Viola had agreed to a midnight rendezvous with a depraved duke, but she hadn’t bothered to find out where said rendezvous would occur. Surely not in his bedchamber. It had better not be there. He must be waiting for her in his study.

It was her duty to his sisters to keep him inside this evening and out of trouble. She’d promised Blanche she would do so.

He wasn’t in the study. He’d been there recently, though. The fire had died down and she could smell the clove spice of his cologne. Perhaps he’d gone to bed early and she wouldn’t have to meet with him tonight at all.

Small chance of that. He never went to bed early. His days began at midnight.

She tiptoed up the stairs and down the hallway, her heart thumping with every step. She’d never seen the inside of his bedchamber, though she’d visited it many times in her dreams.

This was no dream. She was really here. Outside his bedroom door. Preparing to knock for entry.

The house was quiet. The servants were all abed.

She should be safe in her bed, not knocking on dukes’ doors.

Maybe all she had to do was knock. She could ascertain that he was still here and not out carousing, tell him through the door that she was feeling tired and they could speak further in the morning.

This would be a very brief, very proper and businesslike conversation.

Through the unopened door.

Gathering her courage, she knocked. She pressed her ear against the door to listen for the response. Unfortunately, at the very moment she leaned forward, he flung open the door, as though he’d been waiting behind it for her knock.

She tumbled off balance and fell into his arms.

Stunned into silence, she rested her head against his chest, trying to catch her breath. His arms supported her elbows. Her mouth opened but no sound emerged.

“Miss Beaton, good, you’re here.”

Forming a reply was beyond her. She was directly at eye level with his chest. He wore a dark blue velvet dressing gown over trousers.

With no shirt underneath.

There was a light dusting of blond hair on his exposed chest. Her hand had fallen upon the knotted sash of his robe, as if it had a mind of its own, and had decided to unwrap him.

“Miss Beaton?” He glanced down at her questioningly.

She finally raised her eyes from his chest to his face. The knowing glint in his eyes, which matched his velvet robe perfectly, she observed, informed her that he was well aware of her sensual response to their embrace.

She righted herself and broke the embrace. “Your Grace. I’m here.”

“I see that.” He was amused.

Keep yourself tightly knotted up. Don’t let him see the naked longing in your heart. The longing for naked . . .

This was a very bad idea.