Page 3 of The Last Duke She'd Marry
Portdown sank into the opposite chair and for once, he didn’t look as happy as a pig in mud. “The only other person even halfway suitable is His Grace of Granville.”
Evesham bit back a growl. Of course the sainted Alaric Dempster was suitable. The blockhead was bloody suitable for every blessed thing on God’s green earth.
All his life, people had told Evesham that he should be more like the Duke of Granville. All his life, he’d kicked against the odious comparison.
“Then let Granville do it.”
“He’s blond.”
The darling of society was as golden as an angel. “I know.”
“And you’re dark.”
As dark as an Italian. He’d been called a suite of nasty names at school because he was as swarthy as a chimney sweep. “So?”
“Juliet is blond. Two blonds together aren’t right.”
“Cast another girl as Juliet then.”
Portdown smiled. “No, Juliet is my daughter, and she’s set on playing—”
“Her namesake.” Somehow Evesham started to follow this nonsense.
“Precisely.”
“The answer is still no.”
A few of the boys at Eton had been artistic. They’d painted or written poetry or put on performances. Not Evesham. He’d been a sportsman through and through. A cricketer. A rower. Handy on the football field. A fencer. A boxer.
A boy who had forced the world around him to shift from bullying to admiration. Scratching away at a violin or rhyming “bonnet” with “sonnet” would never hew him out a respected place in the violent society of his schoolmates. Beef-witted bastards that most of them had been.
He was rather surprised to learn that the stiff-rumped prig Granville involved himself in something as inherently frivolous as amateur dramatics. On this long-overdue visit home, he was yet to run into his bugbear. Unless the prancing poodle had changed beyond recognition, he was more likely to be speechifying in the Lords than dressing up and treading the stage.
Perhaps the fellow had his eye on the mysterious Juliet. If so, she must be pretty.
About the only thing that Granville and Evesham shared, apart from their exalted rank, was a taste for good-looking females. Hadn’t this mutual weakness already sparked the scandal that sent Evesham on a career of debauchery across the Continent and left Granville behind in London, his halo intact and the object of general esteem?
The thought of putting a spoke in Granville’s elegant wheel was almost enough to tempt him into Portdown’s clutches. Almost, but not quite.
“I won’t give up.” Portdown regarded him the way that a foxhound stared at a sirloin steak. “I’m a man of great determination.”
“And I’m a man of renowned stubbornness.” As his constantly disapproving grandfather had so often pointed out.
Portdown sighed and steepled his fingers in front of his chest. “I can’t persuade you?”
“No.”
“You’ll soon become sick of my pursuit.”
Undoubtedly. He was already tired of it. “You’re wasting your time.”
“Hmm,” Portdown said with a thoughtfulness that worried Evesham.
A silence fell. Almost soothing. Evesham should go, but it was quiet and warm in here. And just at the moment, Portdown wasn’t harassing him.
He’d drifted close to another nap when the fellow finally spoke. “You don’t want me to ask you again to join what promises to be a supreme artistic experience?”
“No,” Evesham said drowsily without opening his eyes.
