If she married him, she could find out for herself what it was like to lie with a man—and rid herself of all those tantalizing, disturbing, crazy-making sensations that invaded her dreams. That made her lose all sense of herself when he kissed her. And climb him like a tree.

Her cheeks warmed. These were not the thoughts to be having in a dying woman’s bedchamber.

The duchess’s thin fingers gripped hers. The haggard, haunted eyes bored into her.

George writhed inside.

There were agreements to be signed before a marriage; she remembered that from Lily’s marriage. Aunt Agatha had implied that they would live more or less separate lives, except when congress was necessary to conceive an heir. If he would agree to that in writing . . .

The duchess’s bony grip tightened. Her eyes filled with tears. “Please, my dearest girl . . . Tell me what I need to hear. Let me go at last . . . in peace.”

All through her childhood George had brought home wounded creatures—mending birds’ wings, nursing orphaned fox kits, rescuing creatures caught in traps, and kittens left to drown.

It was simply not in her to crush the last hope this poor woman had. She’d been ready to resist all the other pressures that had been brought on her to marry the duke, but how could she refuse a dying woman’s last wish for her beloved son?

“All right,” she said heavily. “I’ll marry him.” She instantly felt sick and wanted to retract her statement. The duchess sank back against her pillows, her eyes closed, an otherworldly smile on her face. It was almost as if she were dead already.

“Excellent.” Aunt Agatha rose. “Now come along, we’ve exhausted the duchess enough. She will wish to sleep now.” She bustled George from the room, and before she could blink they were out in the street, climbing into the carriage.

“What’s the matter with her?” George asked. “Is she really so close to—”

“It is vulgar to speculate,” Aunt Agatha said brusquely. “The duchess’s situation is not your concern. The sooner we settle this business of the wedding, the sooner her mind will be at rest. I’ll speak to Ashendon this afternoon.”

They returned to Ashendon House and Aunt Agatha, looking like the cat that had swallowed the canary, wasted no time in informing Cal and Emm that George had agreed—promised, in fact—to marry the duke after all.

Cal frowned. “Is this true, George?”

George nodded.

“You weren’t forced, were you?” Emm asked worriedly.

“Because if you were—” Cal began.

George sighed. “No. I wasn’t forced. I just . . . I just changed my mind.”

“You’re sure, then?” Cal asked. “Because once this is agreed, you won’t be able to change your mind.”