How To Distract a Duchess by Mia Marlowe Read Free Book Online Page A

you, Mr. Doverspike, I don’t appreciate you making sport of the afflicted.”
    “That was never my intention, I assure you,” he said.
    “Then what is your intention?” she demanded, her cheeks dashed with crimson. “Asking unnecessary questions, accosting an old man in his garden—just what is your game? Are you gathering a few more tidbits for those gossipmongers you write for? If you make my father a laughingstock, I promise I’ll instruct my solicitor to sue you and your miserable employers for every pot of ink they possess.”  
    “What?”
    “You may drop the pretense, Mr. Doverspike. I know Mr. Phelps did not send you to me. The real model came later yesterday, too far gone with drink to be of any use.” She narrowed her eyes at him, daring him to deny his subterfuge. “All those questions about my father and our trustee. You aren’t employed by any counting house. You write for The Tattler , don’t you?”
    Trevelyn smirked in surprise. He’d been on the receiving end of The Tattler’s sharp lash more than once. He had no more use for that yellow rag than she obviously did.
    “I promise you faithfully that I do not write for The Tattler or any of its competitors. I abhor them.”
    “Careful, Mr. Doverspike,” she said in a voice laced with strychnine. “Your Wiltshire accent is slipping. Now, who are you and why are you here?”
    Funny how being stark naked made it harder to hide behind an assumed persona. Trev’s mind churned furiously for a plausible ruse.
    “I . . . oh, hang it all, you may as well know that I am responsible for your real model’s morning debauch. I chanced to meet him over a pint, and he told me about this job. All he had to do was stand around in the altogether, he said.” Trevelyn shrugged. “It sounded a much easier way to turn a coin than my usual employment so I helped him into a rum pot and took his place.”
    “And your accent?”
    “I thought you probably used country bumpkins for this post, so it made sense to sound like one.” He cocked his head at her. “But truth to tell, this job is not so easy as it looks.”
    The sincerity in his tone seemed to soften her anger.
    “No, I suppose it isn’t,” she conceded. “But why were you talking with my father?”
    “Does one need a reason to strike up a conversation with a pleasant old man?” A dollop of flattery never hurt, and Trev knew he could be charming when the occasion called for it. “Truly, I didn’t see the harm in humoring him with a bit of nonsense. It will not happen again.”
    She sniffed, apparently mollified by his answers. “Indeed, it will not. I encourage my models to speak their minds with me, but I would appreciate it if you did not seek out my father again. From now on, kindly present yourself to Cuthbert instead of skulking around in the garden. There are those who would consider your actions this morning on the order of trespass.” She sent him a frosty glare. “That is how I will consider them if they are repeated.”
    “Yesterday you chided me for being late. Today, I was early and you’re still unhappy.” Trev decided a good offense would stand him in better stead than a good defense and Her Grace had just encouraged him to speak his mind. “Is there anyone who can please you?”
    It occurred to him that he had yet to see a smile of real pleasure on her lips. He’d like to be the man to coax one there.
    But for now, he had to remember his place. He was Thomas Doverspike, a common fellow who’d worked his way into her presence through guile. And she was a duchess, after all. As Trevelyn Deveridge, he might seek to charm her, but Thomas Doverspike needed a job. And he’d just been insolent to his employer.
    “I ask your pardon, Your Grace. I misspoke.” He ducked his head deferentially. She regarded him for a few moments, her brows knitted together as if she were trying to weigh him for veracity.
    “No, you didn’t. You said exactly what you thought,” she finally