Tall, Duke, and Dangerous (Hazards of Dukes #2) - Megan Frampton Page 0,39

preferred.

Finan was waiting for him, his expression far from the smug one Nash expected. Instead, his friend’s face looked pained. He handed a note to Nash, who opened it and immediately scowled.

I am waiting.

It wasn’t signed, but of course it could only be from his grandmother. Apparently he was already late. For what, he didn’t know. Except that it would be unpleasant. He groaned and got himself not only shirted, but jacketed and cravated as well.

“Damn proper lady,” he muttered as he ran his fingers through his hair. He took one last look at himself, grimacing as he saw the nearly proper gentleman looking back at him.

He went downstairs to the salon she’d been taking tea in, flinging the door open and stepping inside.

“Good afternoon.” His grandmother sounded pleased, and he had a trickle of trepidation slide down his spine. His hellcloth felt even tighter.

It became a flood of trepidation when he saw who was in the salon with his grandmother: no fewer than three young ladies. The blonde from the other evening, and two more, all perched on his sofa, three in a row, as if for his inspection.

“I have invited these ladies to take tea with us,” his grandmother said. Definitely for his inspection. She narrowed her gaze at him. “Please, Duke, do sit down.” It wasn’t a request.

He took the chair on the side of the tea table, which meant that his grandmother was on the other side, and the three young ladies were facing him.

All of them looking at him. Just . . . looking.

“This is Lady Felicity Townshend, I believe you two have met before.” Lady Felicity’s expression was smug. Preening because they had met already?

“It is a pleasure to see you again, Your Grace. I did so enjoy our dance together.” She accompanied her words with a shift of her shoulders, a little wriggle that looked rehearsed.

“And this is Miss Victoria Statham, she is the daughter of Mr. James Statham of the Derbyshire Stathams.” As though that meant anything to him.

Miss Victoria was a slight brunette with enormous green eyes, making her look a bit like a sprite. He couldn’t marry a sprite, for God’s sake.

“Lady Beatrice Colm. Lady Beatrice is the granddaughter of a lady I met while making my own debut.”

Lady Beatrice looked anxious, her brown eyes darting around the room like she was tracking a housefly’s progress. She barely made eye contact with him during the introduction, immediately glancing around, her hands twisting into fists in her lap. Her lips were a thin line, her throat visibly moving as she swallowed.

Was he that terrifying?

Or was she that nervous?

He took a deep breath. He owed it to Lady Beatrice, at least, to try to be gentle during this unexpected visit. “I am pleased you could all come to tea.”

His voice was a flat monotone. If he were listening to himself, he would assume that he was most definitely not pleased.

Which would be true, but it also would not be kind.

He needed to make certain he was kind.

He glanced again at Lady Beatrice, who appeared entranced by the drapes.

“I find tea to be a most refreshing beverage.”

His grandmother made some sort of inarticulate noise. Proof, then, that they were actually related?

“Can I pour?” she asked.

Lady Felicity bounced in her seat, keeping her gaze fixed on Nash’s face. “I would very much like that. I believe, Your Grace, you are also fond of whiskey?”

Was this proper teatime conversation? Was he now supposed to reveal his opinions on all the beverages ranging from milk—nasty, thick beverage that he loathed—to whiskey—his daily reward for not punching anyone who didn’t deserve it?

He shrugged. He could do that. Perhaps this polite Society thing wouldn’t be too difficult, after all.

“My mother says that any alcohol is the devil’s poison,” Miss Statham announced.

Nash frowned as he considered her words. “So does that mean it will poison the devil, and is therefore a good thing? Or that the devil makes the poison and people drink it?”

He directed his question at Miss Statham, but the responses he got were from everyone. His grandmother inhaled sharply, Miss Felicity’s eyes went wide, and Lady Beatrice uttered an unexpected giggle.

At least she wasn’t terrified or nervous any longer.

Miss Statham didn’t say a word, but she stood up suddenly, stains of color high on her cheeks. She marched out of the room and slammed the door behind her.

The wood sprite had spirit, it seemed.

“One down, two to go,” he heard his grandmother murmur.

“If you will pardon