to settle his unpaid accounts.
“I’m sorry.”
She jerked her head up. She didn’t want him to pity her. Was there a way she could stop him from asking more questions and convince him to keep her?
“Let me try to help you,” she said impetuously. “I saw how frustrated you became when you walked across the library and hit your shin on that table. My grandfather was blind, and I know the things he did to cope with it. Perhaps those things could help you—”
“Angel, I don’t need help. The only way I can be ‘healed’ is to get my sight back and, as delightful and intriguing as you are, you can’t do that for me.”
“Once, my grandfather told me he believed his blindness was actually a gift.”
“Then your grandfather was a madman.” He reached for his coffee, and she could see he was going to knock over the cup. She lunged and snatched it up before he could. If he did something like that now, she would never win him over. And she had to. Thinking of Madame’s death was like the prick of a blade. She had to make haste to survive.
“Perhaps I could show you why he felt that way, YourGrace. I know I can’t give you back your sight—I wish I could—but I do believe I can make you happy. I know you used to love to game and wager. Why don’t you make a wager with me? I believe I can help make you into the man you were before you were blind. I know I can! I have weapons you can’t even imagine.”
“A wager?” He leaned back in his chair, his brow arched dubiously, but at least she had captured his attention. And distracted him from his previous questions.
She knew she’d thrown down a gauntlet, and she had to win. But where to begin?
The duke scratched along his jaw, his fingers stroking through his uneven beard.
Of course! She had been in the care of starchy and efficient nurses and no-nonsense governesses until she was fifteen—until her father’s death. What did her nurses do when she came home with a dirty face and unkempt hair? Firm hands would propel her to the claw-foot tub, where she was deposited into the water, then scrubbed thoroughly. She knew from living in the stews how hard it was to escape unhappiness if you couldn’t escape being dirty and disheveled.
That was where she would begin. She would clean him up.
Chapter Five
OU’RE ASKING ME to let you go for my throat with a razor?”
“I want to
shave
you.” With her hands on the duke’s lower back, Anne propelled him to a stool in front of his mahogany dresser. Nerves made her take charge and act swiftly. His shaving kit was laid out upon a towel, apparently left by his valet. She’d instructed a footman to bring a basin of water. “You are sorely in need of a good shave. Now, please sit down, Your Grace.”
“Angel, this is not a good idea.”
“It is. You’re scratching at that mess of stubble again. You would feel better with it gone.”
“I do not know about this,” he said warily. “I don’t like the idea of you touching my throat with a blade.”
“Nonsense, I shall take great care,” she promised. She hoped she was not hammering nails in her coffin by arguing with him. As he had observed, she was supposed to be paid to do as he asked, not to speak her mind.
Kat, who had been lover to many peers, had explained exactly what a mistress was supposed to do. Avoiding arguments had been quite close to the top of the list. It appeared a clever mistress had skills beyond the bedroom.A successful one knew how to flatter her protector, how to make him feel like a god among men. Herding him into his dressing room like a clucking nanny was
not
the best way to flatter him.
Bother. But she had to do this—sex hadn’t worked, so she must do something else to make her appear so valuable and indispensable he would not dream of sending her away. “I certainly wouldn’t hurt you deliberately,” she said. “And I’ve”—the lie slipped out with dreadful ease—“done this many times before. I think this
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