One Night With the Duke

One Night with the Duke Susan Golden copyright © 2023 Susan Golden All rights reserved. DEDICATION To my daughter, Sarah, who showed me the power of perseverance and the strength that comes from just wanting it bad enough. And to my husband, Carl, who had my back while I found my way. Page blank CHAPTER ONE The bell on the door of Benford’s Jewelers tinkled as Emma Poundstone stumbled inside, her large portmanteau catching on the door frame. She clutched at her hat, took a deep breath, and approached the counter. “Good morning, miss. Back again, I see. It has been a while.” She smiled at the jeweler. “You remember me, sir? It has been some months. Surely I am not so noteworthy.” She fingered her fraying cuff. “I believe you are mistaken in that, my dear. But I make a point of remembering all who think to sell to me. They are not many, and one must be circumspect in this profession. Have you something for me today?” She took a deep breath, blinked several times, and swayed before steadying herself. Her hands shook as she fought with the drawstring on her well-worn reticule. Finally, she extracted a blue-and-gold snuffbox and placed it on the counter. Her fingers rested on the box for a long moment before she withdrew them. “It is not stolen, I assure you, Mr. Benford,” she said, her voice catching. Benford looked her square in the eyes. “Of that, I have no doubt.” He made an obvious survey of her from head to toe. “You are surely a lady of good breeding who has perhaps fallen on hard times. I am saddened to see you returned with another item, but let us see what we can do.” The doorbell chimed. Benford glanced up from the snuffbox, eyed the new arrival, and quickly put the box down. “Thirty pounds.” Benford’s attention wandered to the door. “Oh, please, sir. It is worth at least fifty.” Amanda reached out to touch the jeweler’s arm. “I run a business, miss. I must make a profit.” Benford tugged his arm from under her grasp. “Yes, yes, of course.” Emma struggled to maintain her composure and keep the tremor that ran through her body out of her voice. “Could you perhaps see your way to thirty-five? It is my last one. It is all I have.” The final sentence was barely a whisper. Benford was silent for a moment. Emma held her breath and said a short prayer that he might be guided by charity rather than sound business sense. “One hundred pounds,” someone said from behind her. The words spoken in velvet tones weakened Emma’s knees. She thought she might melt. She was afraid to turn around and see the face of her benefactor. This all might be a delusion. She felt light-headed, unsure whether the condition sprang from sheer relief at the unbelievable offer or from gnawing hunger. Benford raised his head. “Your Grace.” Emma wheeled around, thinking to offer up some form of proper greeting, a low curtsy perhaps, to whatever duke this was, but startling green eyes and a dazzling smile set in the most handsome face Emma had ever seen halted her. The duke said nothing, regarding her with kind, laughing eyes. He pulled a supple grey leather glove off his hand and withdrew a black leather wallet from his finely tailored tailcoat. “You are most generous, Your Grace,” Emma stammered, all thoughts of an obligatory curtsy having been driven out of her mind by the man’s youth and striking looks. “But that is far more than the box is worth. I could not possibly accept…” The duke’s smile got even broader and brighter, singeing her with its brilliance. “My dear, I believe you misunderstand your role in the negotiation process. As the seller, you wish to extract maximum payment from the buyer. It is really not in your best interest to suggest the offering is excessive.” His dancing green eyes caught Emma in their spell. Heat flooded her. “I would not wish to take advantage, Your Grace. It is not nearly so dear as—” The duke raised a hand. “The worth of an item is as much as someone is willing to pay. I am willing to pay one hundred pounds for your charming trinket.” He reached past Emma and retrieved the gold snuffbox with the blue stones from the counter. He turned it over a time or two as if truly examining the workmanship. “I find it quite amusing. I do not think Benford here will object if I buy it directly from you. Will you, Harold?” The duke never took his eyes off Emma. “Of course not, Your Grace.” “Excellent, then.” The duke removed a hundred-pound note from his wallet and handed the bill to Emma. Then he tucked the wallet and snuffbox into his coat. “Thank you kindly, Your Grace.” “Not at all, Miss…?” “Poundstone.” “Charmed, Miss Poundstone.” He reached out and took Emma’s hand. A jolt shot up her arm and streaked to her heart, which pounded madly. “Giles Fairmarch. At your service.” He pressed Emma’s bare hand to his lips, and the action made her see stars. When His Grace didn’t continue with his introduction, Emma looked at Benford. “Duke of Wexham,” he said. She knew it. The man was a duke. But when she heard the words out loud, Emma’s knees buckled. She had barely started her descent to the floor when the duke tugged on her hand and slid an arm around her waist. “Steady there, Miss Poundstone.” The words fluttered against Emma’s forehead. Pressed against Giles’s chest, Emma smelled his cologne—subtle, manly, with a hint of spice. He must wear it solely for someone who got this close, not for anyone else. What kind of lady would he favor with his embrace? But her thoughts flew back to more practical matters as she set about righting herself. “I am dreadfully sorry, Your Grace. Please forgive me.” The