Page 11 of Must Love Dukes
“Oh, I don’t mean a bowl of vegetables, Your Grace. Or fruit. She incorporates pears for noses for instance. A pocket watch for an ear and the like. I saw one of her portraits. Utterly disturbing.”
“I see.” A smile pulled at his lips.
“I’ve never seen her dance, save once. She tripped and tore her skirt in the middle of a ball before sliding on her backside across the floor. The entire ballroom fell silent at the sight of her ankles.”
Hugh nodded “Horrifying.”
“And,” Lavinia leaned closer. “I watched as Miss Bell wandered to the refreshment table and dropped her fan into the punch bowl. She strolled away as if nothing had happened. What young lady who isn’t addled does such a thing?”
Miss Bell. Your reputation precedes you.
The urge to see her increased the longer Lavinia detailed her detriments, thinking only that Miss Bell had the most desirable pair of lips he’d ever seen. He’d studied them, unable to lookaway as she spoke about her art, while that prickling sensation had suffused his skin.
“I’ve heard,” Lavinia said in a low tone, forcing him to lean forward, “that Lord Allred has forbidden her to sketch over the duration of the entire house party so as to avoid embarrassment.” She inclined her head in the direction of the far corner of Savorton’s cavernous drawing room.
Hugh followed the direction of Lavinia’s gaze to a small group clustered beneath a painting of a landscape. Miss Bell was garbed in a gown of soft rose, her honey-colored hair, some of which he’d only glimpsed from beneath her bonnet earlier, pulled up into a cascade of ringlets. The slight mulish tilt to her chin was difficult to miss, as was the tense stance of her body.
Hugh drew in a slow breath, marveling at the way his pulse beat harder. He had gone thirty years, bedded of the most beautiful women in London without such a stirring, and now it was happening for a girl who preferred a dead Italian painter to a husband.
“Have you ever heard of an artist named Arcimboldo?” he asked Lavinia without looking away from Miss Bell. “Italian.”
“I don’t believe so, Your Grace. Should I be familiar?”
If Hugh said yes, Lavinia would immediately hunt down every book or scholar in England who could advise her on the painter so she could ingratiate herself further with him. He’d be presented with one of Arcimboldo’s horrible fruit paintings.
“Merely curious. He was known for odd portraits.”
Lord Todson swaggered across the room to Miss Bell and her parents, pausing here and there to linger over a bosom or pretty face. He was older, closer in age to Lord Allred, distinguished, with only the slightest hint of dissipation in his features. There wasn’t any doubt most women would find him appealing. Todson greeted Lord and Lady Allred, before turning his well-honed charm on Miss Bell.
She regarded the earl with what Hugh could only call polite horror.
Probably imagining his head as a rotting cabbage.
A smooth, practiced smile crossed Todson’s lips as he took Miss Bell’s fingers in his, all while eyeing Lady Coptic and her bosom to his left.
A small but distinct burst of possessiveness erupted inside Hugh.
Not for Lady Coptic, though she was known for displaying her spectacular bosom, but because Todson wastouchingMiss Bell. He didn’t care for it in the least. Which was somewhat ridiculous. And unsettling.
“You’re frowning Your Grace.” Lavinia plucked at his sleeve. “Have I offended you?”
“Not at all, my lady.” Hugh prided himself on his overtly polite and correct demeanor. Dukes did not go marching about punching aging rakes merely for the sin of taking the hand of a girl. “Would you like a refreshment, my lady? Lemonade, perhaps? Or ratafia.”
Lavina grinned. “I’m parched.”
He deftly steered her towards the refreshment table, finally acknowledging that his attendance at this house party had little to do with Savorton or the errand Hugh had promised to help his friend with, but with Miss Bell.
4
Lord Todson wasunappealing. Worse than Habersham. Or Gates.
Even Muriel, as sheltered as she’d been, knew the look of a rake, which Todson, though about her father’s age, still assumed himself to be. His bleary gaze had passed over her bosom, dismissed it—which frankly wasn’t surprising given it was as average as the rest of her—and was now pretending not to eye Lady Coptic. He smelled of pomade, brandy, and dissipation.
Rather hurtful to think that her parents would rather she wed Todson than not have a husband at all.
Todson laughed loudly at some jest of Father’s.
The incessant braying will drive me mad in a fortnight.
