Page 6 of Tamed By a Duke
"So modest," a thick eyebrow quirked again, this time less amused than before.
"One tries," Charlotte smiled piously in return, refusing to be browbeaten by an overactive eyebrow. "Now, if you will excuse us, we must dash."
"So much needlework, so little time," came the drawled reply.
"Indeed," Charlotte smiled tightly, as she nudged Ethel to attention. The sooner they escaped this man and his unnerving gaze, the better.
She gave her captor a nod of acknowledgement and made to turn on her heel, but before she could do so, he reached out and took her firmly by the arm.
"Don't let me catch you at any more of these meetings," he growled softly, holding her gaze with fierce eyes.
"Oh, I think my interest in needlework has waned considerably in these past few minutes," Charlotte retorted, amazed that she had the breath to reply, for it felt as though his touch had knocked all the air from her chest.
With what strength she had left, Charlotte wrenched her arm free, grabbed Ethel by the hand, and dragged her away, without so much as a backward glance at the rude, high-handed gentleman who had so unnerved her.
"What a strange man," Ethel observed, as the two women beat a hasty path back to where their carriage awaited.
"Mmm..."
"Ever so handsome, though," Ethel continued, putting a voice to Charlotte's thoughts, which had been thinking the very same thing.
"There is nothing in this world more dangerous than a handsome man," Charlotte replied darkly, directly quoting Helga, who held a deep distrust for the male of the species, but especially the handsome ones.
"I know, Miss Drew," Ethel nodded furiously in agreement, before her face glazed over into a dazed smile, "But that doesn't mean one can't appreciate them, as long as one keeps one's distance."
"How right you are, Ethel," Charlotte replied; distance was the key to dealing with a man like that. As long as Charlotte never laid eyes on the sinfully handsome stranger again, she would be protected from the queer, thrilling feeling which bubbled within her belly.
Thank goodness their paths were unlikely ever to cross, Charlotte decided, wilfully ignoring the distant sense of disappointment which accompanied her realisation.
Chapter Two
Hugh Landon Charles Abermale, Sixth Duke of Penrith, was late to his appointment at White's. His tardiness could be blamed on many things—London's congested roads, business in Whitehall, a meeting of radicals that had near turned into a riot—but he preferred to place the blame squarely at the door of the flame-haired vixen who had earlier bedazzled him.
Not, of course, that he would admit to having been bedazzled. Hugh preferred to think that he had been vexed, irritated, and annoyed by the red-haired miss who had waltzed away after he had rescued her, without so much as a word of thanks. While the abruptness of her departure, and the lack of manners, had galled him, Hugh had rather enjoyed the vision created by the departure of his damsel in distress, for the back of young lady had been every bit as enticing as the front...
Hugh was a man of refined, expensive taste, but even he had to admit that there was nothing quite so beguiling as the sight of a bottom one could perch a pint upon. Especially when said bottom belonged to a woman with the temerity and sass to back answer him. Hugh had assumed his ducal title at a young age, and it had been quite some time since anyone had dared to speak to him in such a dismissive manner.
If it hadn't been so irritating, he was almost certain he would have found it refreshing—almost.
"What time do you call this?"
Jack Pennelegion, or the Duke of Orsino as he was also styled, raised an eyebrow in question, as Hugh finally arrived at their usual spot, the coveted seat by the bow window of White's, a half-hour later than expected. Robert William Montague, the current holder of the title of Marquess of Thornbrook and heir to the Ducal Seat of Staffordshire, rolled his eyes at Orsino's words.
"You're not on military time now, old chum," Rob said, waving down a passing footman to fetch more brandy for the late arrival, "Don't get your petticoats in a twist over a lost half-hour; what you lost in time, you gained in brandy. Here, Penrith, you have fallen behind. Get this one down you quickly so you might catch us up."
Rob pushed the glass of brandy, which the speedy footman had just delivered, toward Hugh, who picked it up and took a grateful sip. The fiery liquid burned its way down to his belly, and he allowed himself a moment to savour the warmth that spread through him.
There was nothing finer than good brandy for ragged nerves.
"Lud," Hugh said, as he placed the now empty glass back down upon the table, "I needed that."
"I heard there was a skirmish in St Bart's," Orsino commented, eyeing him knowingly, "Did you happen to get mixed up in it?"
"La!" Hugh gave a chuckle, "I would hardly call it a skirmish; it was mere boys playacting at being men. Montague's valet deals with more danger every morning when he pulls back the drapes on his lordship."
"To think I defended you against Orsino," Montague grumbled, though he was good-natured in his complaint. The young marquess was a notorious hellion, who was oft out until the small hours of the morning. Hugh was right in saying that his long-suffering valet had often borne witness to some frightening sights in the marquess' bedchamber the morning after the night before. The most notorious story, which Montague still told with pride, was when the poor valet had pulled back the drapes to reveal Prinny himself, slumbering off a cask of wine, whilst Montague had lain cold upon the floor beside him.
Nothing, to Hugh's mind at least, could be more horrifying than waking up next to the Prince Regent, who could be counted upon to overstay his welcome before asking for a loan on his way out the door.
