Page 21 of Falling Into Bed with a Duke
“Precisely.”
“They can ruin a good story,” a deep voice announced.
Minerva spun around to find Mr. Alcott standing against the wall, arms crossed over his chest, his dark blond hair a riot of curls that seemed to mark him as untamable. The only reason she knew he wasn’t Greyling was because the earl seldom left his wife’s side. She wondered how much he might have heard, how much of their conversation might have echoed up the hallway. His eyes, the shade of hot cocoa, dark and somber, gave little away. Lady Sarah might have thought Locksley was the mysterious one, but Minerva couldn’t help but believe that Mr. Alcott had secrets of his own.
“Well, we wouldn’t want to have that now, would we, Mr. Alcott?” she asked, fighting not to have quite so much sarcasm dripping from her voice.
A corner of his mouth lifted into a seductive smile that, if rumors were to be believed, had ladies surrendering to his every whim. “Please, call me Edward. And stories should be designed to entertain.”
“They should not be purported as the truth when they stray from the facts.”
“Did Ashebury really kill the lion?” Lady Sarah asked, with hero worship fairly lending a dreamy-like quality to her voice.
“He did.”
“With a knife?” Minerva asked, not bothering to disguise her disbelief.
“It had a wickedly long blade and was incredibly sharp.” He lifted a broad shoulder in a casual half shrug. “Although he might have been assisted by some of our guides, who jumped into the fray. But where is the excitement in a story such as that?”
“There is beauty in facts.”
“Miss Dodger is terribly practical,” Lady Sarah said in the same tone that one might use when referring to an eccentric aging aunt who was boring people to death at a dinner party.
“So it would seem,” Edward said. “But the question is: Did you enjoy the story?”
“I adored it,” Lady Sarah responded enthusiastically.
But his gaze remained focused on Minerva. “No embellishment, Miss Dodger. Only the truth or if you prefer: only the facts. Did it hold you enthralled?”
Blast him. She relished the truth too much not to admit, “I found it rather fascinating.”
“High praise indeed. I consider the night a success.” With a laziness to his stride, he walked off. Undoubtedly, she had somehow managed to insult him. Was it a fault to value honesty?
“Drat,” Lady Sarah murmured. “I should have asked him about Lord Locksley.”
“I’m sure you can catch up with him if you really want to know.”
“Wish me luck.” Then she was gone, leaving Minerva to wonder why luck was needed to receive an answer to a simple question.
Shaking her head in wonder at the girl’s youthful exuberance—dear God but she suddenly felt old—she glanced around the salon. In its center, a table was adorned with food, another sported an assortment of spirits. Footmen meandered around offering tiny bits of pastry or glasses of wine. Along the outer edges of the room were the photographs, displayed on easels. Ashebury’s work.
It called to her, enticed her to draw near. She approached the photograph of a crouched lion barely visible through the tall grasses, but his gaze was intense, that of a hunter. And she regretted with everything inside her that they’d killed such a proud beast.
ASHE surmised that the guests weren’t really interested in the photographs. Oh, they gave them a passing glance as they flirted, stuffed tiny pies into their mouth, or sipped fine wine. But they were here to have fun, to take delight in each other’s company, to flirt. All except her.
Miss Minerva Dodger.
She took her time studying each photograph as though she appreciated what he had created with shadow and light, as though she understood it, as though it spoke to her. Once he even saw her lift her hand as though she wanted to pet the creature that he had captured with his lens. Photography was more than a pastime for him; it was a passion. Yet so few appreciated it. Not that he did it for public accolades. However, for some reason, he’d wanted these images to be admired. Perhaps because they’d nearly cost him his life.
So when Grey’s wife had expressed a desire to host a small party so she could display them, he’d been only too happy to oblige her request. Except now he felt quite self-conscious and wished he’d merely lent her the photographs and avoided the tedious affair. Unlike Edward, he didn’t crave attention, abhorred it, actually. He would do anything to escape the ladies presently fluttering their fans and cooing to him that he was remarkably brave and incredibly strong. One lady had even managed to discreetly squeeze his upper arm, testing his muscles, her eyes slumberous with invitation. He could no doubt find a secluded place to take her so she could squeeze to her heart’s content any part of him that she wished—
Except now he was intrigued by Miss Dodger’s perusal of his work. She lingered, perhaps because she despised the thing. He shouldn’t intrude, shouldn’t worry over her opinion. She’d no doubt give it bluntly if he asked. That was the thing about her—she was always so blasted blunt. Not that they’d spoken more than half a dozen times, if that, but sugar was certainly not going to melt in her mouth. Which was no doubt the reason she had yet to secure a husband. Money certainly wasn’t a factor. Her father, a former gentlemen’s club owner, had showered her in it, but her propensity to speak her mind made her troublesome and hardly wifely material. Not that he was in need of a wife or even desired one. He enjoyed his freedom too much for that. Grey had completely lost his when he married Julia.
Yes, Ashe should simply make his excuses and leave, go to the Nightingale and see if he had better fortune tonight in obtaining the photograph he wanted. Instead—
“Excuse me, but I have a matter to attend to,” he told the three ladies vying for his attention. Before they could protest or distract him further, he slipped away from them and approached Miss Dodger, his shoes barely making a sound as he neared. Peering over her shoulder, he smiled. Ah, the chimpanzees. One of his favorites. He’d been quite pleased with the way it turned out. “Do you like it?” he asked, then wished he’d bitten off his tongue. He felt as though he were on display as much as the photographs.
She didn’t so much as turn her head when she said, “Quite. It’s rather profound. I’m not certain I’ve seen photographs that managed to capture so much.”
