Read Online How To Distract a Duchess by Mia Marlowe - Free Book Online
Authors: Mia Marlowe
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been making a comment on the weather, but the casualness of his lethal promise made it all the more chilling. Clarence felt his throat constrict.
“Now that we understand each other, allow me to assist you to your feet.” Deveridge stood and offered Clarence his hand. “Pity about your equipment. I hear those things are deucedly expensive.” He strolled over and yanked the damning copper plates from the daguerreotype.
For one or two heartbeats, Clarence considered fighting the man for his hard-won coppers, but Deveridge’s cold-blooded promise still threatened to loosen his bowels.
“Now if you’re interested in a true journalistic effort,” Deveridge continued pleasantly, “might I offer you a tip?”
Clarence gathered up the remains of his photographic debris, his chest heavy. His employer would have his hide for this debacle. “No, thanks. You’ve done quite enough for me already this day.”
The man shrugged in a lordly way. “Suit yourself. I was only going to suggest you make the acquaintance of Basil Philpot, the bailiff for the House of Lords. He knows everything that happens there, on and off the floor, and is quite voluble after only a pint or two. He’d be a good source for a real journalist.”
“I am a real journalist,” Clarence said. “You just don’t like my brand of news. Don’t you understand we have to give the public what they want?”
“Perhaps it’s time someone gave them what they need,” Deveridge said softly, shoving his hands into the pockets of his robe. “Good day, Mr. Wigglesworth. I’m sure you know the way out.” He strolled away as if he’d only been taking the air in the duchess’s wild garden. Then he stopped and looked back at Clarence with a wintry glare. “Remember my promise.”
Clarence swallowed hard and nodded. If he wrote another scurrilous word about Her Grace, he had no doubt Deveridge would make his promise good.
* * *
Artemisia swiped away the last of her tears just in time. Mr. Doverspike was climbing back through the window. She sniffed loudly and hoped to heaven her nose wasn’t red.
“How can one hope to have a civilized discussion with you if you insist on escaping out windows?” she blustered in an attempt to hide that she’d been crying. “Well? What have you to say for yourself?”
“You said you wanted me gone.” He shrugged and spread his hands in a self-deprecating gesture. “The truth is you had a reporter from The Tattler at your window just now. He and I had a little chat in your garden.”
“Is that what—” Artemisia’s breath hissed over her teeth. Her day was going from bad to worse. “Then he was at the window when we—”
“Yes, but don’t fret, madam. I am in possession of some coppers that will never see the light of day.” He pulled the fading daguerreotype plates from the pocket of his robe. The images were shadowy, but she could definitely make out two forms in a shocking embrace. The reclining nude was rampantly aroused and though the image was blurred, his hand was definitely reaching for her breast.
Mr. Doverspike was right. He wasn’t nude. He was naked. Blatantly, unabashedly as bare as Adam and the answering warmth between her own legs reminded her she’d been playing with Eden’s fire.
“This is dreadful.” Her mother would be furious. The publication of a damning article in The Tattler would probably coincide with Constance Dalrymple’s masked fete. “Even without a picture, there’ll be a piece about it and my reputation will be thoroughly ruined. Not that I care so much for myself, but my sisters will suffer horribly for my indiscretion.”
“I doubt it,” he said smugly. “There will be no article. We came to a not-so-gentlemanly agreement. The reporter in question will refrain from writing about you.”
“How can you be so sure?”
“He agreed not to report it and I agreed to allow him to continue breathing.”
She looked askance at this astounding statement.
“Now that we understand each other, allow me to assist you to your feet.” Deveridge stood and offered Clarence his hand. “Pity about your equipment. I hear those things are deucedly expensive.” He strolled over and yanked the damning copper plates from the daguerreotype.
For one or two heartbeats, Clarence considered fighting the man for his hard-won coppers, but Deveridge’s cold-blooded promise still threatened to loosen his bowels.
“Now if you’re interested in a true journalistic effort,” Deveridge continued pleasantly, “might I offer you a tip?”
Clarence gathered up the remains of his photographic debris, his chest heavy. His employer would have his hide for this debacle. “No, thanks. You’ve done quite enough for me already this day.”
The man shrugged in a lordly way. “Suit yourself. I was only going to suggest you make the acquaintance of Basil Philpot, the bailiff for the House of Lords. He knows everything that happens there, on and off the floor, and is quite voluble after only a pint or two. He’d be a good source for a real journalist.”
“I am a real journalist,” Clarence said. “You just don’t like my brand of news. Don’t you understand we have to give the public what they want?”
“Perhaps it’s time someone gave them what they need,” Deveridge said softly, shoving his hands into the pockets of his robe. “Good day, Mr. Wigglesworth. I’m sure you know the way out.” He strolled away as if he’d only been taking the air in the duchess’s wild garden. Then he stopped and looked back at Clarence with a wintry glare. “Remember my promise.”
Clarence swallowed hard and nodded. If he wrote another scurrilous word about Her Grace, he had no doubt Deveridge would make his promise good.
* * *
Artemisia swiped away the last of her tears just in time. Mr. Doverspike was climbing back through the window. She sniffed loudly and hoped to heaven her nose wasn’t red.
“How can one hope to have a civilized discussion with you if you insist on escaping out windows?” she blustered in an attempt to hide that she’d been crying. “Well? What have you to say for yourself?”
“You said you wanted me gone.” He shrugged and spread his hands in a self-deprecating gesture. “The truth is you had a reporter from The Tattler at your window just now. He and I had a little chat in your garden.”
“Is that what—” Artemisia’s breath hissed over her teeth. Her day was going from bad to worse. “Then he was at the window when we—”
“Yes, but don’t fret, madam. I am in possession of some coppers that will never see the light of day.” He pulled the fading daguerreotype plates from the pocket of his robe. The images were shadowy, but she could definitely make out two forms in a shocking embrace. The reclining nude was rampantly aroused and though the image was blurred, his hand was definitely reaching for her breast.
Mr. Doverspike was right. He wasn’t nude. He was naked. Blatantly, unabashedly as bare as Adam and the answering warmth between her own legs reminded her she’d been playing with Eden’s fire.
“This is dreadful.” Her mother would be furious. The publication of a damning article in The Tattler would probably coincide with Constance Dalrymple’s masked fete. “Even without a picture, there’ll be a piece about it and my reputation will be thoroughly ruined. Not that I care so much for myself, but my sisters will suffer horribly for my indiscretion.”
“I doubt it,” he said smugly. “There will be no article. We came to a not-so-gentlemanly agreement. The reporter in question will refrain from writing about you.”
“How can you be so sure?”
“He agreed not to report it and I agreed to allow him to continue breathing.”
She looked askance at this astounding statement.
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