Clayton wasn’t buying any of it. “You could have taken Ophelia’s place serving dinner. Earned your keep another way.”

  Her nose wrinkled. “I don’t serve.”

  He disagreed, but he left that one alone. “Your choice is to go downstairs or leave. It’s yours to make, but if I don’t see you in the next quarter hour, you’d better have packed.”

  Rebecca’s hands came to her hips. “One night? You can’t give me one night?”

  It wasn’t lost on Clayton that he had no trouble saying no to Rebecca the way he did Ophelia. “You know what would happen if I made exceptions.” His very slim profit margin would disappear entirely.

  She stomped her foot. “I can’t. I’d be cheating on him with any other man.”

  “Does he have a name?”

  “Reggie Simpson.”

  “You can put on your best dress and go serve drinks, keep the table clean, and keep the guests in fresh cheroots.”

  “Fine.” Rebecca turned away from him and then stomped over to the dressing table to ready herself.

  “And Rebecca…”

  “Yes?”

  “The next time Mr. Simpson comes here will be the last. You leave with him that time, or you never see him again. I had already denied him admittance and he is not welcome here.”

  “Denied!” Rebecca cried and then she was up out of her chair, racing across the room to throw herself at his feet. “You can’t deny him entrance—you don’t even know him!”

  “I know him better than you, having interviewed him twice.” Clayton shook his head. This was another mistake he did not usually make. How had Simpson slipped through to gain admittance? He needed this business with the buyers done.

  “Please. I can’t do this forever. I’m ready to get out and he’s my ticket.”

  Clayton frowned. That was a fact he’d always understood, and Rebecca was right. It was better to have fresh girls in and retire other women quickly. And it was better for them to earn enough to retire. It was why he paid them so well, why he curated his client list so carefully.

  “When he arrives tomorrow, you can meet him outside. If he’s truly interested in marriage, he’ll take you with him. If he isn’t, you’re back to work tomorrow.”

  The fact that he’d even conceded tonight to Rebecca was surely Ophelia’s fault. She was wearing down his hard shell.

  He heard the first strains of the pianoforte drifting up the stairs. He backed out of Rebecca’s room, heading down the stairs. Strictly speaking, he didn’t need to be there when Ophelia performed. Bode would watch her, but he couldn’t quite stay away.

  With her fingers perched over the keys, Ophelia drew in an excited breath. This was the moment she’d been waiting for…. Her chance to play in front of a crowd.

  Strictly speaking, she’d performed recitals meant to draw attention to her skill and attract would-be suitors, but this was so much different.

  She was earning her keep by playing and using her talents. For all intents and purposes, she was a professional musician by doing this. She knew that was a stretch. She wasn’t performing at the opera house, and even if she were, most in her class would look down upon her for working in any capacity.

  Then again, most of them had never slept on a freezing cold stoop, left to die. Not only did they not understand what it might feel like to suffer, they’d never comprehend the value of being able to provide for oneself.

  How freeing and powerful that might feel.

  With those words echoing in her thoughts, she started singing her first song. It was light and lively, meant to be fun, to get the men and women dancing.

  A cheer went up from the twenty-odd people who graced the room, and immediately, she heard the stomping of feet behind her as people began to dance.

  Taking a quick peek over her shoulder, she grinned to see them gaily twirling about.

  Returning her attention to the keys, she finished the song and started another, several more people filing into the room.

  The house held fifteen girls currently. She’d heard the men say they were short and they had to find more girls soon, but it seemed nearly every one of them was in the room now, with more men filing in.

  Another surge of energy pulsed through her to see more and more people coming into the ballroom. They liked her music. She was making this place better.

  For the next song, she played a slower melody, a sad song about a girl in love with the wrong man. The room quieted but didn’t empty and she could feel the eyes on her back.

  She held the room in the palm of her hand and her heart soared in response.

  As the third song came to an end, a hand touched her shoulder. She knew without looking that it was The Duke.

  He leaned close, his masculine scent filling her nostrils again. “Why don’t you take a break?’

  “Already?” She twisted to look over her shoulder, only to find he was so close, her lips practically brushed his.

  “Already,” he answered, which in typical Clayton form wasn’t much of an answer at all.

  “I say, that was wonderful!” Another man approached, finely dressed, though his accent was more working class.

  Ophelia turned the other way in order to thank him, and Clayton’s hand tightened on her shoulder.

  “You must play again. I could listen all night.” The man’s eyes roamed over her face and down her figure.

  Clayton noticed too, moving between her and the gentleman. “Listen up,” his voice boomed over the room. “Our musical performer is only here to sing, nothing else.”

  For a moment, quiet descended over the crowd and then some man in the back yelled, “Eh, boys…The Duke has found a duchess.”

  A raucous cheer rose up at the words, a chant of Duchess, Duchess, Duchess rising over the crowd.

  She watched Clayton tense. “She’s taking a ten-minute break. You want to hear more, you fill the cup at the bar with coin.”

  Then he reached for her hand, pulling her from the bench and leading the way toward the back stair, his fingers laced with hers.

  Which was not going to do much to stop people from calling her his duchess.

