Ten Things I Hate About the Duke - Loretta Chase Page 0,48
woodland nymph under the stars.
Five thousand nine hundred and ninety-nine points. To be a tolerable human being.
At present he wasn’t sure ten thousand points would be enough.
Chapter 8
The Stadium, or, British National Arena, Chelsea
A short time later
“Interesting choice for your ladies’ club,” Ashmont said. “Rather out of the way.”
He and Miss Pomfret were walking toward what had once been Lord Cremorne’s mansion.
“Not two and a half miles from Piccadilly,” Miss Pomfret said. “It’s more convenient for some of the ladies who don’t live in Town. For those of us who do, it’s a pleasant escape into the country.”
A few years earlier, the Baron de Bérenger had bought the property known as Chelsea Farm, and made an attractive combination of pleasure grounds and athletic arena.
Lady Charles had ridden on to make a tour of the place, which she hadn’t seen since before de Bérenger took over. As she took her leave of them, her ladyship had reminded Ashmont that she was trusting him to behave as he ought to do.
It was a deuced lot of trust, given the temptations. In spite of the damper Miss Pomfret had applied to his spirits, temptation still tempted.
She was pretty and shapely and lively, and having her sitting practically in his lap had done nothing to stifle his appreciation. Taking the cabriolet had been an idea of genius, and not only because of the intimate seating arrangement.
He’d noticed the silvery gleam of excitement in her eyes and the wash of pink over her cheekbones when they came out of deGriffith House—and she’d been gazing at the vehicle, not him, at the time. She was a whipster, a good one, from what he’d been able to make out through the fog of drink and blind terror that morning in Putney Heath. Being a whipster, she’d regarded his vehicle with a longing even she couldn’t hide.
She took up the dainty watch dangling at her waist and looked at it while he considered the white straw hat he wanted to take off. He remembered the way she’d looked, bareheaded, at the inn. He imagined taking out the pins and watching her hair fall down about her bare shoulders. And her bare back.
Patience. He could be patient. He fished, didn’t he? This was something like fishing, wasn’t it?
“We’ve arrived in good time,” she said. “As I wrote, the first hour will be devoted to discussion. I shan’t need you until three o’clock. In the meantime, I’m sure you can find something to do.”
“I’m not coming to the meeting?”
“You are not required until the practical demonstration. As I wrote to you, the first part is boring. But there’s plenty to do on the grounds. A pigeon shooting area and a carousel ring, where the gentlemen cut off imaginary enemies’ heads, I believe. Cricket. Golf. Quoits.”
“Yes, I know,” he said. “I’ve been here before. But I’m interested in your club.”
She treated him to the stony stare. “You know that’s nonsense. I realize that the Stadium is not the most exciting place. No acrobatic females and nothing exploding or likely to and the only hazard hereabouts is the falling-off-one’s-horse kind or getting an arrow in the neck or—”
“Drowning,” he said. “There’s a swimming school. They put you in a harness and drag you up and down the shallow little lake they’ve built.”
She turned her gaze heavenwards. “Do you know, I’m having a happy daydream in which I drag you up and down a lake. A deep one. Filled with crocodiles. And sharks.”
“Don’t think sharks live in—”
“I see.” Her stony gaze came back to him. “You’re going to make a tick of yourself.”
“You’ve aroused my curiosity,” he said. “What does Keeffe do during the so-called boring part? Pigeon shoot? Quoits?”
“He helps us with tactics. Advises.”
“I can do that,” Ashmont said. “Tactics. You know. The pranks. That sort of thing wants planning and preparation and how to get in and out of difficulties without getting attacked by screaming women or angry townspeople.”
She studied her umbrella, her expression speculative.
“Meant to ask about that,” he said. “Sun’s shining. Nothing in the air or sky promising rain. What’s the umbrella for?”
“It’s . . . an accessory,” she said.
“To a crime?”
“It could be. Any minute now.”
He smiled his second most winning smile.
It wasn’t the smile, even though that particular curve of his mouth, which made his eyes crinkle at the corners and seemed to deepen the blue, set off palpitations in Cassandra’s bosom and tempted her to smile back.