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

life better or worse. You see, I helped keep him alive. The doctor said he would not have lasted as long if I hadn’t been there,” she said, without pride. “I merely extended his misery.”
    Or yours, he thought to himself.
    She quickly changed the subject. “It’s the hair of the dog, right? You really would like some.”
    “No, no. I’d like just to quench my thirst. It was overly warm today, don’t you think, March?”
    She smiled that enchanting way and he thanked God those spectacles of hers were nowhere to be found.
    “ Drunken Derby . . .” she said quietly with a pleasant enough expression.
    “Sorry?”
    “My husband, Lionel. They used to call him Drunken Derby behind his back. They didn’t think I heard them.”
    A thousand and one sticks in the house of his brain fell into place. Oh, for Christsakes. He was her husband . Or rather, had been her husband. The saddest yet most entertaining spectacle in Town— Drunken Derby . A gentleman who one never saw sober and who rarely remained standing throughout a night. He was ruined with a capital R.
    No wonder she was hell-bent on reforming him. Well, Roman would set her right, straightaway. “I am not like your husband.”
    “Of course you’re not. I would never insult you, Your Gr—”
    “I told you to call me Montagu.”
    “—Montagu. But I want you to know that Lionel was not like others knew him. He was very kind, very jovial.”
    In truth, Derby had managed to do and say things so jovial and offensive , Roman remembered, that three quarters of the ballroom doors had been closed to him when he died a year or so ago.
    Roman eyed the ale. Even though he was parched, he just didn’t have it in him to reach for a tall tankard of the pale golden brew. Her assumptions were ridiculous, of course, of that he held not a single doubt.
    “It’s all right,” she said. “I never expected you to keep your word.”
    Instead, he reached for the lemonade on the other side of the table and handed her a glass before taking one for himself. He eyed it with distrust.
    She smiled and then took a sip. A dainty sip.
    He gulped it down before the god-awful tartness nearly gagged him. “Delicious,” he said, his taste buds revolting at the bitterness.
    “Agreed,” she replied. “Very good.”
    “If you are partial to lemons that is.”
    “Oh, take the bloody ale,” she retorted.
    “Not if my life depended on it.”
    “Well!”
    “Well,” he replied. “Shall we participate in lawn bowling?”
    “Oh, yes,” she said, eyes shining. “Oh, but I do not have my spectacles.”
    “Thank God,” he muttered.
    “That wasn’t very flattering.”
    He liked it when she bristled. Females never dared bristle in his presence. They were either too much in awe or they were determined to catch the matrimonial prize of the decade by fawning in earnest. “You misunderstood. I meant that I am glad you forgot your spectacles so that I would have a better chance at besting you.”
    “Well, I shall just go back and retrieve them.”
    He held her back. “No. I’m actually famished. Let’s eat.”
    “Are you always this grumpy and impolite?”
    He almost choked with laughter. She was an original. “Grumpy? I’ve never been grumpy in my life. And I’ll have you know that I’m in an excellent mood.”
    “Really?”
    “Really.”
    “Well, I think you are just suffering the effects of being foxed like a skunk, Montagu.”
    “It takes a brave female to call me a skunk, March.” He made an exasperated sound as he picked up another glass of lemonade. This was utterly ridiculous. Just because her husband had been a blindingly mad drunk did not make him a fool when he enjoyed a pint of ale.
    “Thank you, Montagu,” she murmured sweetly.
    Blast it all. That damned smile of hers made him almost want to drink the rest of the vile stuff he held in his hand. Almost, but not quite.
    S he was surprised he didn’t just reach for the ale. She had never teased anyone the way