He cocked his dark head and merely remarked, “Frank?”

Fallon flattened a hand against her chest, her palms perspiring around the pistol. “Francis.”

“Frank,” he repeated with a decisiveness that rankled. Shoving back the counterpane, he rose from the bed in one fluid motion. Naked.

Gracie squeaked, the sound resembling laughter.

“Gracie! Cover your eyes,” her husband bellowed.

Fallon would have rolled her eyes at the edict for all its absurdity had her gaze not been glued to the duke’s nether parts. His _considerable _ nether parts.

 That’s what a man looked like? It was a wonder any woman permitted _that _ entrance into her body at all! Even as she thought this, her stomach began a slow churning twist. Her gaze roamed from that part of him to the flat belly ridged with muscle. Her belly tightened in a manner that made her want to squeeze her thighs together. Or worse, press her hand there.

“Gor!” Nancy sputtered from behind Fallon, snapping her mind from such lewd thoughts.

Striding forward, Harold wrenched his wife from the bed. Clinging to her sheet, she stumbled after him as he dragged her toward a screen in the corner.

Shocked titters emanated from the rest of the servants. Scampering feet indicated at least some of the female staff members possessed dignity enough to depart the mad spectacle. A quick glance over her shoulder, however, revealed some remained, Nancy included, riveted to the sight of the duke’s nakedness.

“Out! Out with you all!” Mrs. Davies shouted.

Cheeks afire, Fallon followed the departing servants, intending to hand the pistol to Mr. Adams on her way out.

A deep, gravelly voice stopped her in her tracks.

“Not you.”

Chapter 12

The duke had not spoken her name, but she knew he addressed her. Slowly, she turned, her breath trapped tightly in her chest. He was looking directly at her. The gray eyes as stormy as the Yorkshire moors from which she fled two years ago. She shivered, fighting to hold his stare and not let her gaze drop. To not reveal his overwhelming effect on her.

 You’re a man. Remember—a man!

She inhaled deeply, letting air fill her lungs and fortify her, striving to cool the stinging burn in her cheeks. Men did not blush like schoolgirls.

Still gazing at her, the duke spoke. “Mr. Adams.”

“Yes, Your Grace?” The one-eyed butler snapped to arrow-straight attention, his gaze trained on the duke’s face, not once straying to the n**ed parts of him that held such fascination for her.

“Whatever we’re paying young Frank here, double it.”

Fallon felt her eyes grow round.

“Very good, Your Grace.” Mr. Adams turned an approving smile on Fallon.

“Thank you,” she murmured, sending forth a quick prayer that he saw only a footman when he looked at her. A footman he intended to give a higher wage. Nothing else need matter. Not that he stood n**ed before her. Not that her face burned under his scrutiny. Not that he stood n**ed before her…

With a nod of acknowledgment, he plucked a dressing robe off the end of the bed. Donning the black silk, he tied it at the waist and strolled toward her. Stopping before her, he removed the pistol from her hand. “I’ll take that.”

She nodded, breathing easier now that his body was at least hidden from view.

“Diddlesworth fled, Your Grace,” Mr. Adams intoned, clearing his throat and looking over his shoulder as if he could still see the valet fleeing down the corridor, tail tucked firmly between his legs.

The duke checked the pistol, frowning when he noted the full cylinder. She guessed his thoughts.

Knew he was thinking that one of those bullets had almost made its way into his chest. Much like the fate his father had met. Dead as a result of dallying with another man’s wife.

“Er, I believe he has resigned, Your Grace.”

“Did he?” he murmured.

At that moment, Lord Foley and Gracie, dressed in a wrinkled gown of ivory silk, emerged from behind the screen. Ivory? Rather virginal for a woman who enjoyed the attentions of men other than her husband.

Lord Foley warily eyed the pistol now held in Damon’s hands. No longer in possession of the weapon himself, his ire seemed to have deflated. “Lord Damon,” he said through lips that barely moved, “I trust that I will never see you speaking to my wife again.”

“I don’t think my _speaking _ with her is your complaint, Lord Foley, but have no fear.” Damon inclined his head in slight acknowledgment, hooded eyes flat and emotionless. “I have no cause to speak to her again. Might I recommend you give her the same reminder, however?”

It was the closest the duke came to implying his wife was not the unwilling participant she claimed to be. That she in fact bore some culpability.

Lord Foley swung a fulminating glare on his wife. “Come along, Gracie.” His haughty tones rang out more like an aggrieved father than husband. “We best have another one of our talks.”

“Again,” she pouted, her lips a temptation of glistening pink. “Don’t be _such _ a bore, Harold.

How many times must I apologize when you know I love—”

“Until it sinks in,” he ground out, pulling her behind him. They drove a hard line past Fallon.

Gracie sent her a coy wink. She waggled her fingers above her head as they passed through the door. “Good-bye, Damon!”

He did not respond.

Alone now with Mr. Adams, Mrs. Davies, and the half-dressed duke, Fallon moved toward the door, eager to be gone, removed from sharp eyes.

Mr. Adams’s voice stopped her. “Francis, a moment please.”

Fallon turned, mindful to keep her gaze only on Adams. The butler studied her carefully, thoroughly. After a moment, he turned to the duke. “Speaking of your valet, Your Grace.”

