“As in, Dorian Blackwell? If you’re married to the Black’eart of Ben More, I’m the bloody Duchess of York.” Gemma popped out of the embrace, staring at Dorian with the one eye that wasn’t swollen shut as if she’d only just noticed him. “I’ll be boffed,” she breathed. “Your Grace.” Dorian dipped his head at her, inwardly wincing at her injuries.
