I received a few questions, and almost all of them will be answered in the story. But someone asked me about the social hierarchy, and I won't explain it really in the story, so the ranks and their respective orders are … Royalty (King / Queen / Prince / Princess) – Nobility (Duke / Marquis / Earl / Viscount / Baron) – Commoners (Baronet / Knight / Landed gentry) – Other Gentlemen (Affluent Businessman / Navy and Army Officers / Clergymen).

Chapter 1

Killian was contemplating to wring Barnes' neck if he didn't stop fussing around. He'd woken up with a headache, and the cigar smoke he'd been surrounded by for the last hours didn't help at all. His head was pounding, and his hand had started to cramp again, and he just wanted to be left in peace.

"Barnes?" he barked, shooting his butler a stern look. "Would you please leave me be?"

"But Your Grace, Mr. Higgings is already gone to bed. There is no one upstairs to help you with your clothes."

Of course his valet was already in bed, he'd been the one who told him not to wait up for him, had actually ordered him to go to bed when Higgings refused to listen to him. It was only due to his butler's stubbornness that he wasn't also sleeping already, because Barnes refused to let a footman stay awake to let His Grace in when he came home late at night.

"I'm not a decrepit old bloke. I can get out of my clothes on my own," Killian snapped, holding up a hand when his butler opened his mouth to argue. "And don't tell me it isn't done. I might be the duke now, but I refuse to act as if I'm not able to even lift a finger."

"As you wish, Your Grace." The butler bowed, and then disappeared, the door clicking shut softly behind him.

Dear Lord, he would never get used to all that bowing and Your Gracing. Letting out a harsh sigh, he pushed himself out of the chair, and wandered over to the still full bottle of scotch waiting for him. It wouldn't do his headache any good, but he needed just a few more glasses before he could go to bed. He took a huge sip, welcoming the burn of the alcohol down his throat as he walked over to the window, staring out into the darkness.

When had his life taking this turn for the worse?

Closing his eyes, he leaned his head against the window pane. He knew exactly when it had happened. The day he'd gotten the letter telling him he needed to come home because Liam was sick. His brother had been only skin and bones when Killian finally made it home, the consumption taking all the life out of him, and all Killian could do was throw himself into the night life, drinking until he couldn't stand anymore, fucking his way through more than one brothel, doing everything he could to forget that he was losing his brother.

His hand started to cramp again, and Killian opened his eyes, looking down at it. Another souvenir of the time when he completely lost control of his life because his brother was dying, and he could do nothing to help him. He'd been in a duel, showed up piss drunk, and so Huntingham didn't want to hurt him, Killian's drunkenness was the cause of one wrong move, and Huntingham's saber had slid right through his hand.

It wasn't a pretty sight, the scar the saber had left behind was thick, spanning over half of his hand. The weapon had also damaged some nerves or tendons; he had to deal with frequent cramp attacks ever since. At least his drunken mistake hadn't caused him to lose his position in the navy; he couldn't go back anyway. When his injury had healed Liam was already dead, and Killian was the new Duke of Hillsborough.

For the umpteenth time he asked himself why Liam had to die; he'd been the perfect duke, being raised to once inherit the rights and duties of the dukedom. Killian had always been happy with his status as the younger son – the spare - more content to climb trees or spend his time in the stables than to sit down with their tutors to learn about English history, and fight his way through Latin and Greek grammar.

When it was time for him to do something with his life he chose the navy, and it had kept his wildness in check, taught him to take responsibility. For his own life, and the lives of those under his command. Being at sea … it had been the first time he truly felt at home. The ocean was in his blood, and he'd hoped that it would once be his grave. He always pictured himself going down in battle – a glorious death. But now he probably would drink himself to death, or die of a heart attack when he was an old decrepit bloke while fucking his mistress.

His life was a joke, a farce. He was only pretending, but he was tired of doing so. Tired of acting as if he bloody hell knew what he was doing, tired of drowning his sorrows in alcohol, tired of this life.

He wanted to be free again, free to do with his life what he wanted, free to go back to sea. But he couldn't, no matter how much he wished to. He was the Duke of Hillsborough now; he had responsibilities. He was supposed to produce heirs as soon as possible; his uncle was already breathing down his neck, his hands eager to give the title to his own son if Killian died without an heir. His cousin was an idiot, and he should make sure that he never inherited the dukedom. But he still didn't like it.

A knock on the door yanked him out of his thoughts, and he waited to hear the footsteps of his butler, but then he remembered he'd sent him to bed, and he let out a groan. Who in the hell was at the bloody door anyway? It was the middle of the night.