“Yes. He resigned, you mentioned.” He shrugged and turned for his bed again. “For the best, I suppose.”

“Perhaps you could consider Francis here for the position.”

“Me?” Her voice escaped in a squeak. Swallowing, she tried again. “Me.”

“Yes.” Mr. Adams nodded, then frowned. “You are lettered, are you not?”

Fallon nodded. “Yes, I—”

“Very good.” Mr. Adams nodded briskly. “Can’t have an illiterate valet. An important part of your duties is sorting correspondence for His Grace, also dictation—”

“A splendid suggestion,” Mrs. Davies seconded. “Such a fine, helpful lad.”

Mr. Adams nodded. “I realize he’s a bit young, but he’s already proven himself far more valuable than Diddlesworth.”

Damon scratched his shadowed jaw. “Not hard to do considering he ran from the room screaming like a girl at first glimpse of the pistol.”

Fallon’s lips twitched. Damon looked her way and she pressed her mouth into a stubborn line.

Glancing back at the butler, the duke shrugged. “Why not? As you say, Frank has proven himself helpful. Especially with irate husbands.”

Bitterness coated her tongue. “And is that to be part of my duties? Disarming irate husbands?”

Fallon asked before she could stop her pert tongue.

He looked at her, expression mild as he settled into the vast bed, crossing his feet at the ankles.

“One never knows.”

A frown tugged at her lips.

“Francis, move your things into Diddleworth’s room,” Mr. Adams directed.

Her chest tightened as sick dread stole over her. “Diddlesworth’s room?”

Damon rose from the bed and moved toward the dressing room, apparently finished with them and having decided against sleep. She watched his back ripple against the black silk as he moved, trying not to remember what his back look liked—all muscle and tight skin—and what it might feel like beneath the stroke of her hand.

Mrs. Davies placed a hand against the small of her back and guided her from the room. “Yes.

The valet sleeps in an adjoining room.”

She shook her head. Adjoining room?

Fallon felt the color bleed from her face. Her plan of remaining inconspicuous just entered the realm of utter and complete impossibility.

“Oh. One more thing.”

Her heart gave a little lurch, knowing instinctively he addressed _her _ again. She gave him her attention, still trying not to appear startled as a hare caught in the sights of a predator.

“That room there—”

She followed his pointing finger to one of the doors lining the wall of his bedchamber—a dressing room, she supposed.

“—is private. No one crosses the threshold.” His gaze drilled into her. “Not even you.

Understand?”

“Yes, Your Grace.” She nodded deferentially and…wondered what stood behind that door.

 Torture devices of the demon duke? A harem of women swathed in translucent silks? Clenching her jaw, she quickly told herself she did not care.

Her breath caught in her throat as the duke dropped his robe in the doorway of his dressing room, revealing a taut backside that would make even a nun’s mouth water. She would be sleeping next door to that—him—every night? Forced to serve his every need and whim? Forced to listen as he _entertained _ his women? Forced to feign that she was unaffected, that she was…a he.

How would she bear it?

Chapter 13

“Come, Frank, out with it. You’ve been glowering long enough now.”

Fallon blinked, standing erect in her position near the railing. She had not even known the duke was aware of her presence. She had been lost, gazing out at the vast expanse of lawn and gardens, musing that Da would have reveled working with such a landscape. It was far grander than the gardens of Lord Hunt’s country estate. Her fingers itched, longing for the feel of freshly tilled soil.

The duke, garbed in his black dressing robe, _The Times _ spread to his left, looked up from his late-morning breakfast, fork and knife poised, waiting for her response. A glimpse of his serpent tattoo peeked out from where his robe parted, but she didn’t need to see all of it to know what it looked like. The scaled serpent with its watchful eyes, ready to pounce, to devour was branded n her mind. As wicked as the man himself.

“Have I? Forgive me. I did not mean to distract you from your breakfast, Your Grace.”

Breakfast. If it could be called that, nearing on noon.

The debacle with the irate Lord Foley still weighed on her mind. The more she reflected, the more annoyed she became. What was wrong with the man? Did he lack all sense? Did he wish to die as his father had?

He took a bite of toast and chewed for some moments. “Are you not pleased in your new position? Quite a coup, from footman to valet.”

“Indeed. I am quite appreciative.” Fallon pressed her lips tight, fixing her gaze on the steaming cup of coffee on the table, looking anywhere but him…his hair tousled and rakish from sleep, sunlight glinting off the dark strands.

The day was beautiful. Typically, she would have enjoyed simply standing on the balcony, enjoying the outdoors. But his presence changed everything. Against her will, her gaze moved back to him.

Swallowing, he cut into a kipper. “You remind me a bit of my grandfather with your lips pressed like that.”

Immediately, she loosened her lips.

Popping half the kipper into his mouth, his intent gaze resting on her, he added, “You may have heard, I’m not overly fond of the man.”

She nodded, the words tripping from her tongue with an edge that she could not seem to help. “I shall endeavor to not remind you of him, then.” With a brisk nod, she attempted a smile. “How’s this?” Unfortunately, it felt brittle and false on her face.

The duke snorted.

At that, her smile slipped. Fallon stared harder at his coffee, watching the steaming tendrils rise on the air, cursing her pride and sharp tongue.