Ten Things I Hate About the Duke - Loretta Chase Page 0,68
a child. No pretend sophistication. No silly airs. Not that she needed to do anything but be beautiful.
He was beginning to understand why Miss Pomfret loved her so much. The girl wasn’t remotely to his taste, but she seemed to be truly sweet-natured, and he could only wish Morris good fortune. Given the competition, he’d need it.
Next in tonight’s entertainment was The Mummy, a farce Ashmont had seen twice before. Miss Pomfret would laugh, and heartily, and he was looking forward to that.
At present, though, the interval was starting, during which he needed to deal with Owsley.
In the normal course of events, Ashmont would simply break his face.
Politics or no—and clearly, some politics was involved—the fellow had eyed Miss Pomfret in a manner any man would recognize, and which immediately roused the inner demon.
But violence wouldn’t win Ashmont any points, with father or daughter.
Fighting, which he did all the time, wouldn’t earn respect. He shoved the inner demon back into the darkness.
Respect. Esteem. The things that were important to her. Those sorts of things needed strategy. He could do that. It took strategy to carry out a successful prank, and he’d had years of practice.
His present task was to find Mr. Tight-Arse Oh-So-Holy in the mob of males crowding the saloon. The man needed to learn some basic facts of life. First item: no trying to steal another fellow’s girl. Not funny anymore.
Second item: Even Ashmont understood that, if passed, the Sabbath bill would undermine the Andromeda Society’s projects. Ordinary people needed transportation and food seven days a week. How hard was that to understand?
As so often happened, a number of theatergoers had arrived late, swelling the crowd in the saloon. The company had grown more inebriated as well. Not the Duke of Ashmont.
Though his box held a small table of refreshments, he hadn’t taken more than one glass of wine. He couldn’t afford to dull his mind or any urges lower down, for that matter. Not with drink. He needed his wits about him.
Sobriety wasn’t the easiest way to get through the evening when one couldn’t put hands, lips, and/or tongue anywhere on Miss Pomfret, in spite of gross and intolerable temptation. Those bows, those infernal bows quivering against her skin like little blue fingers beckoning, Come closer. Have a touch, a taste. Still, he’d borne it through the whole second act, when the theater—or at least his box—had turned into a hothouse filled with the fragrance of rosemary and lavender and woman-scent.
He would continue to bear it. No choice. Too much at stake.
At present the bows fluttered a few feet away. Miss Pomfret stood with Mrs. Roake and another lady. They were talking behind their fans and not looking in his direction. With any luck, in this crowd they wouldn’t notice what he was up to.
After a few more frustrating minutes’ search, he finally spotted his prey, not far from the fireplace at the end of the saloon. Mr. Tight-Arse Oh-So-Holy was holding forth to a small group. Outraged about the play, probably. Didn’t approve of pirates, depraved fellows who robbed and plundered and pillaged and perpetrated their foul deeds even on a Sunday.
Ashmont could imagine the conversation. Smiling with anticipation, he started that way.
He hadn’t taken five steps before a man fell against him. He was about to shove the fellow out of the way when he realized this wasn’t one lone, clumsy drunk. A disturbance was in process in the crowd surging about Miss Flower.
Two young men pushed each other, jockeying for position, it looked like. They were not much older than the girl, and still wet behind the ears. This, combined with their having taken more drink than their young heads could withstand, meant they were working up to a fight, and blundering into others in the process.
“Puppies,” the man who’d fallen against him muttered.
Ashmont made his way to the rivals without much trouble. Crowds tended to part for him. He didn’t realize that the inner demon had crept to the cave entrance. He didn’t realize he was smiling the Death Smile. Others did, though, and got out of his way.
He grasped the nearest quarreler’s arm and said, “That’s enough. You’re alarming the ladies. Take it outside.”
“Take your hands off me,” the boy said.
“Mind your own business,” his rival said.
The space about them instantly began to quiet, and more than a few theatergoers stepped back a pace or two.
The demon braced to spring. Ashmont’s hands tensed, ready to punch first and ask questions later. He