Page 2 of The Last Duke She'd Marry
“Come with me.”
Even through the thickheadedness that came of too much liquor and not enough sleep, Evesham recognized that if he intended to give this encroaching mushroom the setdown he deserved, he couldn’t do it in the club library.
So he didn’t resist as the pestilential man dragged him along a corridor and into an anteroom that at this hour of the morning was empty.
Portdown released his arm and shut the door, turning to survey him with more of that confoundedly off-putting elation. “You’re perfect.”
Despite his irritation, that made him laugh. Nobody in their right mind would describe the Duke of Evesham as perfect. In fact, the world believed that he was just about as imperfect as imperfect could get.
Because he was a man with a close acquaintance with the effects of drink, he spared a moment to study his tormentor. If the fellow was three sheets to the wind, he could almost sympathize. He’d done plenty of madcap things himself, while on the booze. “Are you foxed?”
“No, of course I’m not. It’s eleven o’clock in the morning.”
“And we’re not acquainted?”
“No.”
“Is this a matter of life and death?”
“Not precisely.”
Evesham’s audible inhalation expressed impatience. Even if he’d gone to bed at ten last night, the conversation would baffle him. With a Goliath of a headache afflicting him, he couldn’t be arsed trying to unravel this strange encounter. “Then I’m going back to the library. You, sir, may go to Hades.”
The rotund man shifted to block the door, raising his hands to stop Evesham leaving. “This is more important than life or death. This is…art.”
Shocked, Evesham paused in reaching out to shove the man out of the way. “Art?” he repeated, as if the word was a profanity. “What in blazes do I have to do with art?”
Startled, the man stared at him, as if he at last heard him. “Sorry, old man. I’m guessing you’re all at sea. But the moment I saw you, I knew.”
Despite recognizing that his best move would be to leave this madman to rave on his own, he couldn’t contain a spurt of curiosity. “What?”
“I told you. Romeo.”
“My name isn’t Romeo. I’m Evesham.”
“Evesham?” The man frowned, as if he struggled to bring the name to mind.
That was a surprise. Evesham had been away from England for a long time, but he’d left such a trail of scandal behind him, he assumed that his title would spark some recognition.
“Yes.”
“There was a Duke of Evesham. A friend of my father’s.”
“Thereisa Duke of Evesham, and I am he. You must be thinking of my grandfather, the previous duke.”
“Oh, you’re a duke. That’s capital.” Portdown looked even cheerier. He might be a lunatic, but at least he was a jolly lunatic. “Juliet likes dukes.”
Juliet? The fellow lived in a complete fantasy world. Evesham’s head was whirling.
Portdown went on, as if he was as sane as the next man. “And you of course are Romeo.”
“For God’s sake…”
Portdown’s smile remained sunny. “I’ve been looking for someone to play Romeo in my scenes from Shakespeare gala, and you’re just perfect.”
Perfect again? Before Evesham could object, his tired brain clicked into operation and this conversation, however unconventional, finally made sense.
“Theatricals. You’re talking about theatricals!” He collapsed into a chair and ran his hand through his ruffled hair. “Look, my good man, whoever you are, I don’t do theatricals. Find someone else to play Romeo.”
