Page 22 of Who Wants to Marry a Duke
“If I finished it.” His friend pulled away. “Unlike yours,mymuse went on holiday, fell off the ship, and drowned. I haven’t gone beyond chapter five.” Juncker tapped his head. “I’m dry as dust up here, cobwebs everywhere.”
“I know the feeling well,” Thorn said. “Just keep writing. It will come.”
“Sounds like you need to take your own advice,” Juncker muttered. “You’ve been working on that ending for months now.”
“True.” He’d been in the doldrums. Until tonight, that is. Something about sparring with Olivia had roused more than just his desire. It made him itch to have a pen in hand, if only to skewer a character or two with his barbs. “I tell you what. How about I walk you out, and you can visit that tavern? It will cheer you up. Perhaps it will even sweep out those cobwebs.”
“Perhaps,” Juncker said. “You’re not joining me, I suppose.”
“Not tonight.”
Thorn had a few hours yet before he must show up at Grey’s. And he meant to spend them productively. He might actually finish the play while he was traveling, after all.
Chapter Four
It had taken Olivia half the night, but she’d finally managed to get her panic under control in time for their departure the next morning. So what if His Grace, the dratted Duke of Thornstock, was riding with them? It sounded as if the coach trip was the only time she’d have to endure his . . . his pompous smiles and knowing smirks.
And his flirting. His clever, annoying flirting that made her stomach flip over, and her blood heat. The man should bottle that charm of his and sell it. She would buy a bottle just to analyze the ingredients.
But apparently she wouldn’t have to worry about him today. The moment he entered the carriage and settled into the seat next to his brother, he laid his head back against the squabs and promptly fell asleep.
Olivia tried not to watch him obsessively, but that was difficult. She’d never seen a man who looked more blissful—or attractive—in repose.
Particularly the differing parts of his facial hair. Unlike her father, who always looked overgroomed, and her uncle, who always looked undergroomed, Thorn looked perfect. His side whiskers weren’t bushy, his eyebrows were clipped but not overly so, and his hair lacked pomade. She hated pomade—it just seemed . . . greasy.
And heavens, but he had long lashes, like little, dark brown half-moons against his lightly tanned skin. Clearly he spent time outdoors, although not as much as his elder brother, who had more deeply tanned skin. She would have to ask Beatrice about it later.
Would that be rude? She wasn’t sure. She could never keep the rules of society straight. Especially the ones that didn’t make sense.
When after a short while, Thorn started to snore, Greycourt chuckled. “It never ceases to amaze me how Thorn can sleep anywhere at any time. I once saw him dozing in the midst of a heated debate in the House of Lords. The rest of us were riveted; Thorn would have fallen off the bench if I hadn’t poked him awake.”
Without even opening his eyes, Thorn muttered, “That’s a despicable lie. I have never in my life fallen off a bench, poking or no poking.”
Beatrice and Olivia burst into laughter.
“Go back to sleep,” Beatrice said soothingly. “We promise to be quiet.”
“I promise no such thing,” Grey said. “It’s notmyfault he decided to come along at the last minute. He probably spent last night in the stews.”
Thorn opened one eye. “I spent last night settling some financial affairs, I’ll have you know. And if you hadn’t insisted on leaving at dawn, I’d be far more chipper.” He opened the other eye, straightened on the seat, and finger-combed his hair, which now miraculously looked as if he’d just left his barber.
His clothing wasn’t even rumpled! His white cravat was still crisply tied, his blue morning coat lay properly, and his tight pantaloons accentuated his muscular thighs. No doubt whoever coined the term “sartorial splendor” had done so after meeting the Duke of Thornstock.
“And if you lot are planning to talk about me while I doze,” Thorn went on, “I believe I’ll stay awake.” He flashed her a most devastating smile. “I can’t have you telling Miss Norley lies about me.”
She fought the silly burst of pleasure that his smile gave her. She knew better than to trust that talent of his. “I already know about your reputation, Your Grace. So it’s not as if they could tell me anything that would surprise me.”
Greycourt slapped his brother’s knee. “Clearly, you’ve met your match in Miss Norley, old chap. She doesn’t fall for your sly attentions and droll wit.”
How she wished that were true. Thorn’s smile had faded, but his eyes still danced as he stared at her, and she desperately wished he would go back to sleep.
No such luck. He had fixed on her now, and like an entomologist with a beetle, he was determined to pin her to his board.
“I’m curious about these experiments of yours, Miss Norley,” he said in a too-casual voice that put her on her guard. “What makes you think you can succeed in finding arsenic in the remains of Grey’s father when other chemists think it impossible?”
“From what the duke has told me about his dealings with other chemists, they aren’t even willing to try.”
“Not even this Valentin Rose fellow?” Thorn asked.
