The Way to a Duke's Heart: The Truth About the Duke by Caroline Linden Read Free Book Online Page B

moment she simply looked at it, before a slow awe dawned across her face. “Now that you ask, perhaps I am just a shade unwell. It is too kind of you to trouble yourself.” Gingerly she placed her hand on his arm.
    “It is no trouble at all,” he replied. Charlie had spent ages sitting with his aunt, the Countess of Dowling, and her friends, and he knew just how to appeal to older ladies.
    “Is everything all right, my lord?” Mr. Lucas appeared beside him, his oily, fawning expression in place.
    “No, indeed not,” said Charlie as his unwitting captive started to nod her head. “This lady is feeling unwell. Allow me to escort you to a table in the tearoom, Mrs. . . . ?”
    “B-B-Bates,” she stammered. “Eugenie Bates, my lord.” She bobbed a sort of curtsy, looking every bit as unsteady as he had declared her to be. And no wonder; he wasn’t giving her a chance to demur, holding her hand lightly but firmly on his arm.
    “How delightful to make your acquaintance,” he replied. “I am Gresham. Bring tea at once, and something to eat,” he directed Mr. Lucas, urging Mrs. Bates toward the tearoom. “And some sherry, just in case.”
    “Oh,” squeaked the lady, pinker than ever. “My lord, you are too, too kind!”
    “Any gentleman would do the same for a lady,” he assured her. “But here—I am presuming! Do you require your maid? Shall I send someone after her, or escort you to your room to rest?”
    They had reached the table. A waiter whisked up to them with a tray of delicate sandwiches, no doubt intended for someone else but diverted at Charlie’s imperious demand. Mrs. Bates cast a dazed look over the table—the best in the room—and sighing in longing. Charlie eased out a chair. “Be seated, madam,” he said gently. “Just for a moment, until you recover.”
    As expected, no older lady of strained means could resist that invitation. She wet her lips, then fell into his trap, sinking down in the chair he held. Hiding his satisfaction under a concerned mien, Charlie seated himself opposite her. “Please, Mrs. Bates, eat something. I cannot rest easy until you do. Ah, Mr. Lucas,” he said, turning to find the hotelier leaping forward. “You have the sherry?”
    “Oh, sir, I’m sure I don’t need that . . .” Her protest died away as Mr. Lucas presented a pair of glasses and a bottle of fine, pale sherry. The expression on her face argued very much against her words.
    “Just a drop.” Charlie leaned forward and poured a small glass, giving her a sly wink as he placed it in front of her. “To allay my fears.”
    “Well . . .” She smiled, blushing again, and took a tiny sip.
    It was child’s play from there. Under the influence of the sherry, fresh tea, and a plate of pastries in addition to the sandwiches, Charlie learned all he wanted to know from Eugenie Bates. She was in town with her dear, late cousin’s daughter, a widow named Mrs. Neville. They were from Wiltshire, where they lived with Mrs. Neville’s brother, Viscount Marchmont, at the very lovely family estate called Rushwood. The siblings’ widowed sister, Lady Woodall, was soon to take up residence in London, and she had charged Mrs. Bates with discovering the latest in fashions. Charlie equably answered all her hesitant questions, divining that Lady Woodall’s young son, Thomas, would be the prime beneficiary of his sartorial wisdom. Mrs. Bates was not sorry she wouldn’t be moving permanently to London herself, as the city seemed too intimidating and taxing, although she did so look forward to visiting her dear relations there and seeing the sights.
    Between her words, Charlie read more detail: she was a poor relation, shuttled from home to home as convenient for her hosts. She considered herself utterly beneath his notice, and his continued attentions acted as the most efficient lubricant on her reserve. The sherry, no doubt, helped as well.
    Slowly he began to steer the conversation toward his object. A