The Art of Duke Hunting by Sophia Nash Read Free Book Online Page B

just as you said you would. One wonders how you accomplished it.”
    “Mr. King, I find myself here the same way as you—with my own two feet. And I thank you for your compliment. It is good to see you recovered from your fright.” She was cagey dodging the “Grand Inquisitor,” as Mr. King was known in the privacy of most aristocrats’ salons.
    King’s eyes darkened in the night shade of the silver birch nearby. Clearly, he did not like to be cast in the role of a coward. “I see neither you, my dear, nor His Grace is willing to be candid among friends. This typically speaks of curious goings-on, if anyone were to ask me.”
    Lady Shelby tittered, she of the very orange-colored hair, and one of the gentlemen cleared his throat again.
    “Mr. King, there is a fascinating hedge on the other side of this bridge. May I have the privilege of showing it to you?” Roman spoke with a certain tone. It was the bored voice he employed when something unpleasant had to be done.
    “Of course,” Mr. King said, his smile widening.
    Roman strode away while Mr. King waddled as fast as his overflowing girth would permit.
    And then Roman allowed himself the pleasure all of the ton would have killed to enjoy. He hoisted the man onto his tiptoes by wrenching his knotted neckcloth with one fist. “Now see here, King. Let us agree on this one point. It matters not how much I detest those who feed on other’s privacy, and how much you relish it. If I hear one breath of gossip regarding me attributable to you, I shall tell the world of your cowardly behavior last night. It is very simple, no?”
    “I don’t know what you’re talking about, Your Grace,” he gasped. “My intention was not to insult.”
    “Of course not. And by the by, you are not to say a word about Lady Derby either.”
    “I cannot imagine why I—”
    “I can,” Roman interrupted dryly and released the man. “Good night, sir.”
    He crossed back to the group of people who were not even trying to appear disinterested. He bowed to them with hauteur and turned on his heel without a word. Roman grasped Esme’s hand and placed it on his arm, nearly tugging her to walk back to the inn. “Why pray tell,” he ground out, determined to change the topic, “were you going to Vienna?”
    “I refuse to reply until you answer my request.”
    “And which request was that?” He had a bad feeling in the pit of his gut.
    “The one which you will stop drinking all spirits as a measure of your gratitude to me for saving your hide last night and for allowing you to escape parson’s mousetrap, Your Grace.”
    “Montagu, damn it.”
    “Do you always blaspheme in front of ladies?”
    “Do you always make unreasonable demands?”
    “It was not a demand. It was a request.”
    “A bloody absurd one.”
    “The best ones are, Montagu.”
    “What has this to do with last night?”
    “It has everything to do with it if you think about it. Did you not find yourself on a ship in the middle of a storm because of an obscene amount of spirits?”
    “I meant what has this to do with what happened between us?”
    She paused and looked into his eyes. “It is important to me.”
    He sighed and scratched the back of his neck again. “Fine. Whatever pleases you, March.”
    “Do I have your word, Montagu?”
    What in hell?
    “Between gentlemen, their word is law,” she reminded him.
    “This is not between gentlemen. This is between you and me. Two people who confided in each other on the eve of near death.”
    “So are you proposing that we remain confidants?” She smiled.
    He shook his head. He would never, ever, ever, understand the female mind. “It would seem there is little choice in the matter, March.”
    Roman realized later, much later, when he was alone in his chamber that if she wanted to be a confidant, why hadn’t she confided more about herself to him? What in hell was really so important to her in Vienna? Was there any reason to leave the epicenter of the