For a moment he contemplated to just ignore it, but maybe it was an emergency. With a silent curse he put his glass down on the table beside him, and walked briskly through the salon and crossed the hallway, removing the bolt and yanking the door opened.

That's new, was his first thought when he saw who'd knocked at the door. A woman standing on his doorstep in the middle of the night without a chaperon. Was she insane?

"What the bloody hell do you want?"

She looked at him like a frightened animal, and he realized he shouldn't have shouted at her like that. But it was the bloody middle of the night, and she shouldn't be standing in front of him at all. When she didn't speak up he cleared his throat, and her eyes snapped back to his, her posture stiffened.

"I'm here to make you an offer, Your Grace."

An offer? In the middle of the night? That could only mean one thing. His mouth tilted up into a smirk as he eyed her. She seemed to be quite pretty, and he might be drunk enough to actually take her up on the offer. A tumble in bed might be exactly what he needed.

"I want you to marry me."

What?

For a moment he could just stand there and stare down at her. Did she just propose to him? She held his gaze, clearly waiting for his answer and he fumbled in his muddled brain for something to say to this outrageous offer.

"Not the offer I was expecting," he replied, surprising himself probably more than her as he added, "But by all means, come on in. Might be an interesting story to listen to."

He was clearly drunker than he'd thought. There was no other explanation that would justify why he had let this strange woman into his house. One closer look at her clothes and their unmistakable quality, clearly indicated that she was not coming off the streets, and inviting her in would probably ruin her reputation if anyone might find out that she stepped into the house of a known scoundrel in the middle of the night. But her frank statement had caught him off guard, and as he looked at her refusing to avert her gaze, her posture stiff, her expression determined, his rakish self had reared its head, her blank offer intriguing him more than it probably should. Deep down he remembered that look, remembered all the animals he'd rescued during his childhood. She was wearing the same haunted look, and bloody hell, even after all these years, he was still receptive to that look.

He might at least listen to her story, because unlike the animals he'd cared for, she could actually talk to him, and there had to be an explanation why she came to him with a marriage proposal.

Seeing the duke now in the light of the flickering fire, Emma contemplated if she had completely lost her mind now. She was putting her fate into the hands of this stranger, a known rake. Why did she hope he would treat her differently than Neal? As far as she could remember no one ever cared for her, or what she wanted. After her parents died in a carriage accident when she was five, she came to live with her aunt and uncle. They treated her more like a servant than a relative, and when they decided to sell her to the highest bidder after she got of marriageable age, there was noting she could do about it. She was a woman of lower status, her father might have been a baron, but they didn't have much money – something her aunt kept reminding her of – and her aunt could practically do what she wanted with her.

So Emma married Richard Gold, knowing he would expect her to carry his heirs. What she didn't expect was that the earl was impotent, and asked of her to lay with his illegitimate son until she gave birth to a boy. There was not much she could do about that either, and though it had been uncomfortable to be bedded by Neal, despite the first sharp pain when he took her maidenhead, it had been just an unpleasant ordeal she needed to get through every night until she conceived. She more or less consented to it, seeing it as her duty as the earl's wife. After all every child she would give birth to would be considered his legitimate heir, no matter who the father really was.

Maybe she should have expected that Neal would turn on them. She knew he was depending on his father's money. Of course he resented that now everything belonged to Henry. She should have known.

"So tell me, Miss ..."

Emma had completely forgotten in which home she was standing, lost in her own thoughts, and it took her a few seconds until she realized that the duke was waiting for her to give him her name.

"Manton. It's Lady Manton."

If he was surprised about her carrying the title of a lady, he definitely didn't show it; his whole posture that of an arrogant, self-assured duke.

"What makes you think I would marry you?" he asked, reaching for a glass with amber liquid. Emma wished he would offer her some. Alcohol might help her keep up her courage. Especially when he was piercing her with this ice blue gaze. "Why shouldn't I take advantage of the fact that you showed up on my doorstep in the middle of the night, and ravish you right here and there before throwing you back out on the street? I'm a duke. I can get away with almost everything. I'm sure you're aware of that."

Emma flinched, the movement not going unnoticed by him, his mouth titling up into a salacious smirk. But he didn't come nearer, was still leaning against the window, and she relaxed slightly. He didn't look as if he wanted to ravish her, not to mention that her offer did mean she had to let him into her bed eventually.

"It would be the perfect arrangement, Your Grace."

"It would?" he asked, his voice a mocking drawl.

