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Authors: Claudia Dain
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or indeed wise, to laugh at a duke.
“Indeed,” he said stiffly, still fussing with his coat sleeve, “I am excessively flattered.” He looked at Lady Amelia, who, shockingly, was studying him rather more directly than was entirely proper of her. “I am, however, not in the market for a wife.”
“Are you not? Truly?” Sophia said, her smile almost seductive. “Of course, you do have your heir in the darling Alston, but there are other reasons to marry, delightful reasons, your grace. Would you deny yourself?”
“As to marriage, yes, I would deny myself. I find this . . . situation most awkward, Lady Dalby. Perhaps we may arrange for dinner another evening, when it is more convenient.”
“But this is entirely convenient, your grace, and there is the matter of the wager between us. This evening is the payment of that wager, as you must surely remember. I’m terribly afraid that there is no escape for you.”
The look in Sophia’s eyes was both amused and calculating. If he defaulted on their wager, she would make certain that everyone in Town knew of it before the week was out, as well as knowing all the particulars. That was not to be tolerated. The Duke of Calbourne was not going to be run out of a salon by four unmarried women. Calbourne took a deep breath, uncomfortably aware that his coat was tight across the chest. Blasted tailor.
“If there is no escape,” he said, forcing himself to relax against the stares of the four women before him, “then I shall just have to relax and enjoy myself, a condition I have ample experience with, Lady Dalby. Continue on, Sophia, I will not make a break for the door, nor will I fight against the restraint of feminine bonds of curiosity. What more would you know of me, Lady Amelia? How shall I satisfy you?”
Lady Amelia, as was entirely proper, blushed brilliant pink. Well deserved, too. Blasted women, making a mess of what should have been a lovely and uncomplicated evening of seduction and mutual satisfaction.
“Is he not as I described him to you, Lady Amelia?” Sophia asked, eyeing him with blatant amusement and, dare he admit it, appreciation. He found he could almost smile in return. “A remarkably pleasant and delightful man, the Duke of Calbourne, and if any man deserves the ideal wife, it is surely he.”
The ideal wife? An oxymoron of ridiculous proportions. Calbourne had been married, after all, and had the son to prove it. He also had the most unpleasant and disagreeable memories. It had not been a pleasant experience, being married. He had done it only to please his father, marrying the woman his father had deemed ideal for him. His father had been deeply mistaken. When his wife had died, he had, almost disgracefully, breathed a sigh of relief. When his father had died, that had ended all thoughts forevermore of marriage. He had his heir, the Calbourne line was secure, and his duty was done. Life, from thence forward, was to be enjoyed. And he did; he enjoyed it devotedly.
But he was going to find a better tailor the first thing tomorrow.
“You jest, surely,” Lady Jordan said.
Calbourne was more than a bit surprised. He had supposed that this was to be between he and Sophia, as it had been thus far; that Mary, Lady Jordan, had decided to speak was a bit of an unpleasant surprise.
“In what manner, Lady Jordan?” Sophia asked politely.
“In that a man, having found the ideal and, indeed, the proper wife, would hardly know it. Men,” Lady Jordan said in an unattractive and entirely uncalled-for display of pique, “never appreciate a woman properly.”
“Never?” Sophia said musingly, her dark gaze turning from Lady Jordan to Calbourne. “Surely that is not so. Certainly I have, upon more than one occasion, been very well appreciated.”
Mrs. Warren made some noise. It might have been a giggle.
Lady Amelia blushed. Again. It was singularly tiresome. Could the girl not speak? Not that she would have anything remarkable to say. He
“Indeed,” he said stiffly, still fussing with his coat sleeve, “I am excessively flattered.” He looked at Lady Amelia, who, shockingly, was studying him rather more directly than was entirely proper of her. “I am, however, not in the market for a wife.”
“Are you not? Truly?” Sophia said, her smile almost seductive. “Of course, you do have your heir in the darling Alston, but there are other reasons to marry, delightful reasons, your grace. Would you deny yourself?”
“As to marriage, yes, I would deny myself. I find this . . . situation most awkward, Lady Dalby. Perhaps we may arrange for dinner another evening, when it is more convenient.”
“But this is entirely convenient, your grace, and there is the matter of the wager between us. This evening is the payment of that wager, as you must surely remember. I’m terribly afraid that there is no escape for you.”
The look in Sophia’s eyes was both amused and calculating. If he defaulted on their wager, she would make certain that everyone in Town knew of it before the week was out, as well as knowing all the particulars. That was not to be tolerated. The Duke of Calbourne was not going to be run out of a salon by four unmarried women. Calbourne took a deep breath, uncomfortably aware that his coat was tight across the chest. Blasted tailor.
“If there is no escape,” he said, forcing himself to relax against the stares of the four women before him, “then I shall just have to relax and enjoy myself, a condition I have ample experience with, Lady Dalby. Continue on, Sophia, I will not make a break for the door, nor will I fight against the restraint of feminine bonds of curiosity. What more would you know of me, Lady Amelia? How shall I satisfy you?”
Lady Amelia, as was entirely proper, blushed brilliant pink. Well deserved, too. Blasted women, making a mess of what should have been a lovely and uncomplicated evening of seduction and mutual satisfaction.
“Is he not as I described him to you, Lady Amelia?” Sophia asked, eyeing him with blatant amusement and, dare he admit it, appreciation. He found he could almost smile in return. “A remarkably pleasant and delightful man, the Duke of Calbourne, and if any man deserves the ideal wife, it is surely he.”
The ideal wife? An oxymoron of ridiculous proportions. Calbourne had been married, after all, and had the son to prove it. He also had the most unpleasant and disagreeable memories. It had not been a pleasant experience, being married. He had done it only to please his father, marrying the woman his father had deemed ideal for him. His father had been deeply mistaken. When his wife had died, he had, almost disgracefully, breathed a sigh of relief. When his father had died, that had ended all thoughts forevermore of marriage. He had his heir, the Calbourne line was secure, and his duty was done. Life, from thence forward, was to be enjoyed. And he did; he enjoyed it devotedly.
But he was going to find a better tailor the first thing tomorrow.
“You jest, surely,” Lady Jordan said.
Calbourne was more than a bit surprised. He had supposed that this was to be between he and Sophia, as it had been thus far; that Mary, Lady Jordan, had decided to speak was a bit of an unpleasant surprise.
“In what manner, Lady Jordan?” Sophia asked politely.
“In that a man, having found the ideal and, indeed, the proper wife, would hardly know it. Men,” Lady Jordan said in an unattractive and entirely uncalled-for display of pique, “never appreciate a woman properly.”
“Never?” Sophia said musingly, her dark gaze turning from Lady Jordan to Calbourne. “Surely that is not so. Certainly I have, upon more than one occasion, been very well appreciated.”
Mrs. Warren made some noise. It might have been a giggle.
Lady Amelia blushed. Again. It was singularly tiresome. Could the girl not speak? Not that she would have anything remarkable to say. He
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