Ten Things I Hate About the Duke - Loretta Chase Page 0,94
two hundred petticoats underneath.”
“Never mind what I’m wearing. I came—”
“Never mind? Never mind? You’re wearing silk trousers—and I can see—I can see practically everything.”
Her gaze slid over him, up and down, then up, to linger on his neckcloth. Which was when he realized he was in his shirt—his underwear. A more delicate fellow would have blushed. If he was blushing, it started well below his face, and his trousers covered the excitement. Somewhat.
“Ashmont, you’re becoming hysterical. It isn’t helpful, when I am working so hard to be calm.”
“I’m not hysterical. I’m a man, and you are wearing—”
“I wrote you a letter,” she said, chin jutting. “I should have sent it in the usual way, but, clearly, there wasn’t time for circumventing propriety. And so I came to deliver it in person, in case it wasn’t perfectly clear and you had any doubts of the meaning, but above all, to make sure you got it.”
From inside the waistcoat she withdrew a letter. “I wrote it before I saw yours, but that changes nothing.” She lifted her chin. “I will not take back a single word.”
She gave it to him.
He took it and tried to take in what was happening.
She was here. In his house. This was she, only a few feet away.
He stared at the letter. His heart still thumped furiously.
This letter had lain against her breast, only a thin layer of linen between it and skin, and it was still warm, and faintly imbued with her scent.
In fact, the air about him seemed filled with the scent and sight of her. In trousers. Silk trousers that brushed against the long, naked legs underneath.
Not now, he told himself.
He was so tired of not now. And the letter. That couldn’t be good news. He wanted to tear it to pieces.
Coward.
She’d risked life, limb, and reputation to deliver it personally.
He moved nearer to one of the gaslights and unfolded the letter.
deGriffith House
19th Instant
Dear Ashmont,
This day has brought a blow to my amour propre, with specific reference to my intellect. I might say, with the heroine of Miss Austen’s great book, Pride and Prejudice, “Till this moment I never knew myself.” Now that I do, we must thank Mr. Owsley, who was so charitable as to foist upon me a poem.
Ashmont looked up, chilled. “Owsley.”
“One must give credit where it is due,” she said. “Credit or infamy. That judgment I leave to you.”
She wore the majestically calm expression. Though Ashmont had learnt to read subtle changes in her regal face, these were impossible to discern in the shadows where she stood.
He returned to the letter.
The poem caused me to reflect upon what has occurred since you staggered into my life some weeks ago. I wrote a list of these occurrences, to make of tumultuous feelings a semblance of order. The items came to me at last in the mode of Shakespeare, no doubt because I found it easier to regard events of my recent life as though observed on a stage. Let us title the play “What Manner of Man Is This?” Or, better, perhaps, “What Manner of Woman Am I?”
Thou hast broken my groom.
Thou hast broken my carriage.
Thou hast driven my maid to flee.
Thou hast played unfairly on my and Keeffe’s feelings with thy gift of a precious painting.
Thou hast made an almighty stench in the Hanover Square Rooms by bringing within its sacred precincts a juvenile delinquent known as Jonesy, among other aliases, thereby causing me inappropriate mirth.
Thou hast taken will-melting advantage of my joy in the unprejudiced and helpful manner of thy fighting.
Thou hast included in thy plots and schemes my beloved sister, e’en unto bringing her a suitor of whom she had no need but who amuseth her.
Thou hast set Society agog with all thy mischievous doings, and disarmed me with laughter.
Thou hast kissed me in a wanton manner and taken liberties too numerous to mention. On several occasions.
Thou hast made me love thee, against logic and good sense.
These are ten sensible reasons to hate you. And yet . . . and yet . . . there is Number Ten, and all the trouble in a nutshell. I began loving you a long time ago for no sensible reason, and cannot seem to stop, or to care whether it is sensible or not.
Yours sincerely,
Cassandra Pomfret
Cassandra stood at the window, looking down into the garden while he read her letter.
He cleared his throat.
She looked toward him, her heart racing. “Questions? No? Then I had better be going.” She made a slight