His looming form blocks the firelight. His voice is like midnight fog, shivering along her skin. Yet Felicity Mayfield must marry hard, cold Hunter Claybourne, or goto debtor’s prison. Boldly, she proposes a bargain to the wealthy financier: she’ll become his wife in name only for one brief year — if he allows her the freedom to continue living an independent life. Surely her newspaper scribblings are a matter of indifference to him.

He never suspected a wife would be such a nuisance. It was supposed to be a simple business arrangement. Instead, she has invaded his cavernous home — rearranging the furniture, winning over his servants, blinding him with sunlight. Her constant presence is unsettling, her vanilla scent everywhere, her skin a soft temptation. Suddenly it seems only right that she should wear his ring … and share his bed. After all, she is his wife. Yet even as Felicity opens a chink in Hunter’s heart, her exposé of the scandalous workhouses threatens to uncover his darkest secret, forcing him to choose between his hard-won empire and the miracle of love.