Ten Things I Hate About the Duke - Loretta Chase Page 0,82

were all new to her. While she was engrossed in, say, “The Exterior of St. Peter’s at Rome,” Ashmont could hover near Miss Pomfret and inhale an alluring mix of herbs and skin scent. With no breeze to disperse it in the viewing room, the scent swam in his head and made him dizzy.

More than once, he realized his face was dipping within an inch of her neck.

She didn’t whack him with her catalogue, as she ought to do.

But she didn’t mind a bit of naughtiness. She wasn’t a perfectly proper lady. He was beginning to understand the whys and wherefores of this somewhat better, thanks to his reading—though he often had to read passages two and three times over. The concepts were not easy to digest. Sometimes it was like reading a foreign language. But he persevered, and light had begun to dawn.

Thanks to his current studies, and the fact that he wasn’t completely brainless, he knew better than to let his mouth touch her skin.

He was going to behave properly if it killed him. Which it probably would. But no matter. He had a challenge to meet.

He crushed his frustration and made himself step away.

People came and went. Not a great many. The afternoon’s heat had sent much of upper-class London to spas and parks and yachts. Those who did come to the Cosmorama tended to move on quickly to the refreshments area.

“Bored?” Miss Pomfret said.

“On the contrary,” he said. “Too exciting, the combination.” He nodded toward the little window. “Eruption of Vesuvius and you.”

“‘Mount Vesuvius,’” came Miss Flower’s voice, in an odd accent. “‘During the last Eruption; Fire and Smoke is seen in full Motion.’” She rolled the r’s and added extra vowels to the ends of the words. Ee-rroop-tee-oh-nee. Fire-ah. Moe-tee-oh-nee.

Miss Pomfret smiled. “That’s her extremely Italian accent.”

“Now you,” said Miss Flower.

Miss Pomfret looked down at the catalogue in her hand. In an exaggerated Greek accent she read, “‘The City of Athens In which is seen the Temples of Theseus, Adrian; the Acropolis; the Beautiful surrounding Country of the Peloponnesus, et cetera.’”

Lady Charles, across the room, chuckled.

“My turn again,” said Miss Flower. She beamed at Morris, who staggered under the force of her smile.

“‘La Mer de Glace, or, the Glaciers in Savoy,’” the girl announced, in an overdone French accent, pronouncing the r’s as though she had a violent head cold. “‘Zee Immense Masses of Ice are seemingly r-r-rolling from the Stupendous Mountains.’” She made a series of mincing sideways steps, pretending to roll by the little window.

The men, who’d stood slack-jawed for a time, broke into whoops.

Then, naturally, they had to join in. They did dumbshows. Adding theatrics, they rescued victims from glaciers and ran from molten lava. The quartet took turns reading the descriptions, mimicking the Duke of Gloucester, the King, Lord Brougham, Lady Jersey, the Princess Lieven, and others. The Pomfret sisters were first-rate mimics.

Their show attracted an audience, with people drifting in from other parts of the building to guess who was being impersonated and try to interpret the dumbshows.

“This is a good time to leave,” Lady Charles said. “Before we’re asked to do so.”

“Shall we try the Colosseum next?” Ashmont said when they’d reached the pavement. “Shall we see if the ladies can get us pitched out of that one?”

“Not likely,” Miss Pomfret said. She moved to walk beside him and lowered her voice. “I’m amazed my aunt let it go as far as she did. Young ladies are not supposed to make spectacles of themselves. We’re not to be observed having fun in public.”

He’d never thought about that, until very recently. He’d always thought of respectable young women as boring. He was only beginning to realize they weren’t given much choice.

“It was delightful,” he said. “Your sister—rather more to her than meets the eye.”

“As I believe Mr. Morris appreciates.”

“The same applies to you,” he said. “Your Princess Lieven was perfect.”

“You haven’t heard my Duchess of Kent yet.”

He didn’t get to hear it that day. At the Colosseum they met up with a party of Fitzclarences—the King’s illegitimate offspring—and some legitimate minor royals, all of whom fawned over Lady Charles and Miss Flower.

“So much for getting tossed out,” Ashmont said to Miss Pomfret in an undertone. “Got to be on best behavior now. No antics.”

“You cannot be intimidated by royals,” she said. “They were never exempt from your pranks, as I recall.”

“That was before,” Ashmont said. “I’m in bad odor with the King. Wants to hang me by the yardarm. I’ve