She pressed her hot cheek against the cold glass of the windowpane. Her body was afire, and not just for anyone. For the duke.

It was like a thirst that couldn’t be quenched, except by him, a hunger that only he could assuage. But would bedding him rid her of these restive, sweaty dreams, the craving for . . . for whatever it was she craved?

It was as though the desire had sprung from some outside source, a fever, an infection in her blood. And the duke was the source.

Was he also the cure?

She’d always thought she understood what passed between men and women. Even as a child she’d known how animals did it, and had supposed men and women weren’t much different. It seemed odd and uncomfortable and not something she ever thought she’d want.

Emm had told her that people were different, and that the pleasures of the bed could really bring a husband and wife closer. George was skeptical, but it did seem to have worked for Emm and Cal. Cal had only married Emm because he didn’t want to be bothered with Rose and Lily and her.

His attitude had certainly changed, but how much of it was because of whatever happened in the bedchamber?

Lily and Rose had talked about it too. They said it was lovely, but George had never really thought about what lovely meant.

She wondered now.

It didn’t feel “lovely” at all; she felt raw and uncomfortable and hot and desperate. But she apparently craved it—whatever it was—even in her dreams. It was horribly inconvenient. She craved it—craved him and how he could make her feel—but she didn’t want him. Didn’t want to want him.

Half a dozen mind-stealing, dizzying, knee-melting kisses, and already she was having hot and steamy dreams of him. Was she addicted? How much more was there to feel?

She curled up on the window seat, pulling her nightdress over her knees and leaning against the window frame. Rain spattered in hard little pellets against the glass. Rainwater rattled down through the pipes.

She thought about the raptures Lily and Rose went into whenever they’d talked about lovemaking with their husbands—though with frustratingly little detail. Did she really want to go through life without ever experiencing that for herself?

She didn’t. She wanted to feel, wanted to know.

She knew well the purpose of this frantic inner urge to mate—procreation. She didn’t know much about babies—only about puppies and foals and kittens and kits and chicks—and she wasn’t sure she even wanted a baby.

Could she risk it? Risk falling pregnant outside of marriage?