Ten Things I Hate About the Duke - Loretta Chase Page 0,78
spoilsport.”
She touched his arm. “He has a gift for raising one’s hackles. But nobody else was hurt. We averted anarchy.”
“We.” He glanced down at her hand.
She took it away, but slowly. “Yes, you and I, oddly enough. I can see the headlines tomorrow. ‘Duke of Ashmont Averts Anarchy, Aided by deGriffith’s Gorgon. Hell Freezes Over.’”
We. She’d made them a pair.
We. One short, beautiful word.
His mood lifted. “All the same, I wanted to break his nose.”
“But this wasn’t the time and place, and you didn’t. Another time, perhaps.” She gave him a quick smile. “I’ll help you.”
“Wouldn’t be sporting,” he said. “Two against one.”
“We’ll toss a coin for it,” she said.
“I could kiss you,” he said.
“I feel the same. You did well.”
She didn’t play games. A fellow knew where he stood, and at the moment, he seemed to be floating a foot or so above the ground.
He looked about him. The crowd was closing in on them again. “But not here, obviously. Why don’t I help you mount?”
A pause, then, “If you must.”
“Can’t promise where my hands will go,” he said. “Shocking experience I’ve had. Temporary imbalance of mind. Not to mention all the self-restraint. My not-better self wanted to stomp on his head, even when he was down.”
“I felt the same. But of course it would have been very bad ton.”
They returned to their horses, which some boys were holding. Though it was half a dozen boys to two horses, Ashmont divided coins among them before shooing them away.
“They can be a nuisance,” he said. “Best to keep the brats happy, though. They know me, you see, and word gets about. No matter where I go, I’m likely to find a boy—sometimes a girl—I can trust with my cattle. And in other ways.”
He bent and laced his hands together, and she stepped up and onto the horse, easy and graceful, in spite of the long skirt of her dress and its yards of material and all the supporting garments underneath. She did it so smoothly and quickly, he barely had time to let his hands stray over the fabric covering her legs.
Her long legs. Her beautifully shaped, strong, lithe body. Her velvety breasts. Her mouth. Her hands.
“I don’t know how much more of this I can bear,” he said. “When can we get married?”
She looked down at him. “I can’t marry you.”
“But you said you could kiss me.”
“A kiss,” she said. “Not a lifetime. Don’t press me. I’m in charity with you. For now.”
“Last night,” he said. “Only a kiss? Dammit, Cassandra—”
“A few days,” she said. “That’s all it’s been. You’ve disappointed me for years. I don’t trust you. Is that so hard to understand?”
She rode away.
Ashmont did not understand.
He stood for a moment, swore violently, and decided he’d had enough. He wasn’t cut out for this. Patience wasn’t in his nature.
He would go to the devil, that’s what he’d do. Go straight to the devil.
She’d kissed him as though it were the end of the world and theirs was the last kiss that would ever happen. That’s the way it had felt. Not like a game. In the next breath, practically, she pushed him away.
He would get drunk, that’s what he’d do. Then he’d go to Carlotta O’Neill’s place and enjoy some willing females. Then he’d go to Crockford’s and lose a thousand pounds at the hazard table. He would get very, very drunk, and somebody would throw him into a hackney and send him home, where the servants would put him to bed.
That’s what he would do.
What he always did . . .
Every damned time.
He blinked and looked about him—at the riders keeping a safe distance from him, at the audience at the railings, at the wide bridle path down which Miss Pomfret had gone. He watched her ride, tall and straight in the saddle. His gaze went from her bottom up her straight back and up over the veil to the top hat and above that to the sky. Above the border of trees, great swathes of blue stretched between fluffy white clouds.
He saw all these things while scene after scene flashed through his mind. Drunk on his wedding day. Too drunk to pursue his runaway bride. Drunk when he did pursue her. Drunk on the night he’d found out the truth about Ripley and Olympia. Drunk in Putney.
That was only recent weeks and that was only the drinking.
The years of wild behavior. The pranks. The fights. The brawls. The duels.