The Inconvenient Duchess

use to what man to dance with. And the dancing.
    She perched on the edge of her bed, toying with the fan. She had never learned. There had been no time for balls, when living with her father and Cici. And since this was to be her introduction to local society, there was no way she could manage on the few country dances she knew. With the fine gown, the Haughleigh emeralds, and the duke on her arm, she would be the centre of attention.
    And revealed for the fraud she was.

    He was lying in his grave again. Alive and struggling, although the mourners gathered around the hole and looked down at him as though nothing was wrong. St John leaned over him and laughed. And then he moved away and Marcus heard tools digging into the earth, and felt the cold slap of the first pile of dirt as it hit him in the face.
    He coughed and muttered a weak ‘no’, spitting soil from his mouth. And when he looked up again, his mother was there, and Bethany, and they were the ones holding the shovels. And he heard the cutting noise again, as the metal bladesdug in and stuck stones. And the earth, showering in on him, faster than he could dodge. And it lay heavy on him as he tried to raise a hand to cover his face, struggling to keep his nose clear so he could breath, his mouth clear so he could shout. And suddenly, Miranda was there, standing over him, leaning on her shovel and watching him struggle for air.
    He screamed, ‘Miranda! No!’
    But her face was dispassionate. ‘Why must you always shout at me, Marcus? Because you are afraid of shadows? You are a coward. And a fool.’ But then she leaned forward, and light seemed to surround her in a nimbus. And instead of throwing dirt on him, scooped at the earth on him, freeing his legs. ‘The hole is not so deep, if you had the sense to stand up. Stand up, Marcus. Stand up.’
    ‘Wake up, Marcus. Are you awake?’
    And he realised that his eyes were already open, and he was sitting up in his own bed and staring at her, standing in the connecting doorway to her room. ‘Miranda?’
    She repeated patiently, ‘Are you awake? You called out in your sleep. Shouted my name. But when I opened the door you did not recognise me.’
    ‘I was having a nightmare.’ He swallowed and was relieved to find his voice steady though his heart was pounding in his chest. ‘I am sorry if I disturbed you.’
    ‘That is all right. I was unable to sleep.’ She hovered in the doorway, obviously unsure whether to come closer or return to her room. ‘I did not know if it would be wise to wake you. They say that to wake someone from a dream before it is finished is dangerous.’
    ‘No harm done, I assure you.’ He smiled at the sight of her dishevelled curls. ‘In the dream, you were berating me for my foolishness.’
    She stiffened. ‘I am sorry. I would never…’
    He smiled again. ‘Miranda, are you apologising for what you did while in my dream? Because I doubt you have much control over the workings of my sleep-addled brain.’
    She shifted from foot to foot, and the light shone through the gown she was wearing. It was one he had purchased for her, he noted. The fabric was fine, almost transparent in the light from behind her. ‘But how you must think of me…’
    ‘You appeared like an angel when the dream was at its worst and tried to show me that the terrors were nonsense.’
    ‘I did?’ She stilled and he could see the outline of her body through the gown. High, round breasts, smooth belly, the curve of her hip and the dark place where her legs parted.
    ‘Much as you appear now, darling.’ He turned towards her and the covers fell away, baring his chest.
    She took a hesitant step back into the light of her room and he lost the view of her body. ‘Well, that is all right then. If you do not need anything else?’
    He considered a moment, and smiled at her. He had need of her; that was certain. He could feel it growing in him like a slow fire in the blood. A delicious ache, when he looked at her. And he grew hard, seeing her body, almost bared before him.
    ‘Yes. There is.’
    He could see her tense, as though this was the last answer she had hoped to receive.
    He patted the edge of the bed. ‘Come. Sit with me a while.’
    She hesitated, then walked forward like it was a march to the gallows. And sat on the outmost edge of the bed.
    He patted a spot beside him. ‘You do not have to be afraid of me, Miranda. I will not take more than you are ready to give. Come closer, so that I may