Ten Things I Hate About the Duke - Loretta Chase Page 0,83
fences to mend.”
The Duchess of Ashmont had to be welcome at Court.
And so he set out to charm and disarm. It had to be done, and he knew how to do it.
The charming and disarming continued for a week, during which the ladies kept Ashmont busy.
They visited the Zoological Gardens of the Regent’s Park. They attended concerts and benefits. The opera. Yet more charity affairs.
On Saturday, Miss Pomfret’s friend Mrs. Roake took her to the monthly meeting, no ruffians being required this time.
On Sunday, they rode in Hyde Park again, and once again, somebody dismounted unintentionally. But somebody in the park was always falling off a horse or getting run away with, and this accident, for once, had nothing to do with Ashmont.
On Monday they attended yet another fancy fair, this time at Vauxhall, where, happily, the sisters hadn’t to manage a stall and, better yet, dancing had taken place in the evening. Miss Pomfret wore a pale orange dress, like the color of apricots, with a sinfully low neckline edged in lace. Designed to torture a fellow, in other words.
Her eyes sparkled in the lamplight. Her silk skirt brushed against his legs while they went round and round. He had her in his arms, and she fit there as though she’d been made for him.
She was made for him. He knew that. Persuading her was the challenge.
One of the challenges. Remaking his reputation was another. The Duchess of Ashmont had to be welcome everywhere. Her husband couldn’t be a pariah. He had to find a place for himself, and it had to be the kind of place a difficult, troublemaking duke fit into somehow.
He had any number of burnt bridges to rebuild, and possibly some new ones to construct.
Knowing she wasn’t happy with her current life didn’t make the work easier. He’d rather be there, at her side, all the time, trying to make it more agreeable for her, but he couldn’t.
He couldn’t accompany her on morning calls, for instance. The aunt or the mother took the sisters on the endless visits ladies were obliged to pay, and which Miss Pomfret told him she despised.
“We sit and talk of nothing,” she complained on Tuesday night. “Too many bored women with nothing to do except gossip or drone on about inconsequential matters. Even Hyacinth finds it tiresome. She says she lets it wash over her, like noise in the background. I wish I could do that, but what washes over me is a longing to create a disturbance.”
That night they occupied a box at the Haymarket Theater. She wore a dress the color of amethysts, again cut diabolically low, with lace floating about the neckline, like icing on a delicious cake. He fantasized trailing his tongue along the neckline. He made do with holding her hand, and now and again letting his arm or leg brush against hers.
On Wednesday night, he had no similar delicious torture to look forward to. The family were attending a dinner to which Ashmont had not been invited.
He couldn’t remember the last time he’d been invited to a private gathering of the bon ton. He knew why he’d been expunged from invitation lists.
Nobody trusted him. Hosts never knew what would happen. Explosions. Screaming. Invasions of domestic animals or circus performers.
Thus Wednesday evening found Ashmont free to torment himself by imagining other fellows at that dinner ogling Cassandra Pomfret’s décolletage and having the kinds of fantasies he did.
He was in his dressing room, reviewing papers his solicitor had left with him, when the note arrived.
deGriffith House
17th Instant
Dear Ashmont,
Mrs. Roake has notified me of a situation wanting my attention, which obliges me to pay a call to a part of London my parents would not approve of my visiting. Normally, Keeffe accompanies me on these missions. The neighborhood is merely poor, not necessarily dangerous. That is to say, it is no more dangerous than most other parts of London. However, since a woman cannot travel alone without being subjected to masculine attentions she doesn’t want, and since making this clear to men takes time and effort I cannot spare, I require you to take Keeffe’s place.
From Mrs. Roake’s house, where I shall change into suitable attire, I shall take a hackney to Furnival’s Inn, Holborn. There you will meet me at ten o’clock in the morning. Dress as plainly as you can. The residents have reason to fear and dislike aristocrats in their midst.
Our task is not hazardous. It is the kind of simple errand I often