Page 29 of Duke of Destruction
And then, she was hooked.
“Here you go, then, miss,” the barmaid said as she approached, a plate in one hand and a tankard in the other. The fare was simple—a roll of fresh bread, clearly made with coarse flour, a small piece of meat in sauce, and some roasted vegetables. Yet it all smelled so divine that Catherine was suddenly ravenous.
She accepted both items with a smile and dug in.
“Lady Catherine?”
She nearly choked to death on a bite of vegetable marrow.
Not just because someone was calling her name—her real name. That was bad enough, though she’d always known it was a risk. That was why she tried to indulge in this little rebellion of hers only when she really needed it. It was never destined to work forever.
But now it had all fallen down about her ears in the worst possible manner. Because she knew that voice all too well.
She glanced up and saw the Duke of Seaton wearing an absolutely gobsmacked expression.
“I’m afraid you must have mistaken me for someone else,” she said pointedly. “My name is Miss Felicia Pettigrew.”
The corner of his lip twitched, putting Catherine horribly in mind of the press of their mouths together, the way they’d hungered for one another as they’d chased their pleasure.
It was almost enough to put her off her lunch.
“My apologies, Miss Pettigrew,” he said sardonically. “If you will excuse me.”
And then he sat down at the tableright next to hers.
Oh, that awful man! The pub was practically empty—the place clearly catered to a working-class clientele, and it was late for luncheon but early for supper for anyone who worked for a living. Besides Catherine andthat duke, there was only one half-asleep older gentleman nursing a tankard over at the bar. There were nearly a dozen other tables he could have chosen.
“What can I get you, sir?” the barmaid asked, approaching him.
“I shall have the same as this fine lady,” he said too loudly while Catherine glared at him. “By the by, my name is Mr. Harrison Fitzburger.”
He was making fun of her fake name! Catherine felt irrationally annoyed by this, considering that she hadn’t come up with it herself.
She noted that her charm had proven more effective than the duke’s, since Catherine had put the barmaid at ease, while the woman was giving him an assessing look, like she was wondering if she would have to fetch her husband to throw him out in short order.
“Just so, sir,” she said. “Coming right up.”
“Do you think you’re funny?” Catherine demanded quietly as soon as the woman was out of earshot. “Go away.”
He paused, tapping his chin as if thinking very seriously about this.
“Idothink I’m funny,” he said at last. “And, no, I don’t think I shall go away. After all miss—Miss Pettigrew, was it?—it is hardly proper for a young lady such as yourself to be out and about without a single protector by your side.”
Catherine snorted at this, then frowned at herself. She couldn’t indulge herself, not now that the Duke of Seaton had ruined things for her—again.
Besides, he reallywasn’tfunny.
Still, she couldn’t resist returning his jab.
“I’m not sure that you would count as such a protectorMr. Fitzburger,” she retorted, putting as much emphasis on his—patently ridiculous—name as he had on her perfectly suitable one. “Seeing as we are total strangers.”
“Ah.” He laid his hand over his heart dramatically. “But tis the duty of any good Englishman to protect the honor of any fair maiden, is it not?” he asked.
He didn’t ‘protect your honor’ last night, her brain unhelpfully supplied.
“Do you think this a stage?” she asked instead. “Sir, this is apub.” She said it slowly, carefully, as if explaining something to a very small child. It was frankly a more condescending tone than the one that she used with her niece, Cornelia, and Cordy was not yet four months old.
“Most men would find the difference easy to spot,” she went on, saccharine sweet. “But, as you speak of duty, it is the duty of all of us to be kind to the less fortunate.”
