Page 21 of The Duke Who Loved Me (The Duke's Estates 1)

Within five minutes, James was completely at a loss. Each of the words the fellow used was familiar to him, but they made no sense in the order presented. They were strung together—or rather woven into vast webs—that tangled in his brain and made him frantic to claw his way out. Now and then a concept wavered toward clarity, he thought, but it was at once overwhelmed by another spate of words, like a deer pulled down by a pack of dogs.

Around him, people nodded and murmured as if they understood and approved. James thought of himself as reasonably intelligent, but he couldn’t make head nor tail of this argument. He became conscious of a longing to rise, flee the room, and run home at a pace that would sweep the confusion from his mind.

After a seeming eternity, the reading ended. There was a smattering of elevated applause. Lady Tate indicated that refreshments were available even as the discussion opened.

James made a restrained leap from his seat and strode across the room to Cecelia. Two of the young ladies in her party had risen, presumably to seek sustenance. He captured a vacated chair and resolved to defend his place against all comers.

“Tereford,” said Cecelia. They did not use first names in public.

“Miss Vainsmede.”

“May I introduce my friends?” She reeled off a set of names that James immediately forgot. There were far too many eager young ladies to keep track of in London. He wished they would all go away.

“Charmed,” he muttered.

The two who had stood departed for the buffet tables. The others gazed at James with bright interest, showing no sign of taking themselves off. James became more certain that he’d chosen the wrong place for his initial bout of wooing. But he’d had no way of predicting the horrors of philosophical discourse.

“I must say I’m surprised to see you here,” said Cecelia.

“Your presence was an irresistible attraction,” James replied.

She blinked, startled.

It had not been a first-rate compliment. The interminable prosing had thrown him off. He could do better. He had to adjust. He never spoke to her this way.

“Not the philosophy?” asked one of the young ladies. Dark-haired and sharp-featured, she reminded James of someone.

He shook his head.

“I wouldn’t have thought so,” she went on. “Not your sort of thing at all.”

How would she know this?

James’s expression must have conveyed the question, because she added, “You are acquainted with my brother Henry.”

Was he?

“Henry Deeping.”

“Oh, you are the girl who despises everyone.” He’d forgotten her first name. Henry had mentioned it. Charlotte, that was it.

“I beg your pardon?” Her dark eyes skewered him.

The remark had slipped out. But it wasn’t his fault. “Henry said so.”

“To you?”

“Yes.”

“I shall kill him when I get home.”

He should not have repeated it, of course. But James didn’t think saying so would help. Best just to drop the subject.

“I donotdespise everyone,” the girl—Charlotte Deeping—added. “Only those who deserve it.” Her fierce gaze indicated that James might well be numbered among them.

He needed to separate Cecelia from the feminine herd. But as James was concocting schemes to do so, the two young ladies returned with laden plates. He admired the red-haired one’s ability to juggle three at once. He didn’t rise, however. He was not going to give up his spot beside Cecelia, no matter how gauche this made him appear. There was no other place in the room he wanted to be.

Plates were handed round. James endured a barrage of expectant and then annoyed looks. He pretended not to notice. Finally, the red-haired girl found another chair and dragged it over.

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