Page 3 of Who Wants to Marry a Duke
Dowhatthere?Thorn nearly asked. Did the pretty wench really intend to whisk away his spots? Or did she have some other, more lascivious purpose in mind?
Nowthatwould be a result he’d embrace. The woman’s bodice was intriguingly low cut. He’d assumed from her gown’s color that she was a debutante, but he might have been lucky enough to have stumbled over some fast-living married woman.
One would think that if the young lady wasthat, she’d be curtsying and flirting like all the other females he’d encountered in society. Then again, London society was wilder than Berlin’s. He was still trying to figure out the rules.
As the stepson of the British ambassador to Prussia, Thorn had been expected to behave appropriately, which had generally meant not having any fun. But in the six months since he’d left home for England, he’d begun to loosen his strictures, encouraged by other young bucks he’d met. Still, this was the first time a youngladyhad tempted him to misbehave.
They’re the hunters, who want to hang your ducal coronet on their trophy wall. So keep an eye out.
He would. But he’d enjoy this intriguing encounter, too. There had been few enough of them since his return.
They traversed the balcony, then passed through a pair of French doors into a hallway not frequented by the rest of the guests. That roused his curiosity even further.
“Since you mean to save my hapless waistcoat, perhaps we should introduce ourselves,” he said. “I am—”
“I know who you are, sir,” she said curtly. “Everyonedoes. My good friend Lady Georgiana pointed you out to me from the moment we entered the ballroom.”
“Is that why you were eavesdropping on my conversation with my brother?”
“Hardly.” She shot him a mutinous glance. “I was there first, you know, trying to hide from my stepmother.”
“Why?”
She blew out a frustrated breath. “She keeps trying to match me up with gentlemen I don’t care for. I do not need or want a husband, but she refuses to believe me.”
He figured he’d better not say what he was thinking: that perhaps her stepmother was right. As sulky as his unnamed companion was, she also seemed an odd blend of innocent and seductive, the sort that could easily get into trouble with a gentleman. He didn’t yet know what to make of her.
“I see,” he said, for lack of anything better to say. “But I still don’t know your name.”
“Oh! Right.” She shot him a faint smile. “I tend to forget such niceties.”
“I noticed.”
Her smile vanished. “Well, you don’t have to rub it in.”
He burst into laughter. “I swear, you are the most bewildering female I have ever met. Aside from my twin sister, that is.” He bent close to whisper, “I’ll give you her name if that helps you to offer me yours. Hers is Gwyn. And yours is . . .”
“Miss Olivia Norley.”
She said it primly, which he found delightful, though he was a bit disappointed she wasn’t a lustful married woman.
Then she stopped outside an open door. “Anyway, here we are. Shall we go in?”
“If you wish, Miss Norley. This is your endeavor, after all.”
“Right.” She marched inside without a single swish in her step.
He followed, suppressing the urge to laugh at her purposeful manner. At least she had the good sense to situate them at the far end of the room, where they wouldn’t readily be seen by anyone passing by.
She set the glass of champagne on a table that also held a lit candelabra, then opened her reticule and pulled out a small box. It proved to contain quite a few vials.
“Good God, what is all that?” he asked.
“Smelling salts and cosmetics for Mama, since she has no room in her own reticule for them.” She opened a vial and tapped it until a white powder filled her palm. “This is bicarbonate of soda. It’s good for indigestion.”
“And removing wine stains, apparently.”
“Exactly.”
