VICTORIA JANSSEN

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      MILLS & BOON

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      For the Nameless Workshop, then and now, near and far.

      ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

      Ann, Ef, John, Judith, Steve and Ricardo, of the Nameless Workshop, critiqued for me, and their comments helped me make this novel a good deal more coherent and complex than it might have been were I left to my own devices. Lorrie, as always, provided sanity, small monkeys and pie. Charlotte brainstormed with her usual brilliance. Sherwood told me about invaluable research books, and I was further inspired by the sea-battle scenes in her Inda series. Arionrhod and Kyle Cassidy contributed their names in support of charitable causes. Nif and Jen patiently listened to me relate the entire plot when this novel was still nascent. Special thanks go to Lara Hyde for okaying the pirate-eating sharks (and for the ice cream) and to Susan Swinwood for her insightful revision notes. And finally, thanks to the production folks at Harlequin for yet another beautiful book.

      Further information may be found at my website, www.victoriajanssen.com.

      CHAPTER ONE

      “MY LADY,” MAXIME SAID, “I UNDERSTAND YOU’RE disappointed—”

      Lady Diamanta Picot threw a gold-and-ruby pomegranate at Maxime’s head. He ducked, but it still clipped the top edge of his coronet and rebounded into the wall of the receiving room before hitting the floor and spinning to a stop.

      A handblown goblet whizzed by his ear; he flung up his hand and caught it before it could shatter against the ducal throne behind him. “Now, wait,” he said. “That was a particular token of my esteem—look at all these beautiful cloud fish etched into the bowl—” “Fuck you!” Lady Diamanta screamed. “I’m afraid not,” Maxime said. “I did not agree to this marriage. Therefore I will not marry you.”

      Diamanta vibrated with rage, her slender fingers clenched upon the next gift, a handful of ebony hair sticks topped with gold knobs, the rich coppery-red gold of the far south, seldom seen in the duchies. She snarled, “You have no choice in the matter.”

      “On the contrary,” Maxime said. “I am a duke of the realm. I may marry whom I please. My charter clearly states—”

      “You will marry at the king’s command,” Diamanta said, her voice going cold. She set the hair sticks back on the table, but continued to fondle them, as an archer might fondle arrows. “If you refuse me, my life will be ruined.”

      “No, it won’t,” Maxime said. “You hate me. You’ve hated me since we were both fourteen.” He set the goblet down on another table, out of her reach.

      Diamanta licked her lips. They were plump and pink and inviting. Her fingers trailed along the table and lightly caressed the marquetry lid of a box of caraway comfits before returning to the hair sticks. She said, “My feelings don’t enter into it, nor do yours. I am wealthy.”

      “So am I.”

      “That’s why we belong together. That’s why I am to be a duchess. My father’s wealth will provide a substantial dowry for the crown, and for your duchy, as well. I’ve been trained from birth to manage a duchy and its interests.”

      “You won’t be my duchess,” Maxime said. He clasped his hands behind his back. The elaborate rings he’d worn, hoping she’d see them as the respect he intended for her, dug painfully into his fingers. “My refusal has nothing to do with your management skills. I am despondent you traveled all this way. I informed the king weeks ago I would not marry you, or anyone of his choosing. Perhaps you could convey this to him directly.”

      “You are a fool,” she spat. “Our marriage could be a mutually beneficial arrangement. I would increase your wealth beyond anything you can imagine. You may have two heirs of me, or even three. And I would not restrain you from your … interests outside the marriage bed, if you would extend me the same courtesy.”

      She’d just stated his worst nightmare. Slowly, he shook his head.

      He held her gaze. She held his. Slowly, she released her grip on the hair sticks and trailed her fingers up her rib cage and over her bosom, perfectly displayed in her low-cut purple gown. It was one of the finest bosoms in all the duchies. She lifted a brow. Maxime shook his head.

      Diamanta took one of the hair sticks and briskly used it to tidy dislodged strands of her platinum-pale hair. She remarked, “You would have been lucky to have me. You’re not such a prize, you know. No matter what the women of the court say of your … endowments.”

      “I’d rather not be a prize in a contest,” Maxime said. “You will of course accept my gifts, which express my regret in refusing our betrothal?”

      Diamanta cast a glance over the tables spanning the room, each one laden with silks, jewels, sweetmeats and exquisite handicrafts. Thirty matched tourmalines were arrayed on black velvet and surrounded by twists of intricate lace. Whole pears, glittering with an armor of sugar crystals, spilled from a brightly polished silver bowl, and a mixture of saffron pastilles and candied violets adorned a perfect marzipan replica of the king’s castle. A tiny yellow bird with an orange beak warbled sweetly in its bamboo cage, and an albino monkey watched them from atop a tree carved from jade.

      Diamanta fondled a distinctive enameled sweets box, this one the most valuable item of the lot, containing as it did candied lumps of a balsam imported from the other side of the world, which Maxime had not yet released to a general market. Feigning reluctance, she picked up the palm-size box. “I suppose they will have to do.” She gestured to her silently waiting maid, whirled in a swirl of silks and exited.

      After the door closed, Maxime sank into a chair and scrubbed his hands over his cropped dark beard. He’d barely escaped a fate that made him shudder inside—a lifetime of brittle politeness and brittle, obligatory sex with someone with whom he never wanted to converse. Being threatened with such a marriage was one of the things he’d managed to avoid while still merely Lord Maxime of the Coastal Protectorate.

      He was lucky the king hadn’t had him drugged and forced to speak vows. He cast a glance at his wineglass, remembered Diamanta had passed near it and poured its contents into a potted tree.

      The