Ten Things I Hate About the Duke - Loretta Chase Page 0,50

duke’s agreeing. They knew Ashmont was game for anything, even a group of bluestocking do-gooders.

To her surprise, he did keep out of the way, as Keeffe would have done, until wanted. Though the first and greater part of the meeting proceeded precisely as she’d described, Ashmont didn’t fall asleep or prowl the room like a caged animal or climb out of a window.

Then, all other club business being dealt with, it came time for the ladies’ favorite: the practical demonstrations.

Here was the great test. Keeffe had been so sure that Ashmont, a famous brawler, was the right choice.

Cassandra wasn’t at all sure. Still, she’d assumed he was incapable of paying attention for more than a few minutes, had she not? Yet not only had he endured the bulk of the meeting without disrupting it, but he also seemed interested in their projects.

Seemed. The discussion must be leagues over his head, and so he’d taken his mind elsewhere for the duration. Behind a mask of apparent fascination he was undoubtedly contemplating scantily clad opera dancers or calculating odds for a coming horse race.

Not that what went on in his head was of any interest to her. He was welcome to think what he liked, she told herself. All she cared about was his doing what was required of him and not making her regret inviting him.

She glanced down at her notes. “The last time the Baron de Bérenger joined us, we touched on the topic of the umbrella as a weapon,” she said. “He pointed out that it was not as strong as a walking stick or as adaptable as a whip. He had no suggestions beyond employing it as a shield. He’d used it to prevent an assailant’s seeing him take out his pistol. He’d used it to keep a mad dog from biting him.”

She held up her unopened umbrella, crook uppermost. “This struck us as a limited view. Hence today’s topic: Is the umbrella a useful weapon for ladies? I suggest we begin with our fighting expert. Duke, what is your opinion?”

“What’s yours?” he said.

“Mine,” she said, taken aback.

She’d expected him to scoff at the umbrella, gently or otherwise. The Baron de Bérenger hadn’t scoffed, but he hadn’t been as enthusiastic and helpful as she’d hoped. She hadn’t warned Ashmont because she wanted an unpremeditated reaction. Later, they would see who was correct.

This wasn’t the only surprise. She tried to remember the last time a man had sought her opinion about anything remotely important. She tried to remember the last time a man had hesitated to offer his, whether he was asked or not.

Never. The answer was, never.

“Yes, yours,” he said. “You’re the one looking to defend herself from robbers and ruffians. There’s the thing, in your hand. What do you believe you can do with it?”

He straightened away from the window in one smooth motion. “Here I am, a desperado, lurking in the shadows. I spring out at you, without warning.”

Which he did. He was across the room in a flash, and coming at her.

She swung the umbrella up and at him. He grabbed it—or started to—but she moved in the nick of time and skipped backward. He started to stumble, but caught himself, and went for her again. Instinctively she slid her hand down the umbrella, farther from the handle, swung it up, and thrust it at his neck. With a laugh, he pivoted and danced back.

“Good, very good,” he said.

He was quick, as quick as Keeffe. But she knew the former jockey. She didn’t know Ashmont. She might be in trouble.

The duke charged at her.

She crouched and turned, bringing the umbrella point up under his neck, and he wheeled away—only to come back, in the blink of an eye, reaching for the umbrella.

She dodged and swung at his knees. He leapt out of the way. And came back again, fists out this time. He swung at her, and she dodged and bobbed the way Keeffe had taught her, and raised the umbrella to knock Ashmont’s fists away.

She was aware of an inner surge of heat and a feeling she recognized—the fight feeling, Keeffe called it. She was distantly aware of murmuring and the sound of chairs scraping over the floor. But she had no attention to spare for anything else, because the duke kept coming at her and if she didn’t fight with everything she had in her, she’d lose.

She lunged at him, aiming the tip of the umbrella at his groin. He spun away, and