Page 9 of My Demanding Duke

“The duke is arrogant, high-handed, and demanding,” Anna answered dourly.

“Men that handsome always are,” the viscountess replied knowingly, “I’m certain he’ll make up for it in other ways…”

“I fail to see how he might,” Anna responded as she doggedly pushed the memory of his lips on her skin from her mind.

Later that afternoon, however, she was gifted with a small taste of some of the material pleasures life with a duke might offer her.

“Anna,” she heard Josie call from the hallway, “Come look!”

She rushed from the drawing room, where she had been mindlessly flicking through an issue ofLa Belle Assemblée, to find Josie in the hallway with two footmen. Each man held several paper-wrapped packages in their arms, which Josie was handing to Sarah.

“It’s some of the gowns we ordered,” she called to Anna, “From Mrs Delacroix - and there’s a note for you, too.”

She handed Anna a folded piece of parchment, which she opened curiously.

Miss Mosley,she read,Please accept my apologies for the earlier misunderstanding regarding your order. I have sent over some of the finished gowns today; the rest shall follow in haste. I do hope it will not affect your future patronage.

She folded the page again and gave an incredulous laugh; Falconbridge had, no doubt, had a hand in this.

“What did she say?” Josie asked curiously.

“That credit is easily extended when one is engaged to a duke,” Anna answered dryly.

Inside, however, she was furious. She had not asked Falconbridge to help her - not with the gowns, nor with her father. It was he who had presumed to rescue her off his own bat.

Well, Anna would show him just how little she cared for his machinations.

“Which one shall you wear tonight?” Josie wondered aloud as she rearranged the bundles of parcels she held in her arms.

“None,” Anna answered, firmly, “Send a note to Lady Limehouse to inform her that I am indisposed and will not be attending tonight’s ball.”

She might be poor, and her future might be precarious, but Anna refused to allow the duke to think he could buy her admiration - or her hand, for that matter.

CHAPTER THREE

WHEN HUGH ARRIVEDto Colridge House, on the fashionable Grosvenor Square, later that evening, he found himself in the midst of a crush.

The heaving ballroom could of course be attributed to Lord and Lady Colridge’s reputation as lavish hosts, but as each eye in the room turned his way, Hugh wondered if his presence might also have influenced the number of guests in attendance. Nothing drew a crowd more than gossip and Hugh’s recently announced engagement to Miss Mosley was the scandal of the season.

Although accustomed to being the object of people’s fascination - an occupational hazard, when one was a duke - Hugh found the level of interest directed his way mildly uncomfortable. His eyes scanned the room for a glimpse of Lady Limehouse and Miss Mosley and when he did not sight them, he realised that this discomfort he felt was, in fact, nervousness.

He frowned a little, for anxiety was not an emotion he often felt, and he was reluctant to attribute the fluttering in his stomach to Miss Mosley’s absence. To do so, he thought, would be akin to admitting he possessed a weakness - and if there was one thing that Hugh prided himself on, it was his strength.

After greeting his hosts, who effused hearty congratulations on his engagement, Hugh went in search of liquid refreshments to ease the torment of his current predicament. He did not frequently attend society balls, for he found them stifling and dull, and they were rendered even more so when one was the object of universal scrutiny.

“Beaufort,” Hugh called with relief, as he spotted Lord Bartie Beaufort hovering on the periphery of the dance floor.

“Your Grace,” Bartie replied, with a warm smile, “Congratulations are in order, let me get you a drink.”

Lord Beaufort waved down a footman, who near ran to fetch Hugh a tumbler of cognac. When he returned, Bartie lifted his own glass in toast, “To the happy couple; I’m glad to think I played a part in your union.”

“How so?” Hugh raised a brow.

“Why, two nights ago you did not even know your future wife’s name,” Bertie answered, with a wink, “I must say, I am impressed by the speed at which you move. I have never been in love myself, but I have heard that one knows instantly when one finds it.”

Hugh struggled to hold in a snort of derision at this statement; the word love was not part of his personal lexicon. His motives in securing Miss Mosley’s hand were primarily base, though he would not share that with Beaufort.

“Miss Mosley will make a fine duchess,” Hugh replied, stiffly.

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