Page 65 of A Duke in the Rough

Weren’t most wars fought overseas? England was, in fact, on an island. Suddenly, Anne pointed at Ashton, who appeared nonplussed to be singled out.

Everyone’s attention turned toward the duke, but he shook his head, clearly not understanding the connection. “The Peninsular War?” he asked, his own voice indicating his doubt.

“No. She said it wasn’t Waterloo,” Victor said.

A small heated discussion arose that Waterloo was a later battle and not part of the Peninsular War. For a moment, everyone forgot Anne—except Honoria.

Anne began mimicking drinking tea, then acted as if she were throwing heavy objects. Then she flailed her arms up and outward.

A splash?

Honoria’s mind started clicking the pieces together. War. Tea. Something heavy being thrown into the water. Ashton. The last piece didn’t seem to fit until she remembered Ashton had spent time in America. “The war with America!” she called.

Anne jumped up and down and pointed to Honoria. “Yes!”

“Well done, Lady Honoria!” Burwood called out. “Miss Weatherby, choose the next victim . . . err . . . participant.”

Charlotte leaned in. “I owe you for saving us all from enduring another tortuous moment of this buffoonery.”

For one of the few times that day, Honoria laughed. “You’re being dramatic. Perhaps you should go next?”

Charlotte’s eyes widened, no doubt horrified at the suggestion, but Anne saved her from her perceived humiliation.

“I choose Drake . . . I mean, Mr. Merrick to be next.”

Drake selected a piece of paper from the bowl Burwood held aloft. When he glanced at it, he winced.

What on earth could he have selected?

For a moment, he stood perfectly still.

“We’re waiting, Merrick,” Burwood goaded.

Drake flashed him a disdainful glance, and Honoria worried he might jeopardize his position with the duke.

His gaze snapped to Honoria, his face apologetic. Then, moving toward Anne, he dropped before her on one knee and stretched out his arms as if in supplication.

A hard lump lodged in Honoria’s throat.

Beside Honoria, Miranda muttered, “Oh, no. I believe he selected mine.”

Anne, on the other hand, seemed to have forgotten they were playing a game, for she, too, seemed overcome by emotion. “Oh, yes, Mr. Merrick! Yes! I accept.”

Gasps sounded around the room.

Eyes widened, face paper white, Drake shook his head frantically. Ignoring the murmurs of speculation around him, he continued the game, jumping up and pantomiming fencing an opponent. Then he pretended to drink something and fall to the floor.

Anne fell to his side. “Mr. Merrick! Drake! My love!”

Honoria’s legs grew weak, and her head was spinning.

Miranda grasped her arm. “I should end this travesty. Romeo and Juliet!”

Drake bounded to his feet—almost knocking Anne aside—tapped his nose and pointed to Miranda. “Yes!” Relief painted his face.

But the damage was done.

Anne’s besotted expression told a tale almost as tragic as Shakespeare’s star-crossed lovers.

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