Well, there was a remarkably familiar salutation. The letter must come from someone who knew him well.
She continued. “ ‘It will shock you to hear from me. It’s been months, and we are not the sort to exchange tender missives. But what is this news of you suffering a mysterious injury? In Northumberland, of all the godforsaken places. I hear a hundred rumors if I hear one. Some report you’ve lost an eye, your nose, or both. Others insist it was a hand. I, of course, care little which appendages you might lop off, so long as no harm comes to that marvelously wicked tongue of yours, and no inches disappear from your magnificent—”
Izzy froze, unable to read further.
“Do go on,” the duke said. “I was enjoying that one. And I’ve changed my mind—feel free to be creative with the voices. Something low and sultry would be excellent.”
“I don’t think it’s necessary for me to read on. Clearly this letter belongs in the Insignificant pile.”
“Oh, Miss Goodnight.” His unmarred eyebrow arched. “Weren’t you paying attention? There’s nothing insignificant about it.”
She burned with embarrassment.
“Don’t think you’ll shame me with your prim silence. I’m not ashamed in the least. Just because you make friends by acting as though you were found under a turnip leaf and raised by gnomes, it doesn’t mean everyone takes pleasure in being prudish.”
“Prudish?” she echoed. “I’m not a prude.”
“Of course not. The reason you stopped reading that letter had nothing to do with being England’s innocent sweetheart.”
He laced his hands behind his neck and propped his boots on the opposite arm of the sofa. If an artist were to capture this image, it would have been labeled, Smugness: A Portrait. She wanted to shake him.
“Cock.” She blurted it out. “There. I said it. Aloud. Here, I’ll say it again. Cock. Cock, cock, cock. And not just any cock.” She glanced at the paper and dropped her voice to a throaty purr. “ ‘Your magnificent cock, which I long to feel deep inside me again.’ ”
He went quiet now.
She released her grip, letting the paper drop from her hand. “Satisfied?”
“Actually, Goodnight . . .” He sat up on the sofa, shifting awkwardly. “I am the furthest thing from satisfied. And heartily sorry I pressed the matter.”
“Good.”
Izzy huffed a breath, dislodging a stray curl from her forehead. Her whole body was hot and achy, and a low throb had settled between her thighs.
Worst of all, her mind was a buzzing hive of curiosity. When it came to a man’s organ, just what constituted “magnificence” anyhow? There were clues in the letter, she supposed. Something about precious inches and the ability to reach depths.
She propped her elbows on the table and extended one index finger into the air. How long was that, she mused? Perhaps four inches, at the most? Four inches didn’t strike her as a measurement one associated with magnificence.
She extended both index fingers toward one another, letting them touch at the tips. Their combined length was more impressive. But also a little bit frightening.
“Goodnight.”
Oh, Lord.
Her elbow slipped, sending a sheaf of papers cascading to the floor. Thank heaven he couldn’t see her. “Yes?”
“Do you intend to carry on with your work?”
“Yes. Yes, Your Grace. Of course. Yes.”
Enough with these missives from his former lovers.
Izzy searched through the letters, hoping to choose something dry and boring. A report on the state of his tenants’ barley crop. Something with absolutely no evidence of his career as a virile, unapologetic, magnificent libertine.
“Here’s something that was sent as an express,” she said, plucking a battered envelope from the bottom of the heap. “It was addressed to you in London, but your people must have forwarded it here.”
He sat up, giving her his full attention. “Read it.”