  But he didn’t seem to care as he brought her to his side, wrapping an arm about her waist and leading her down the stairs. “Better to leave them wanting more.”

  “Why?”

  He stopped at the bottom of the stairs, looking down at her. “We want to attract the highest quality, best-paying customers. You’re going to help me with that.”

  Her brows lifted, pleasure warming her cheeks.

  “Duchess,” Mama Rose snorted, passing in them hall. “Ridiculous.” But she disappeared before she said any more.

  Clayton pulled her, not toward the kitchen, but deeper down the hall to the small dark room where the wine was stored.

  She followed, content to go anywhere he wished. A happy hum traveled though her, and wine sounded like a wonderful idea.

  But the moment they stepped into the room, it wasn’t wine on her lips, but Clayton’s.

  His mouth took hers with a passion unlike anything she’d ever known. It was deliciously intoxicating, and she most definitely wanted more.

  CHAPTER TEN

  Ophelia tasted like cherries and chocolate, as decadent as she was beautiful. Clayton devoured her mouth, tasting her over and over as his tongue swept into her parted lips, wanting more.

  He crushed her body to his, her curves molding to him perfectly. He wondered what she’d look like if she carried more weight. She’d be so soft…

  He made a mental note to feed her more. Women shouldn’t be lean like she was now. He slid a hand down her back, cupping her ass and drawing their hips closer. He groaned, catching her gasp in his mouth as he backed her against the wall, hooking one of her legs and wrapping it about his waist.

  He’d gone too long without a woman…that was all he could think. Because he could hardly stop himself now as his cock pressed to the spot between her legs. He grew irrationally impatient with their clothing, his hand pushing her skirts up higher on her thigh.

  She wound her arms about his neck, her hands threading into his hair, her back arched to fit them even closer together.

  “Ophelia,” he ground out before he captured her mouth again, taking more of her. He’d felt all those other men admiring her, seen the hunger in their eyes. She was beauty, grace, and talent, and he didn’t wish to share.

  He’d sworn to remain unattached.

  But he couldn’t allow another man to have her.

  Wouldn’t.

  Her hips began moving against his, hunting for more friction. He reached for her ass again, pulling them tighter together and giving her exactly what she needed.

  He was rewarded with another needy moan filling his mouth.

  They’d called her his duchess. Not only had it not bothered him, but it had filled every inch of him with satisfaction.

  Let them believe she belonged to him. Let them think she was off limits. Guarded by one of the most feared men in the East End of London.

  She’d asked if he was her protector. More and more, he knew it was true. He’d burn the world down if anyone tried to hurt her. He’d been using one of his hands to cradle her head, but he unwound his fingers from her hair to skim them down her front. The dress, most likely borrowed from one of the other girls, exposed a bit of the fair skin of her chest and the swell of her cleavage.

  He ran his thumb over the top of the globes, tracing their shape. Her breath was uneven, and the rhythm of her hips beat faster and faster, matching the thrusts of his pelvis.

  He wished he could strip her down, feel her for real, but it was a dangerous path.

  “Duke,” Mama Rose’s voice penetrated the fog of his mind, barely. “Duke. There’s a fight. They need you upstairs.”

  “Fuck,” he growled against her lips. And then he pushed away.

  She gave a mewling protest, the kind that had his already straining cock so hard he nearly dismissed Mama Rose to take her mouth again. Bode was surely there already and the man was as fierce as himself. Surely, he could handle it.

  “Duke.”

  “Coming,” he called back. He looked down at Ophelia, her eyes glazed with passion. “I’ll be right back. Don’t move.”

  He wrenched the door open, starting down the hall at a sprint as he thundered up the stairs, Bode just behind him.

  Fights were a regular occurrence. There was a lot of liquor, and in their cups, men would frequently fight over the girls, politics, or occasionally just the weather.

  “I’ve never seen you take that long to choose a wine,” Mama Rose puffed behind him. “What were you doing in there and why was Ophelia with you?”

  Clayton ignored the implied question, entering the back of the ballroom to find the brawling men in the center of the floor, a circle of spectators around them.

  Clayton pushed his way to the center and then just started tossing men bodily out of the fray.

  He was stronger than most, taller, more muscular, and sober. The crowd around the group scattered to the edges as he grabbed the two men at the middle of the brawl by the collars, hauling them apart.

  One had a knife in hand that slashed down Clayton’s forearm, instantly drawing blood.

  With a roar of pain and irritation, he sent the man flying across the room, crashing into the window frame beyond.

  The other man, whose collar he still held, had gone completely pale. “I’m sorry, Duke.”

  He looked back to the arsehole who’d just cut him, but he’d crumpled in a ball on the floor. “He goes!” Clayton barked to Bode. “And you,” he said, looking back at the man he held. “You tell me exactly what happened if you ever want to come here again.”

  “He said”—the man pointed a finger at the fellow Bode was dragging by the feet—“he said that the duchess was just another hall girl, but I say she’s a fine lady.” The slur in the man’s voice told Clayton he was well in his cups.

