Private Arrangements Read Free Page A

Majesty's magistrate and swear that I never touched you. We both know perfectly well that I shagged you to a fare-thee-well.”
    She flinched and grew hot. Unfortunately, not entirely from anger. The memories of that night—no, she would not think about it. She had forgotten it already. “This is about Miss von Schweppenburg, isn't it? You are still trying to punish me.”
    He gave her one of his cool stares that used to turn her knees to pudding. “Now, why would you think that?”
    And what could she say? What could she say without dragging up their entire complicated and bitter history? She swallowed. “Fine,” she said, as indifferently as she could. “I have an evening engagement to keep. But I should be home about ten. I can permit you a quarter hour from half past ten.”
    He laughed. “As impatient as always, my dear marchioness. No, tonight I will not be visiting you. I'm weary from my travels. And now that I've seen you, I'll need a few more days to get over my revulsion. But rest assured, I shall not be bound by any asinine time limits. I will stay in your bed for as long as I want, not a minute less—and not a minute more, no matter how you plead.”
    Her jaw dropped from sheer stupefaction. “That is the most rid—”
    He suddenly leaned toward her and placed an index finger over her lips. “I wouldn't finish that sentence if I were you. You will not enjoy eating those words.”
    She jerked her head away, her lips burning. “I would not want you to remain in my bed if you were the last man alive and I'd had nothing but Spanish flies for a fortnight.”
    “What images you bring to mind, my lady Tremaine. With every man in the world perfectly alive and no aphrodisiacs at all, you were already a tigress.” He pushed away from the desk. “I've had all I can take of you for a day. I wish you a pleasant evening. Do convey my regards to your beloved. I hope he doesn't mind my exercises in conjugal rights.”
    He left without a backward glance.
    And not for the first time.
    Lady Tremaine watched the door closing behind her husband and rued the day she first learned of his existence.
     
    Chapter Two

    Eleven years earlier . . .
London
July 1882
    E ighteen-year-old Gigi Rowland gloated. She hoped she wasn't too obvious, but then, she didn't really care. What could the bejeweled, beplumed women in Lady Beckwith's drawing room possibly say? That she lacked becoming modesty? That she was hard-edged and arrogant? That she reeked of pound notes?
    They had predicted, at the beginning of her London season, that she would be an unqualified disaster, a girl with no class, no comportment, no clue. But lo and behold, only two months into the season and she was already engaged—to a duke, a young, handsome one no less. Her Grace the Duchess of Fairford. She liked the sound of it. She liked it tremendously.
    The same women who had scorned her had been forced to stand before her and offer their felicitations. Yes, the wedding date had been set—in November, just after her birthday. And, yes, thank you, she already had her first consultation at Madame Elise's for the wedding gown. She'd chosen a lush cream satin, with a twelve-foot train to be made of silver moiré.
    Secure in her soon-to-be exalted status, Gigi settled deeper into the bergère chair and snapped open her fan as other, fiancéless debutantes prepared to entertain the ladies with their musical skills—Lord Beckwith being notoriously lengthy with his postdinner cordials and cigars, sometimes keeping the gentlemen for more than three hours.
    Gigi turned her attention to more important matters. Should she do something fantastical with the cake, have it done in the shape of the Taj Mahal or the Doge's Palace? No? Then she'd have the layers made in an unusual shape. Hexagons? Excellent. A hexagonal cake covered in gleaming royal fondant icing, with garlands of—
    The music. She looked up in surprise. The performances usually ranged from acceptable to