A dangerous line of thinking. He was probably gazing at her so intently because he was drunk.

Don’t marry Miss Chandler. She’s not right for you. You must learn to love and accept love in return if you’ll ever have a chance for happiness.

She could taste the words. Hear them spoken aloud.

And what alternative would she offer? A certain music teacher with an opera singer for a mother and a disgraced father?

Don’t be stupid.

Blanche had objected to Miss Chandler because she wasn’t a suitable duchess. But the marriage was all arranged and it would be financially beneficial. He had sisters, servants, tenants, relations, all relying on him to provide for them.

He must marry for money.

And she must stop this pointless meandering of mind.

It had been easier when he’d called her Miss Bedlam and treated her with careless disregard.

This sitting next to him on the piano bench, talking of their pasts, and their families, was perilous. And pleasurable.

Life’s pleasures had been so simple before. A hot cup of tea pressed to her cheek to ease the aching tension in her jaw. A simple melody that suggested endless variations. Her father’s praise when she played his music. The satisfaction of seeing her pupils progress, of awakening a love of music in a young mind.

And those pleasures had been enough. Should be enough.

Not everyone was made for love. For coupling.

Not everyone was lucky enough to find their soul mate.

But oh! When he looked at her like that.

She rumbled and vibrated, plucked and humming and filled with sound, overflowing with music, and she wanted him.

It wasn’t pleasure in general she wanted to experience. It was him. She knew herself well enough to know that. She wasn’t curious about lovemaking as an abstract principle. She’d rather go through her whole life alone than give herself to the wrong person. And he was the wrong person. He was someone who by his own avowal would never give his heart. He was engaged to be married to another woman.

And even if he weren’t, there were oceans separating them. She was a penniless music teacher who’d never even made her debut.

He was a duke with a wicked reputation.

The wife he chose must be either extraordinarily wealthy, or extraordinarily perfect, polished, and well-connected.

But when he looked at her like that . . . she wanted him. She wanted to touch him. To feel his hands on her.

She pressed her fingers to the piano keys instead, knowing exactly how much pressure to exert to make a staccato note or a bare whisper of a grace note.

“It’s late, Your Grace,” she whispered.

He cleared his throat. “Yes.”

“And we’re alone.”

“Yes.” His voice a caress now. His gaze soft and seductive.