  A gasping cry sounded behind him. Clayton’s jaw worked as he turned to see Ophelia in the doorway, her hands over her mouth. He waved another of the guards forward, shoving the man he held at him. “Toss him out.”

  “No,” the customer gasped. “Please, Duke.”

  “One week and then you can return.” Clayton held up a finger. “In the meantime, stay out of trouble.”

  Clayton spun back and started toward Ophelia. He’d told her to stay downstairs. What was she doing here? This was no place for her.

  The sight of a furious Clayton stalking toward her should have terrified Ophelia. A few days ago, it would have.

  She’d just watched him physically toss several men. His dominance was unquestionable. No wonder people talked about him with that mix of fear and awe.

  But all she could think in this moment was that he was the man who stood between her and all the hurt out there in the world. What a wonderful place to be, sheltered by his very large frame.

  He stopped just in front of her, scowling even more fiercely. “What are you doing up here? I told you to stay downstairs.”

  “You’re hurt.” She took his arm, gently turning it over to see the oozing cut. “Let me tend you.”

  She took his other hand and gently pulled. He didn’t move. “I told you not to come up here.”

  She looked over her shoulder to see the black look not easing in the slightest. “I was worried about you.”

  “I can take care of myself. It’s you I’m worried about.”

  She winced, realizing he’d told her to stay downstairs for her own benefit. “I’m sorry. Next time, I’ll listen.”

  His jaw worked for a moment before she felt the rigidness of his muscles ease, and then he allowed her to pull him back down the stairs and into the kitchen. “I need to clean this, a cut like that can fester.”

  “I’ve received far worse far more often.” But he let her lead him to a stool, where he sat leaning against the wall behind him.

  “But you did not get them because of me.”

  “I didn’t get this one because of you either. I got it because men are stupid fools.”

  “Isn’t that the truth,” she said, her voice holding the bitterness of her thoughts.

  He was silent for a moment and then he asked, “Your father?”

  She moved to the stove, heating up water. “How did you know I was thinking of him?”

  “You’re not the only one with a terrible father.” Then he cleared his throat. “He created the debt that has your brother in prison?”

  “Yes,” she answered shaking her head. “We pay for the sins he refused to face.”

  She found a clean rag, dipping it into the hot water before grabbing the hunk of lye soap.

  “My mother and I paid for my father’s sins too.”

  Ophelia stopped. She’d spoken of herself here and there, but Clayton hadn’t shared much at all. “Really?”

  “Want to know why they call me The Duke?”

  Her heart began to pound in her chest “Why?” her voice came out as barely a whisper. She lowered the rag she’d been holding out and wrapped her other hand about his powerful neck, bringing him closer. She stood as he sat, and his forehead came to rest on her stomach as he spoke.

  “I’m the bastard son of a duke, and my mother was the daughter of a baron who was tossed out by her family when she became pregnant.”

  Ophelia’s breath caught in her chest and she squeezed him tighter. “Clayton.”

  “She did all right. We did some sleeping in stoops too before she figured out how to manage other girls to make actual money.”

  She swallowed down the thick lump in her throat. “That’s why you take in girls like me. We remind you of her.”

  He shook his head. “No. I take in girls like you because I refuse to be like him.”

  She tried to swallow down the rising emotion, but it threatened to come out her eyes in the form of tears. “I don’t want to be like my father, either.”

  “I don’t think you are. But I can hear in your voice that you have something planned.”

  She nodded against the top of his head. “I’m going to save my brother.”

  His uninjured arm had snaked about her waist, and he pulled her closer. “Where did you say he was again?”

  “Fleet Prison.”

  “I can go there in a few days. Four or five at most. Check on him.”

  She pulled back, her eyes really misting over this time. “You’d do that? For me?”

  He gave her a one-sided smile that left her heart flopping about her chest for a different reason. “For you?” he asked. “Most definitely. But I will tell you, in all honesty, that I was going there anyway.”

  “Really?”

  “Many men bring their families to prison with them and there is always a lady or two willing to work to help repay the debts.”

  Sounded familiar. “When I pushed off that stoop, I wondered if I’d reached the bottom of the hole I’d found myself in, or if I had deeper yet to sink.” She rose from his lap, going to rewet the rag and wash his wound.

  “And? Is this place better or worse than your stoop?”

  “Hmmm.” She slowly began wiping the blood away, being careful to wash the cut thoroughly before she stitched it. “Let me think?”

  He glared again, which made her laugh.

  “It’s much better here. To think that you might check on my brother…” She leaned down and placed a soft kiss on his lips. “Thank you, Clayton.”

  “Ahem,” Mama Rose said from behind them. “Kissing is for upstairs. Not for down here.”

  “I decide that, not you,” Clayton said but his jaw tensed, a muscle in his jaw ticking. Ophelia remembered the rule he’d told her about the men here not fraternizing with the women. Was he breaking that rule with her?

  She made a note to ask later. Right now, she just wanted to stitch up Clayton and maybe learn how her brother fared.

  It was more hope than she’d dreamed of having only days ago.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  The next week passed with agonizing slowness for Clayton. Ophelia performed nightly, the applications for new clients doubling and tripling as word spread about the singing duchess. Business had never been better.