Ten Things I Hate About the Duke - Loretta Chase Page 0,35
puffed things.
Still, he’d seen her in wet clothes, and the way they clung to the undergarments had offered a better-than-usual view of her figure.
Though at present she was dry and well covered—up to her throat—the bodice of her green dress was closely fitted. He took note of the way her bosom rose and fell, and didn’t find it hard to estimate how much of that was fabric, and how much was woman.
He told himself to keep his mind on business. One wrong word, one wrong move, and he’d ruin everything.
“He’s dumbstruck,” he said.
“Good,” she said. “The mute sort of male is the best sort of male. Strong and silent type. Or weak and silent type. But silent. Above all, silent.”
“You’re acquainted with the gentleman, I believe,” Ashmont said. “Humphrey Morris, son of—”
A slight flicker in the grey eyes warned him he was treading on thin ice. “I know who he is.”
“He begs to be introduced to the young lady.” Ashmont leant in a little closer, and some delicious scent, fresh and herbal, rose to his nostrils. It took all his willpower not to lean in farther when he murmured, “He’s infatuated with Miss Marigold.”
“Who?”
“Miss Rose?”
“Do you mean Hyacinth?”
“That one,” he said. “Have pity on him. Can’t you let her sell him something?”
Her eyes glinted silver. She looked over her shoulder at the fair-haired girl. “My dear, this dubious person wants assistance.”
The girl stepped up to the counter.
Beside him, Morris let out a curious sound, like a sheep being strangled mid-bleat.
“Hyacinth, my love, here is Mr. Humphrey Morris,” said Miss Pomfret. “You know his mama, Lady Bartham.”
She and her sister exchanged looks.
“In spite of the low company Mr. Morris keeps,” Miss Pomfret continued, “we may reckon him relatively harmless, to the extent that any member of his gender is harmless. He wishes to buy something for dear Lady Bartham and his sisters. And his aunts and great-aunts. All of them. Perhaps you can help him make up his mind.”
The girl’s cheeks pinkened prettily, the way such girls’ cheeks always did.
Morris stood like a great, stupid, scarlet-faced lump.
Ashmont gave him another elbow in the ribs. “There’s the girl. Do something.”
Morris moved toward the counter like a somnambulist.
The girl said, “Mr. Morris, perhaps you would like to look at this pincushion Mama made. Lady Bartham admired it very much . . .”
Leaving his besotted friend to sink or swim, Ashmont returned his attention to his target, who’d moved to one side of the stall to keep watch—and no doubt turn Morris to stone if he so much as breathed the wrong way.
As to Ashmont, if he didn’t take care, he’d set off an avalanche that would bury them both.
They had an audience, listening avidly, and he couldn’t make them go away. A fellow couldn’t be private with good girls.
Very well. He liked a challenge, didn’t he?
“The boy’s not going to get a bath,” Ashmont said. “That sort are allergic to soap and water. Probably for the best. Scrubbing off all those layers of grime might upset the delicate balance of his nerves.”
“Are you still there?” she said. “Did I not expend vast reservoirs of patience and generosity in introducing your chatterbox friend to my sister?”
“He’s going to buy every last article in the stall,” Ashmont said. “That’s why you cooperated.”
“And now it’s too late for you to buy everything, merely for the privilege of looking upon my Venus-like person and worshipping at my altar.”
That, certainly, was part of the plan: Jonesy would scoop up everything he could reach, taking his time about it, and Ashmont would claim the remainder. While she was busy with them, Morris would make sheep’s eyes at the younger sister.
The plan hadn’t worked out as Ashmont had imagined, but he was flexible.
He hadn’t much time. The more he lingered, the greater the chance of putting his foot in it. Still, he could give Morris a few more minutes with the sister.
A few minutes only, then Ashmont had better put temptation behind him.
“I shouldn’t say Venus,” he said. “I should say—”
“Scylla,” came a voice from the crowd.
Ashmont had not been a dutiful scholar. However, like nearly everybody else, he was familiar with the Odyssey. After all, it was an exciting tale featuring pillage, eye-gouging, murder, man-eating monsters, and other thrills. He knew that Scylla and Charybdis were monsters who guarded a narrow strait. Charybdis was a deadly whirlpool. Scylla had six heads with three rows of sharp teeth in each head.
The demon irrupted from the deep inner cave, and through