"I would not interfere with your life, Sir. But you would have a wife who is evidently not barren …" His eyebrow shot up in question, and she realized she hadn't said anything about Henry yet. "I have already a five-year-old son. His name is Henry." She was starting to ramble as she saw a furrow building between his brows. She hoped the fact that she had a son wouldn't put him off. She was doing this for Henry after all. "He is very well behaved, and wouldn't be under your feet in any way. But he is proof that I can bear children, and you're in desperate need of heirs. I can give you that."

"You seem to have it all planned out. So you're willing to share your bed with me, Lady Manton?"

"Only until I conceive, of course. I …" she trailed off, trying not to fidget under his amused gaze. "I won't stand in your way if you seek your pleasures in the arms of other women."

"How gracious," he replied, waving with the glass in his hand, telling her silently to go on.

"I just have one condition."

"And what would that be?"

"During the time we try to produce an heir you can't visit your mistress."

"Afraid to catch something if I do?"

"I ..." Emma bit her tongue, not wanting to tell him that she just couldn't live with the thought that he was bedding someone else while he was bedding her. "It's my only condition."

"So pray tell me … why do you want to marry again anyway?" he inquired, crossing his legs at the ankles, looking as if he had not one care in the world. "Why don't you enjoy the advantages of being a young widow? Take a lover for example?"

She would if she could. If it wasn't for Neal, she might be content to spend the rest of her life as a widow. But Neal destroyed that possibility once and for all. "My husband's son is threatening Henry, threatens to expose him."

"Expose him how?" he questioned, a flash of interest flickering over his face.

"Promise me this won't leave the room, Sir."

"I can promise you that, but I am a notorious rake as you well know. So what makes you think I'll keep my word?"

"Because you're still a gentleman, and will honor a word you've given?"

"Because it's good form?" One of his eyebrows cocked up again, and she forced herself to not avert her gaze. He tilted his head then, his expression suddenly turning serious as he said softly, "Aye, I swear to keep it between us on my brother's grave."

"Thank you," Emma whispered, closing her eyes for a second to gather more courage. It was a high risk she was taking here, but if she'd seen any other way out of her predicament she wouldn't be standing here right now, asking him to marry her. "Henry isn't the Earl of Manton's son. He is his grandchild." There was no hint of surprise showing on the duke's face, and why should he be surprised? These kind of things were fairly common in the ranks of nobility. "His son, Neal, expected to inherit, even though he is only Richard's illegitimate son, and Richard never made him his official heir, which means Henry inherited everything. But Neal is greedy, he wants it all, and Richard only left him with a small annual allowance. Something Neal isn't contented with. Now he threatens to expose our secret, and I know he can't change that Henry is Richard's heir, but he can sully his name. We both know the ton thrives on rumors, and the rumor of his mother being a whore who spread her legs for the son of her husband can ruin his life, and I would do anything to protect him from Neal's thirst for vengeance. I'm sure your name would keep the rumors in check. He probably wouldn't even dare try to start any."

Emma was taking in a deep breath and holding it, trying to figure out what he was thinking, trying to read his expression, but she couldn't tell. His face was a polite mask as he kept his eyes locked on hers. Seconds ticked by, and her heart plummeted into her stomach. He would say no, he would brush her offer just off and crush her last hope of protecting her son.

"Let me sleep on it," he finally said, surprising her.

Before Emma could say anything he was by her side, leading her back to the door with his hand on the small of her back, the barely there contact burning like fire.

"Thank you for listening to me," Emma murmured as she stepped out of the house. "Have a good night, Your Grace."

A short curtsy, and she was gone into the night, her fate and that of her son now in the hands of a man she barely knew anything about, and Emma desperately tried not to listen to the doubts ricocheting through her brain. But she couldn't stop them, and a voice in her head didn't cease whispering that she'd probably just made the biggest mistake of her life.

The door clicked shut behind her, and Killian leaned his head against the wood, balling his left hand into a fist as far as it would go, welcoming the pain shooting up his arm.

Was he completely insane now? He was really contemplating on taking her up on her offer?

But she was right; it seemed to be a perfect arrangement. It would get his uncle off his back, and he needed to marry sooner or later anyway. Might as well marry a woman who wouldn't make his life a living hell.

"You sure you have all your marbles still straight, Jones," he muttered under his breath, pushing away from the door.

Now he even started to talk to himself. He needed to go to bed; he definitely needed sleep, and he should definitely be sober when he was about to make a decision that concerned the rest of his life.