He leaned against her desk, arms folded across his chest. Her eyes dropped involuntarily to where his shirt sleeves strained against the bulge of muscle, her mouth going dry at the display of barely contained strength. His voice was a low rumble when he spoke. “You misunderstand, Duchess. I’m not here for more money.”
“Then what do you want?” The question escaped before she could temper it with diplomacy.
His smile was slow and dangerous. “For starters, dinner would be lovely. I’ve traveled a long way to meet my bride. Then perhaps a tour of my new home?” His gaze drifted deliberately toward the ceiling in the direction of the bedchambers. “All of it.”
Eleanor stood abruptly. “This is my home. The deed may bear the Westmore name due to our legal arrangement, but make no mistake, Your Grace. I am mistress here.”
“I wouldn’t dream of disputing your mastery of domestic matters.” His eyes glinted with mischief. “Though I do hope to dispute a few other matters between us, in time,” he added, his gaze raking improperly over her form.
She fought the urge to slap the smug smile from his face. All her careful plans were crumbling. His Smirking Grace would undoubtedly want control of the financial matters, which would put her at his mercy. Even the cleverest legal documents designed by The Black Widow’s solicitors were only as good as the husband who was willing to honor them.
“Let me be perfectly clear. Ours is a marriage of convenience only. If you insist on remaining in London, I will find alternative accommodations for you.”
“Alternative accommodations?” He pressed a hand to his chest in mock distress. “Would you cast me out into the harsh London night? What kind of wife abandons her newly returnedhusband? Especially when that husband holds the legal power to protect—or dismantle—everything she’s built?”
“The kind whose husband was paid very handsomely to stay away,” she snapped.
“Ah, but therein lies your mistake.” He tapped his temple, his expression shifting to one of exaggerated wisdom. “You paid for the exile, not the absence.”
Eleanor lost her fight to control her rising frustration. “They’re the same thing!”
“Ah, not exactly. I agreed to live in the East, but I never agreed not to visit England. Subtle but significant difference.”
“You are a scoundrel!”
She had not come this far, protected her fortune this carefully, to be undone by this infuriating man.
Her most inconvenient husband leaned down, bringing his face level with hers. “Tell me, Eleanor—may I call you Eleanor?—does it truly not pique your curiosity wondering what kind of man you’ve married?”
“No, you may not address me by my Christian name. And the only thing that intrigues me is how quickly I can restore order to my household.”
He straightened, laughing again. “Order! Oh, my dear duchess, I fear you’re in for a disappointment. Order and I have maintained a comfortable distance for most of my life.” He walked to the bell pull and rang for a servant. “Now, about that dinner…”
When her butler appeared at the door, the interloper turned to him with easy authority. “Ah, excellent. Please inform the cook that Her Grace and I will dine at eight. Something celebratory, I think—a reunion of husband and wife deserves proper recognition, wouldn’t you agree?”
Before Eleanor could countermand the instruction, her normally stoic butler actually smiled. “Yes, Your Grace. Very good, Your Grace. Welcome home, Your Grace.”
“Thank you, er…”
“Simmons, Your Grace.”
“Thank you, Simmons. It’s good to be home.”
When they were alone again, Eleanor leveled her coldest glare at him. “You overstep.”
“Technically impossible, my dear.” His grin was positively wicked. “A duke cannot overstep in his own home, with his own wife, directing his own servants. The law of coverture is quite clear on a husband’s rights, though I understand your special arrangement with The Widow was designed to circumvent those limitations.”
“These arrangements can be dissolved,” she threatened, though she knew the consequences would be dire. The process would be humiliating and public, and likely unsuccessful without the duke’s cooperation. All the carefully crafted legal documents The Widow had arranged would be worthless if the marriage were dissolved. Mr. Abram would swoop in like a vulture to claim what remained of her inheritance.
His expression softened slightly, the first genuine emotion she’d seen from him. “Come now, Eleanor. Surely we can reach an agreement that serves us both. One dinner, civilized conversation, a chance to establish some ground rules for this unanticipated cohabitation.”
She studied him warily. Something in his tone suggested more lay beneath his cavalier surface than he revealed. She’d built her independence on her ability to read men’s motivations—and something about the Duke of Westmore didn’t quite align with his roguish performance.
“One dinner,” she conceded reluctantly. “After which we will discuss terms for your prompt departure.”
His smile returned, triumphant. “I look forward to the… negotiation.” He collected his jacket, shrugging it on with masculine elegance. “I’ll retire to refresh myself before dinner. Which, I wonder, is my chamber?”
Eleanor lifted her chin. “The blue guest bedchamber. Second floor, east wing.”