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the impressive width of his shoulders, and defined the muscular power of his long legs. The signature glossy fall of his dark hair brushed his shoulders, shining in the late-afternoon sun and framing those sinfully beautiful masculine features. It struck her that she was really seeing the man, not just the wealthy, handsome aristocrat with that breathtaking smile and compelling confidence. The more casual mode of dress also signaled an intimacy in their acquaintance that brought home the actual situation: she was going to spend the next week in his bed.
    She felt a small shiver as he reached out to politely take her hand and bend over it, his mouth just grazing her skin.
    He straightened and murmured, “Welcome, my lady.”
    “Good afternoon, Your Grace.” Caroline managed to keep her voice level, though her pulse had picked up the pace. The duke towered over her, and his shoulders looked dauntingly wide.
    His dark eyes regarded her with the faintest gleam of humor. “I hope you are prepared for a week of rustic living. As I warned, there is only a minimal staff. My arrival has the housekeeper somewhat rattled. Come, let’s go inside. I’ll order tea and we can get . . . acquainted.”
    So quickly? Caroline wasn’t sure what he meant by that remark and her usual uncertainty took hold of her. Summoning every ounce of bravado, she murmured in a cool tone, “That would be acceptable, I suppose.”
    Now he definitely looked amused, his finely modeled mouth twitching. “Spoken like the true icy Lady Wynn. Please keep in mind I only mentioned tea.”
    She was well aware of her reputation for distance and lack of warmth. It was why she had embarked on her current mad course. “We both know why I am here, Rothay.”
    “Yes, we do.” He still held her hand, his long fingers not relinquishing their light grip. It was a liberty, but given the circumstances, how could she object?
    He bent forward, close enough his warm breath brushed her ear. “You are not going to be easy to thaw, are you?”
    Those softly spoken words made her pull back and stare at him for a moment, unsure how to respond, an odd tingle in the pit of her stomach. Maybe honesty was best. “No,” she admitted finally.
    To her relief he said no more and released her hand. “Shall we go in?”
    She stepped past him and walked into the foyer, more than a little rattled by the brief intimacy of their exchange. No matter how countrified he found the surroundings, she noticed—the diversion welcome—with its polished wood paneling, beautiful floors, and high ceilings, the place was both warm and gracious, with the air of an aging beauty. Fine bones under the mellowing exterior, a sense of belonging in the bucolic setting, the smell of wax and baking bread in the air . . .
    “This is pleasant,” she managed to say with aplomb, though his reference to thawing her had brought old persistent insecurities to the surface.
    What if she was truly passionless and unable to respond to a man?
    Nicholas Manning glanced around. The hallway led to an open area with a very large fireplace, with chairs and settees gathered into conversational circles. At the far side, a carved, graceful staircase curved upward. “More so than I remember,” he admitted. “I have neglected to come here for a long time. I have eight houses scattered about various parts of England thanks to my illustrious ancestors. It seems every time a Rothay heir marries, we collect estates like children gather sweets. It is impossible to live in all of them, and besides, my presence in London is required too often for me to spend a lot of time in the countryside.”
    The dry tone of his voice told her his reference to his heritage was self-deprecating, and she gave a small laugh, liking him for the lack of conceit. “I doubt most people would feel sorry for you because of an excess of wealth, Your Grace.”
    “Perhaps not.” He took her elbow and urged her down the hallway. “But it is not without