Page 2 of Who Wants to Marry a Duke
He heard a snort behind him, but when he looked back, he saw nothing. He must have imagined it.
Grey frowned. “From what I’ve heard, Lady Georgiana is neither. Supposedly, her mother eclipses her in that respect as well as in looks.”
“That’s a damned shame. For you, anyway. Would you marry her for her connections in spite of it all?”
“Only if the gossip is wrong about her and she proves to be, as you put it, clever and amusing. And pretty.” He smiled at Thorn. “I want everything in a wife.”
And he’d probably get it, too, once he decided to settle down. Grey had the sort of wavy black hair that always looked as if he’d just left some woman’s bed, and his blue-green eyes and chiseled features ensured that he could get back there anytime he pleased. Unfortunately for the ladies, he was very particular.
“That’s probably why you haven’t yet married. You set the bar ridiculously high.” Thorn sipped some of the mysterious liquor in his glass and grimaced.
“How can you stand to drink that?” Grey said.
“I keep trying to figure out what it is. It tastes like port, but it’s too thin for that and far sweeter. Nor would I expect port to be served at a ball for ladies making their debuts.”
“And yet it is. What you’re drinking is negus, a punch the English have concocted out of watered-down port and whatever spices are lying about. Or so I’ve surmised through years of trying to drink it without making a face.”
“It’s vile.” Thorn looked around for one of those footmen who took the glasses away. Instead, he spotted the Devonshires heading in their direction. “And I believe it’s time to make myself scarce. Our hosts are approaching.”
Grey nodded. “I see them. I know Devonshire himself well enough to speak to, but I’ve never met the duchess or her daughter. The duchess is rumored to be a fascinating woman. Are you sure you don’t wish to stay around?”
“Another time, perhaps,” Thorn muttered.
At twenty-one, he was hardly ready for marriage. Right now he could barely make his way through the myriad rules in London society and manage the properties of his dukedom, much less drag a woman along with him. Nor was he yet comfortable enough with the brother he hadn’t seen in years to admit that.
The Devonshires now paused to speak to another acquaintance, so he circled the pillar in search of a balcony where he could hide out. Then he collided with another guest and spilled negus on the front of his waistcoat.
He stared down at the prominent red spots. “Damn! Why don’t you watch where you’re going?”
“Why don’tyou? I was just standing here minding my own business.”
His head snapped up to find a fetching female with fire in her eyes staring him down. Like many of the young ladies, she wore white silk, but the curious embroidery of gold thread along her bodice drew his gaze to her full breasts. And he did like a buxom woman.
Instantly he changed his manner. “Forgive me. I didn’t mean to offend. I simply wasn’t paying attention to where I was going.”
“Clearly, Your Grace. You were too busy trying to escape poor Lady Georgiana, who is the nicest person one could ever meet.”
He grimaced. “I take it you overheard my conversation with my brother.” That explained why his effusive apology hadn’t softened her. And he refused to apologize for not wishing to meet Lady Georgiana. Why should he? This chit shouldn’t have been eavesdropping on a private conversation.
Drawing out his handkerchief, he began to dab at the spots on his waistcoat.
She shook her head, sending the fringe of blond curls around her face bouncing. “You’ll make it worse trying to get it out like that. If you come with me, I can clean it.”
“Really? How in God’s name do you mean to dothat?”
“With champagne and bicarbonate of soda,” she said, as if that made all the sense in the world.
It piqued his curiosity. “What is bicarbonate of soda, and where the devil do you intend to get some?”
“I carry it in my reticule, of course.”
Of course?“Because that’s what all young ladies carry in their reticules, I suppose.”
“Do they? I thought I was the only one.” Before he could even respond, she added, “But if we don’t act quickly, those spots will stain your waistcoat for good.”
He could afford to replace his waistcoat ten times over, but he hadn’t even had a chance to dance, so her offer to wipe away the spots had merit. Besides, he wanted to see what magic she meant to conjure up with her odd ingredients—and if she really did have bicarbonate of soda in her reticule. “Then by all means, lead the way.”
With a nod, she took his glass of negus and replaced it with a glass of champagne sitting abandoned on a nearby tray. Then she guided him out onto a balcony. “The hall to the Devonshire library isn’t too far. We can do it there.”
