Page 7 of The Last Duke She'd Marry
Which only made him more dangerous.
Juliet swallowed another protest, convinced that this was all going to end in catastrophe.
“I want to rehearse Portia’s scene with her this morning. She’s far too collected when she appears on stage. She’s meant to be out of her mind.” Her father had already put her objections to Evesham completely out of his mind. “While I do that, I thought you and His Grace could go somewhere quiet and run through your lines to get a feel for each other.”
A feel for each other? It was as if Papa wanted to destroy her reputation. Especially as the spark she’d noticed in Evesham’s eyes hinted that he’d be more than happy to get afeelof her.
Juliet had trouble keeping her voice down. “You just said I’d have plenty of chaperones.”
But if she’d ever had a chance of getting her father to banish the disreputable duke back to the stews where he belonged, that moment had passed. Papa belittled her perfectly legitimate concerns with an airy wave of one artistic hand.
“Don’t nag, Juliet. Whoever you marry, he won’t appreciate a woman who carps at him all the time. This is your home. Nobody will lay a hand on you. The only reason His Grace is here is to perform in the gala. Anyway, you’ve got a good pair of lungs. If the fellow steps an inch out of line, shriek for help.”
“You’re taking all this very lightly, Papa,” she said through stiff lips.
Outside matters theatrical, her father took most things lightly, to her regret. It was one of the reasons that she’d had to sacrifice the luxury of a childhood to ensure that Portia and Viola received a decent upbringing.
“And you’re taking everything far too seriously. As usual.”
Juliet firmed her lips to muffle another protest, even as chagrin stung her. She knew that she was old before her time, but whose fault was that?
“Very well,” she said in a cold voice.
What else could she do but cooperate? Her father wasn’t even listening to her anymore.
It seemed that when it came to managing the troublesome duke, she was on her own. That was nothing new.
But if Evesham imagined that he could bend the rules of propriety without suffering nasty consequences, he was about to discover how wrong he was. Lady Juliet Frain was no brainless ingenue. She was a mature woman of the world, well up to thwarting a rake’s tricks.
The duke’s manner might promise sin in abundance. But he was Napoleon and she was Wellington, and he was about to meet his Waterloo.
Chapter 3
Evesham leaned against a mossy column on the side of the stage and wondered just what Lady Juliet was saying about him to her father. Nothing complimentary, he’d wager his considerable fortune. He hadn’t mistaken the horror on that exquisite face when he appeared. Clearly, she’d heard the gossip.
A week ago, when he’d fallen into the clutches of that baby-faced card shark, Portdown, he’d been right about one thing. In all these years, the Duke of Granville hadn’t lost his eye for a pretty woman.
Lady Juliet Frain was a perfect rose. Golden hair. Tall. Built like a Valkyrie, just how he liked them. And plenty of flash and fire, which surprised him, because everything he’d heard about her, since agreeing to this farcical arrangement, indicated that she was the staidest woman in England.
As he listened to tale after tale of Lady Juliet’s unshakable virtue and impeccable understanding of etiquette, he’d almost reached the point where he felt sorry for old Granville. The fellow was a dry stick, always had been. But even a dry stick deserved better than an iceberg in his bed.
So when Evesham arrived today, he’d expected a pattern card of a society beauty. All the gossip had mentioned Lady Juliet’s looks, as well as her lack of approachability.
Instead, he found himself in the presence of a gorgeous thoroughbred of a woman. All pride and contained passion, not to mention an immediate and powerful disdain for that notorious lothario, his Dis-Grace, the Duke of Evesham.
Ever since Portdown had beaten him in two quick hands at White’s, Evesham had dreaded this visit to Afton Park. They hadn’t even had to play the decider.
He’d spent the last nine years staying ahead of the tides of war on the Continent and having a deuced good time in the process. Lord Portdown had maneuvered him into a corner in a way the French army never had.
Once Evesham lost at cards, his fate was sealed. While he might be a libertine, he’d never welched on a bet. Within an hour of meeting Portdown, he’d agreed to come to Wiltshire, lines memorized and ready to take direction.
Which would be a first.
One glimpse of Lady Juliet Frain, and he perked up. What had been an unsought imposition suddenly offered an array of possibilities. Playing Romeo was going to be fun, something he never thought that he’d say.
Having fallen foul of Portdown’s powers of persuasion himself, he wasn’t surprised when the earl soon returned, trailed by his daughter. “Juliet will be delighted to work with you.”
Evesham swallowed a snort of amusement. Lady Juliet looked delightful, but she didn’t look delighted. In fact, she looked ready to commit murder.
