What I Did For a Duke by Julie Anne Long Read Free Book Online Page B

crunched underfoot.
    “I love this part of England. I’ve an estate but a few hours from here.”
    That he hadn’t seen in several months because . . . well, why would he? He’d a larger one even closer; he preferred his St. James Square town house. Rosemont held memories that gave him no comfort.
    “Rosemont,” she said softly.
    Which surprised him.
    He considered whether he liked her voice. It was low, a soft alto; very refined. But the word had been all but uninflected. He’d learned over the years that one can quickly ascertain whether someone possessed intelligence from a mere syllable or two. It was something about the confidence with which they spoke.
    He was instantly certain she was not a simpleton.
    “Do you know it, Miss Eversea? Rosemont?”
    “Yes.”
    He looked around. Naught but trees and a long drive; beyond them were soft rolling hills. This was Sussex, all right. He waited.
    And waited.
    “This is the place in the conversation where one might forgive me for thinking you’d expound a bit.”
    It was admirably dry, that sentence. She ought to smile. She ought to be attempting to charm him , after all. At least a little. He was a bloody duke.
    “It’s lovely,” was all she said. Dutifully. Perhaps interpreting him literally.
    Or perhaps as a means of discouraging any other such witticisms.
    “Did you like the dolphin pool?” he asked, knowing full well there was no such thing at Rosemont.
    “Satyr pool,” she corrected him.
    “You recall the satyr?”
    “Yes.”
    “The one urinating in the fountain in the circular drive?”
    “It’s spitting,” she corrected.
    Dear God, this was discouraging. She wasn’t even blushing , and he’d most definitely been offensive. She possessed not a shred of whimsy.
    “Ah, of course. I hadn’t visited it in some time but I recollect it was performing one or another of a man’s favorite pastimes. Spitting, smoking, wagering . . .”
    She didn’t quite sigh. But he had the most peculiar impression that she was stifling one.
    He began to wonder if he’d been wrong and if she was dim, after all.
    Or insufferably prim.
    It might be satisfying to undo all of that.
    Then again, it might be an onerous chore.
    Up ahead he saw the long figure of Ian Eversea walking alongside his father. He glanced behind him, from him to Genevieve, a flicker of concern over his pale face.
    The duke intercepted the glance and returned it with black inscrutability.
    Ian whipped his head back around immediately, and absently felt his back, as though he expected to find a dagger plunged there any minute.
    “It was very thoughtful of you, Miss Eversea, to consider whether I might need assistance walking. Kindness is a very appealing quality. It is everything I hope for in a wife.”
    There. He’d gone and said the word every girl considered the grail of conversation.
    “My sister, Olivia, is very kind,” she said almost too quickly. “She would make a splendid wife.”
    He blinked. It was the liveliest she’d sounded yet. “Oh?”
    “Olivia deserves to make a splendid match. She was thwarted in love once before. A grand title would be perfect.”
    “As a consolation prize?” She’d succeeded in startling him.
    “I’m terribly sorry. I didn’t mean to make you squeak.”
    What a word! “I’ve never squeaked in my entire life.”
    “You achieved a special octave then, if you prefer,” she allowed calmly. “And you just did it again.”
    And now he was determined to ruffle the calm, calm surface that was Genevieve Eversea’s composure, if only to ascertain she was human. The girl was either void of social skills—which seemed unlikely, given her upbringing—or she was a minx and she was trying to deflect him for some unfathomable reason. Regardless, she’d seized control of their conversation.
    He wanted it back.
    “A special octave . . .” He pretended to muse this. “Are you suggesting I sound like a castrato?”
    Ah! At last! An agreeable tide of