Ten Things I Hate About the Duke - Loretta Chase Page 0,29
be. A fancy fair out of doors is not so bad, but this is another article altogether.”
“No, it isn’t altogether pleasant,” Mama said. “The crush will be appalling, and the heat disagreeable. But one must make sacrifices for charity! And Lady Bartham—”
“Has two daughters,” Papa said. “Not half so pretty as ours. It upsets you, imagining her lesser offspring getting all the attention.”
Mama dabbed her eyes with her handkerchief. “She will be quite unbearable, as Cassandra says. That woman is so jealous of Hyacinth.”
The Countess of Bartham was a discontented woman, jealous of everybody she could find the slightest reason to be jealous of. Among other sources of bile, she resented other mothers’ handsome daughters. Poison barbs laced her conversations.
Papa sighed. “I see how it is. We cannot let Lady Bartham get the better of you, my dear, and we cannot let you make this great sacrifice without support. Fortunately, Cassandra allows me to save face. Since I failed to make a rule in this regard, I can hardly break it by consenting to let Hyacinth attend. But.”
He paused and bowed his head.
They waited, Hyacinth trembling.
“But only if Cassandra is with her.”
Hyacinth’s face lit like the sun, and that, Cassandra decided, was worth the tortures of the damned she’d endure on Thursday.
Wednesday
Ashmont House, Park Lane
On the tray bearing the Duke of Ashmont’s morning coffee came two pieces of personal correspondence.
He opened the one from Ripley House first, read it, and laughed. The new Duchess of Ripley invited him to a ball on Friday night. Clearly a head wound wasn’t going to stop Ripley’s celebrating his nuptials at the earliest opportunity.
“Sommers, bring me pen and ink.”
Casting one anguished look at the bedclothes, as though he could already see the ink spatters, the valet obeyed.
On the invitation Ashmont scrawled, “Delighted to attend. A.”
After ordering it delivered to Ripley House, Ashmont opened the other note.
Dear Duke,
Since Keeffe is ashamed of his writing (his hand, as you may know, along with other parts, was broken in the racing catastrophe), he has asked me to communicate to you his thanks for the painting. Had you given him one of your champagne banquets, complete with the usual bevy of insufficiently clothed opera dancers, he could not have been happier—or so he assures me, but since he is a man, I strongly doubt it. In any event, you have succeeded in pleasing and flattering him and raising his spirits to a surprising degree. For this I allot you one point. When you accumulate another five thousand nine hundred and ninety-nine, I shall begin to consider you a tolerable human being.
Yours sincerely,
Cassandra Pomfret
“One point?” Ashmont muttered.
“Your Grace?”
“Nothing.”
Nothing, indeed. It wasn’t much. Still, it was a point. And here was a note, in her own hand. It was a woman’s hand, certainly, but rather more sharp about the edges than the usual.
That she’d written to him was no small thing. Unmarried gentlewomen didn’t write to gentlemen who weren’t relatives or affianced husbands. She’d done it, though, and had it smuggled out of her father’s house and delivered to his.
Was this encouragement or simply evening the score, as he’d tried to do?
He was still unhappy about the damage to Keeffe, for all that she and the jockey made light of it in the letter.
Ashmont wasn’t happy about his uncle’s advice, either, though for once he couldn’t help admitting the sense of it.
The Duke of Ashmont rarely had difficulties with women, and in those odd cases, he seldom had trouble winning them over. He was handsome, rich, and gifted with natural charm. These qualities had helped him win a young woman who felt a powerful responsibility toward her financially ramshackle family.
In the end, though, his looks, money, and charm hadn’t been enough to keep her, and they’d made no impression on Miss Pomfret.
Admittedly, conditions on Saturday hadn’t shown him to advantage. The opposite, rather. Their encounter had happened on one of the worst mornings of his life. Among other things—like the long hours leading up to the duel, the duel itself, and a few terrifying minutes afterward—he’d had a great deal too much to drink, no sleep to speak of, and almost nothing to eat.
Now, days later, with a clear head, he could see what a muck he’d made of it.
He needed to keep away, and let the unpleasant memory fade from Miss Pomfret’s mind.
His pistol had been discreetly returned. Even Morris hadn’t heard any rumors about Putney, apart from some talk about the duel. Word was bound to leak out