Page 11 of The Taming of the Duke
She pulled herself free, and he made no attempt to restrain her. Then, she dipped into a curtsey.
“As you wish,my lord,” she said. “I trust that, in that, at least, I shan’t disappoint you.”
“Have a care, Catherine,” he warned. “I’ve been patient with you these last years. But now I’ve had to waste further funds on your sister’s come-out, my patience is running thin. You must do better, or I shall marry you off to the first man who turns up at my door—whether he’s a beggar or not. I must inquire as to whether Lord Francis is attending Lord Hardwick’s house party.”
She shivered at the thought of that lecher’s hands on her. “Papa, I…”
“Silence!” he roared. “I see I’ve been too lenient with you. No man wants a shrew for a wife.” He lurched to one side and began to retch.
“Papa!” she cried. “Are you unwell? Let me help you.” She reached toward him, but he slapped her hand away.
“If you want to help me, then stop being such a damned shrew and find yourself a husband!” he cried. “Anyhusband—just to get you off my hands. Now, do as you’re bid and fetch the carriage!”
“Yes, Papa.”
“I’ll have to warn your husband to take a firm hand with you, whoever the unfortunate man might be.”
She fled to the doors and reentered the ballroom.
“Are you alright, Miss?”
She glanced up at the footman beside the door.
“Yes, I’m fine,” she said. “Would you be so good as to have Lord Parville’s carriage brought round? My father is indisposed.”
The footman glanced pointedly toward the gaming room, then nodded and walked off.
Catherine crossed the dance floor, weaving her way around the dancers who were still enjoying their evening. Preoccupied with searching for Blanche, she didn’t notice the man before her until it was too late, and she collided into a solid, muscular form.
“Excuse me,” a deep voice said.
Large, powerful hands took her arms where Papa had gripped her moments before, and she winced. She looked up, and the breath caught in her throat, as eyes the color of sapphires stared back at her.
Sweet Lord—handsome he might be from a distance, but at close quarter, he was breathtaking. A man to be avoided.
“Let me pass, sir,” she said.
“It would be uncivil of me not to at least introduce myself, Miss Parville.”
“I see I’m at a disadvantage, sir, given that you know who I am,” she said. “Perhaps you know me by reputation.”
“As the most charming young woman in the room?”
She let out a laugh of derision. “Ah—I see you’re lacking in wits, like most men.”
“Perhaps,” he said, “though whether a man is in possession of wit is, in my opinion, relative.”
“Relative to what?”
“Relative to the woman he seeks to court.”
“I assure you, you’ll find no woman worthy of courting here,” she said, “unless you are yet another dungwit who is entranced by a pretty face and a fat dowry.”
Rather than show offences, his eyes sparkled with amusement. “Dungwit?”
Sweet heaven—that smile…
Her stomach fluttered, and she drew in a sharp breath to dispel the heat rising within her body. But her senses were assaulted by a rich aroma of wood, spice, and man.
