How the Marquess Was Won by Julie Anne Long Read Free Book Online

leaning into the question with mock earnestness.
    He floundered. “Yes—no! That is, you’re not plain.”
    Jules didn’t know whether this last was true or not, but out it had come. And certainly it was the wisest thing to say under the circumstances. Surely if she was a beauty he would have noticed ?
    “Oh, I know . My complexion is very fine. So I’ve been told. Often enough to believe it.” She was wickedly amused.
    Jules was shocked to realize that this chit was toying with him.
    He took a moment to compose himself. He couldn’t recall the last time he’d needed to compose himself. There was no question that Waterburn’s wager had inserted itself in his awareness like a burr. He found Waterburn altogether a damned burr.
    He’d thought she was quick, which he approved of. She didn’t lack wit. He’d sensed a suppressed energy about her since he’d seen her in Postlethewaite’s, but he’d thought then it had been contained passion for a bonnet. She’d been staring at one as though it were an oracle.
    He didn’t want to kiss her.
    Did he?
    But now this girl thought he was actually feckless. Which was ironic, given that fecklessness was a luxury he’d never known. And bloody hell, but now he was assessing her complexion and trying to prevent her from noticing that he was doing exactly that.
    And in the light filtered in through the high windows . . . well, comparisons to pearls would not be inaccurate. She radiated health and luster and . . . life. She did rather glow.
    “It isn’t unappealing ,” he allowed.
    “Oh, now. You needn’t gush.”
    He felt the smile begin and then slowly take hold; he couldn’t help himself.
    “Should I apologize for my species for trotting out the same compliment again and again? Isn’t it better than having none at all?”
    “When you hear the same one again and again, it’s difficult not to come to the conclusion that it’s the only thing of note about one’s person.”
    She still sounded amused. As if it was all the same to her. He didn’t think he’d ever encountered a more self-possessed female. Then again, doubtless she’d honed her confidence on the characters of unruly young ladies. What challenge would a marquess pose in the face of that?
    “Have pity on us. We cannot all of us be poets. We think it’s what women expect to hear, and so we do our duty. Consider the possibility that your admirers are so dumbstruck by the wonder that is your complexion they can see nothing else.”
    “Oh, excellent theory! I shall give it due consideration.”
    “Your eyes have gone unattended in compliments?”
    “Are you about to compliment my eyes, Lord Dryden?”
    “I wouldn’t dare. You’d find my compliment wanting and I shall feel a fool.”
    She smiled at him, thoroughly delighted. Perhaps even a little surprised.
    He found himself smiling in return, absurdly gratified to have pleased her.
    A moment ticked by during which only smiling took place, and which the air itself seemed peculiarly effervescent, and breathing it made him feel weightless.
    Why hadn’t anyone complimented her smile? It was very good. Her eyes—whatever color they may be, and he still wasn’t certain whether they were green or gray—lit with it as surely as though they were lamps, and dimples appeared at the corners, reminding him she was a schoolteacher, as they seemed as charming and necessary to her smile as punctuation to a sentence or bookends to a row of . . . books.
    Hardly poetic, but at least it was a metaphor.
    “Perhaps the fault is all mine.” She tapped a finger to her chin thoughtfully. “Or perhaps it’s just that I’ve met no men who’ve imaginations worth firing.”
    It sounded like a flirtation gauntlet thrown down.
    “That could very well be,” he allowed, very cautiously.
    What sort of men was a schoolteacher likely to meet? Farmer? Vicars? Other teachers? Soldiers? Was she daring him to charm her?
    He was a marquess .
    A marquess who,