Ten Things I Hate About the Duke - Loretta Chase Page 0,17
turned to continue her not-very-calming walk along the gallery.
She was distantly aware of movement below, as people came out of the inn to watch. She didn’t care. The day was bound to worsen. How could it not?
“Miss Pomfret, I wish you would give me a minute. A minute only.”
She kept on walking.
“Would you stop?” He tried to take hold of her arm.
While not new, her dress was French, and fashionable, with enormous sleeves. His big hand sank into the folds of fabric and crushed the puff supporting the balloon-like structure.
She whipped about, acting instinctively. Not a poke in the chest this time, but a shove, the kind she’d learnt from Keeffe, her body balanced to give her maximum leverage.
The gallery was narrow, the rail low, and the duke had his back to it. He let go of her sleeve to grab the nearest baluster, but not quickly enough to stop him from going over, more easily than she could have supposed.
At the last instant, Ashmont managed to grab the post.
He hung there for a time, his knees over the balustrade’s rail, one arm about the post.
Had he been a less fit man, he’d be on the cobblestones below by now.
But he boxed, fenced, and rode. He walked more often and greater distances than other men of his class. He liked testing his strength. He liked fighting. And while he might be idle in some senses, he was, possibly, all too active in others.
Still, he’d had a sleepless night before the duel and more brandy and soda than was good for him after it. He’d eaten, but not much, his stomach not being up to it.
Not at his best, in other words.
And so he hung there uncertainly for a short time, while gawkers gathered below and while he listened to Miss Pomfret’s footsteps, firmly going away, not toward him to help. Her footsteps stopped, a door slammed shut, and a latch clicked into place.
Very well. Not a ministering angel, then. Not to him, at any rate.
He would have laughed, but he needed the breath to keep his balance, then pull himself up and back onto the gallery. This took two attempts, while the audience grew, people hurrying out from the inn to stare. A few male voices offered encouragement while others mocked him.
When at last he was safely upright, he wiped his hands and bowed. The onlookers applauded and laughed.
“Marry her?” Morris said, eyes threatening to pop from their sockets. “Did you shoot the pistol off close to your head, by any chance? Went deaf for a bit? Smoke got in your eyes?”
Having decided to recruit his strength before tangling with Miss Pomfret again, Ashmont had returned to the coffee room. He’d scarcely sat down before a waiter appeared to take his order. A moment after the waiter left, a fresh group of travelers entered, along with some of the courtyard loungers, Morris among them.
Ashmont didn’t mind the hubbub or Morris’s talking. He lacked Ripley’s and Blackwood’s wit, true. However, what Ashmont needed at this point wasn’t wit but information, as much as he could get—and Morris was a walking, talking Debrett’s Peerage and encyclopedia of gossip. He was like his dragon mother in that regard. Happily, this was their only point of resemblance.
“Do you take me for the sort who’d marry a milk-and-water miss?” he said. Had Ripley married that sort of girl? Had Blackwood? Not even slightly.
“There’s milk and water, and then there’s girls who push you off a gallery,” Morris said. “I thought sure I was going to see you lying at my feet, your brains all over the courtyard.”
Ashmont shrugged. “I’ve been knocked about worse.”
Morris sat back and gazed at him.
“Don’t know what you’re fretting about,” Ashmont said. “You fancy her sister. You won’t have a chance of getting near her if Miss Pomfret doesn’t marry. Considering how afraid of her everybody seems to be, what do you reckon the odds of that happening soon? If I were you, I’d be cheering me on. I’d be saying, ‘You lucky dog, Ashmont. Your bride bolts, and not a week later, another one, even better, practically falls in your lap.’”
“No, no, no, no, no.” Morris shook his head with each no. “Not to bring up painful memories, but—” He held up his spoon. “Lady Olympia.” With the other hand, he held up his knife. “Miss Pomfret. Different kettle of fish altogether.”
Ashmont held up a fork. “Me.”
Morris reddened.
Ashmont watched this with amusement. He couldn’t remember when last he’d blushed.