I grew up a PK (“preacher’s kid”). Emma, the heroine of this book, is a vicar’s daughter. I want to make clear that Emma’s father is nothing like my own. My father was—and is—loving, patient, supportive, and understanding.

      Thanks, Dad. This book’s for you.

      Please don’t read chapters 7, 9, 11, 17, 19, 21, or 28.

Chapter One

      Emma Gladstone had learned a few hard lessons by the age of two-and-twenty.

      Charming princes weren’t always what they seemed. Shining armor went out of fashion with the Crusades. And if fairy godmothers existed, hers was running several years late.

      Most of the time, a girl needed to rescue herself.

      This afternoon was one of those times.

      Ashbury House loomed before her, taking up one full side of the fashionable Mayfair square. Elegant. Enormous.

      Terrifying.

      She swallowed hard. She could do this. Once, she’d walked to London alone in the bitter heart of winter. She’d refused to succumb to despair or starvation. She’d found work and made a new life for herself in Town. Now, six years later, she’d swallow every needle in Madame Bissette’s dressmaking shop before she’d go crawling back to her father.

      Compared to all that, what was knocking on the door of a duke?

      Why, nothing. Nothing at all. All she had to do was square her shoulders, charge through the wrought-iron gates, march up those granite steps—really, there were only a hundred or so—and ring the bell on that immense, richly carved door.

       Good afternoon. I’m Miss Emma Gladstone. I’m here to see the mysterious, reclusive Duke of Ashbury. No, we aren’t acquainted. No, I don’t have a calling card. I don’t have anything, really. I may not even have a home tomorrow if you don’t let me in.

      Oh, good heavens. This would never work.

      With a whimper, she turned away from the gate and circled the square for the tenth time, shaking out her bare arms under her cloak.

      She had to try.

      Emma stopped her pacing, faced the gate, and drew a deep breath. She closed her ears to the frantic pounding of her heart.

      The hour was growing late. No one was coming to her aid. There could be no further hesitation, no turning back.

      Ready. Steady.

       Go.

      From his library desk, Ashbury heard an unfamiliar ringing sound. Could it be a doorbell?

      There it came again.

      It was a doorbell.

      Worse, it was his doorbell.

      Damned gossips. He hadn’t even been in Town but a few weeks. He’d forgotten how London rumors traveled faster than bullets. He didn’t have the time or patience for busybodies. Whoever it was, Khan would send them away.

      He dipped his quill and continued the letter to his feckless solicitors.

      I don’t know what the devil you’ve been doing for the past year, but the state of my affairs is deplorable. Sack the Yorkshire land steward directly. Tell the architect I wish to see the plans for the new mill, and I wish to see them yesterday. And there’s one other thing that requires immediate attention.

      Ash hesitated, quill poised in midair. He couldn’t believe he was actually going to commit the words to paper. But much as he dreaded it, it must be done. He wrote:

      I need a wife.

      He supposed he ought to state his requirements: a woman of childbearing age and respectable lineage, in urgent need of money, willing to share a bed with a scarred horror of a man.

      In short, someone desperate.

      God, how depressing. Better to leave it at that one line.

      I need a wife.

      Khan appeared in the doorway. “Your Grace, I regret the interruption, but there’s a young woman to see you. She’s wearing a wedding gown.”

      Ash looked at the butler. He looked down at the words he’d just written. Then he looked at the butler again.

      “Well, that’s uncanny.” Perhaps his solicitors weren’t