“You’re so convinced of your charms. You think any woman would be lucky to have you.”

“I’m a duke. I’m handsome. I have all my teeth. I have a good head of hair. All my best parts are in excellent working order. If I wasn’t so wicked, I’d be every heiress’s dream. My kisses inspire devotion. No courtship necessary.”

“I’m quite certain there are plenty of ladies who could resist your kisses and remain impassive and undevoted.”

“I always start with a kiss on the hand. Like this.”

He demonstrated, lifting Viola’s hand. His touch was firm, commanding. His skin warm.

He pulled gently until she stood before him, hardly daring to breathe.

He lifted her hand and brushed his lips over her knuckles.

“A kiss on the hand is an act of obeisance. It says that I want to touch you, to test the softness of your skin, inhale the fragrance you applied to your wrist. I want my lips to brush your hand while my fingers hold you.” He turned her hand palm up and kissed the inside of her wrist.

She shivered from the contact of his lips against her skin. A little rough against that soft, sensitive place.

“It’s a gesture that can be more seductive than a kiss on the lips. It says, I’ll hold your small wrist in my big hand. I could overwhelm you, and yet I’d never do such a thing, because when I hold your wrist in my fingers, when I feel that faint pulse beat against my thumb . . .” He dragged his thumb across her wrist. “You’re the one in control. You hold the power. One word from you, one small little word, would send me away, or bring me closer . . . to your lips. It’s all up to you.”

Her knees quivered slightly so she corrected her posture, standing sturdy in the face of so much seductive duke. She must stand firm. She had a point to prove.

“I’m sure a lady would pull her hand away and scold you for taking such liberties in public.”

“We’re not in public. We’re in a bedchamber.”

“Then she would leave straightaway. Or call loudly for her chaperone.”

“You are the chaperone.”

“Then I should leave.”

“Yes, you probably should. Because you don’t want to know what I’d do next . . .”

“I don’t want to know. That is . . . what do you do next?”

His smile was wolfish. “Then I look into her eyes . . . like this.” His eyes burned, smoldered; they were temptation itself. “My eyes speak of the things I’ll do to her, the ways we’ll experience pleasure. The things she’ll learn . . . the things she’ll teach me.”

“And then . . . ?” she whispered. She couldn’t help herself. It was as though someone else possessed her body.

“And then I kiss her. Really kiss her. Deeply. Passionately. And she swoons into my arms.”