Read Online The Art of Duke Hunting by Sophia Nash - Free Book Online

decided to partake.
    He ducked down and peered out the window of his small but very clean chamber. He racked his brain to try and remember what he knew about Lord Derby. For God sakes, he should be able to remember something about him. Then again, there were far too many earls—ninety bloody four if he remembered correctly—to keep track of in England, compared to dukes.
    What had she meant when she had said he was the best of men and the worst? Sounded like a typical absurdity from a lady. No. He could not say that. March was not one of those flittering, giddy, empty-headed creatures who floated on silk and spouted nonsense while too busy examining the beauty of their person.
    God, his head ached. He would have given a pretty penny for a gulp or three of whiskey. Or even gin. How sodding ridiculous. Since when did he remotely depend on spirits to rebound from a night of debauchery?
    What exactly had happened that night? It seemed such a long time ago, but really, it had been less than forty-eight hours since the royal entourage had gathered at Prinny’s Carleton House to mourn the impending loss of bachelorhood of one of their own. Candover, bless his premier ducal soul, had been the poor sodding fellow who had finally capitulated to the familial requirements of taking a bride to secure an heir and a spare. Didn’t he know better? Roman had decided long ago that marriage was certainly not the answer—especially if one was saddled with a curse. Yes, a cursed duchy should be left to molder and rest in peace.
    Roman’s mother would shake her head if she heard him. Then again, she shook her head at him most of the time. Not that he didn’t love her. He loved her almost as much as he loved his sister Lily. But that was only half as much as he had loved his brother Vincent. And it was forty-seven times more than he had liked his father—the man who had sent him away to school at the age of six in a ruthless campaign to exorcise all but mathematics and science from Roman’s mind. Oh, there had been an English, French, and history course now and again, but never any drivel as Roman’s father had described all art, music, and even philosophy.
    Roman watched a group of workmen setting out tables, and then the maids followed with platters of food and by God, yes, pitchers of ale. Ale . . . hmmm. They had not had such common stuff at Carlton House of course.
    His very good friend, Alex Barclay, the brand-spanking-new Duke of Kress (the duchy could not have devolved to a better fellow, really) had been the purveyor of the first round . . . and the second and maybe third round of spirits in the prince’s apartments. It was that wretched, Frenchified licorice-smelling stuff that had done him in. None of them had ever tried it before. Just the thought of it made him want to retch.
    Roman remembered vague flashes of events thereafter. He could swear some of them had gone swimming, which was ridiculous. And, of course, he was certain he hadn’t partaken of that tomfoolery. But he could remember a huge swan squawking, and chasing him, trying to take a beak full of Roman’s bloody arse. He sort of remembered a pistol trading hands in the night, and he recalled riding a huge gray horse over cobblestones—even though he didn’t own a gray. The clattering had been nearly deafening. He shook his head. That was all he could remember. Nothing about the ship. Nothing about the—
    A knock on the door sounded and he answered it himself. There was something very novel about having to do things for oneself. For as long as he could remember, he had not answered a door.
    “Are you ready?” March’s gray eyes held much merriment, the captain’s less. The reality of his damaged vessel was most likely finally sinking in.
    Roman bowed very slightly. Dukes were taught to bow in the fashion of almost a nod. “For anything, Lady Derby. Good evening, Captain.”
    “How fare thee, Your Grace?”
    “I shall be better as soon as I figure out