thing as an unattractive woman to him. Plain looking, certainly. But some primal instinct within him still wanted to unwrap her and see what was beyond those clothes.

He swallowed, his voice thick with rising passion. “Come here and spread your lovely thighs.”

The look of confusion and horror that flashed in her eyes was almost tangible. “Pardon me?” He could’ve sworn she sounded offended.

“Oh, I shall pardon you if that’s what you want. Or I can punish you.” He waggled his eyebrows suggestively as he propped his hips against the side table and patted his knee. “Come here.”

“I beg your pardon!” The woman’s pale face turned dark red. Her lips trembled, and she seemed incapable of intelligible thought for one long moment. Then her features turned thunderous. “I am not here to suffer your rude behavior.”

Tyrone’s worst fear had materialized. This woman was not here to pleasure him.

He took another sip of his drink.

But that made no sense! Why else would a woman cross the threshold of his house? “Then why are you here?”

She squinted at him, her lips pursed in indignation. “You do not remember me at all, do you? Why should you? You were well into your cups when we met last—”

“Apologies, love,” he cut her off as his nagging headache only worsened from the inflow of her words. “But I am not much into remembering faces. Now if we talk about what’s under those skirts—”

She seemed to choke on air. “How dare you!”

He rolled his eyes and waved a dismissing hand. “Already bored.” He pressed a cool glass to his aching forehead.

“I demand you apologize to me this instant!” she cried.

Tyrone wasn’t looking at the woman anymore, but in his mind’s eye, he could easily imagine her outraged expression. “I shall do no such thing.”

“I did not come here to listen to your vulgarities!”

Tyrone downed the remainder of his whisky, placed the empty glass on the side table, and regarded the seething lady. “If you did not come here to… well, come, then why are you here?”

She scrunched up her face as if trying to decipher his words but finally gave up. When she spoke, every word came out bitingly through her teeth. “My name is Miss Emily Fitzwilliam.”

Tyrone watched her steadily. “I shan’t remember that.”

“And I came here to demand you marry me.”

Now it was Tyrone’s turn to choke on air. He wished he still had whisky in his hands, but somehow lacked the necessary strength to pour himself another glass. Instead, he crossed his arms over his chest and his feet at his ankles. Marry her! Pft! “Marry you? What madness has befallen you? I shall do no such thing under any circumstances.”

“But you have to!” She looked so certain. As though he was the unreasonable one, not her.

“Why would I do that?” he asked through his teeth.

She straightened her shoulders. “Because you ruined me.”

He leaned forward and squinted at her waist. Was that why she was wearing this shapeless gown? Had he impregnated this lady and didn’t even remember it?

He did have numerous lovers, but he was always careful. He always used the armor. Always.

Then again, he didn’t even remember her.

He glanced at her face once more.

She did look familiar. But now that he studied her closely, now that he’d spoken to her, he recognized her bearing to be undeniably genteel.

She was a gentleman’s daughter. And Tyrone did not frolic with gentle ladies. Not unmarried ones, anyway.