Romancing the Duke (Castles Ever After, #1)

by Tessa Dare

This castle didn’t welcome or enchant. It loomed. It menaced. She almost worried it might pounce.

The one thing Ransom wanted less right now than a swooning woman? A nuzzling woman. Since his injury, he didn’t like anyone too close. And he didn’t require any nuzzling, thank you. He had a dog.

Izzy felt as though she’d wandered into the third act of a play. She had no idea what was going on, but it was unbearably dramatic.

“You don’t give up?” She laughed a little. “Forgive me, but from what I can gather, you were injured many months ago, and you haven’t left this castle since. People in London think you’re dead. Your post has gone unanswered, your servants aren’t allowed to serve you, and you haven’t done a thing to improve your living conditions in a moldering, decrepit castle. I don’t know what definition of ‘giving up’ you’re using, Your Grace, but this looks rather like mine.”

With every carnal suggestion he made, her confidence soared to a new, dizzying pinnacle. He wanted her. He wanted her. And she wanted to do a little dance.

The possibility was out of the question. In fact, the possibility was so far out of the question, the possibility and the question were on separate continents.

“He sowed his wild oats, you mean.” “Entire plantations of them. Good heavens. He made oat-sowing an industry.”

“It’s dated three months ago. It begins, ‘May it please Your Grace—’ ” “What was that?” he murmured. “Repeat it for me. Just those last three words.” The last three words? Izzy consulted the paper. “Please Your Gra—” Oh, the shameless rogue. She gave in. “Please, Your Grace.” “With pleasure.” He slipped one hand to cup her breast. The other delved under her skirts. “Ransom,” she chided. “Someone could come in at any moment.” “Yes. They could. That’s what makes it so exciting.”

“Order of the Poppy,” Ransom mused, as his hands were cut loose. He rubbed his chafed wrists. “Does this mean we get to smoke opium now?”

This is the reason for that reluctance. You don’t feel pretty enough. For a blind man. Christ, Izzy. And I thought I was shallow.”

a gesture of love and faith, and . . . And sheer insanity. She pressed a hand to her heart. Her hero.

This was the true fairy-tale ending. He’d given her the “happily” part the day they’d agreed to marry. This room was the “ever after.” And the best part of all? So many years stood between them and “The End.”