Disciplining the Duchess Read Online Free Page B

seated on the periphery with Mrs. Lyndon, all color drained from her face.
    He grinned at Miss Barrett simply to goad his mother as they moved through the formations of the country dance. Over, under, turn left, turn right. He found dancing extremely boring, but partnering Miss Barrett livened up the proceedings. There were always stray arms to grab and adjustments in balance to keep him alert. His partner was grim-faced and silent, not once engaging him in a conversation about Mongol hordes, or Viking or Pictish hordes, or any other type of horde. For his part, he murmured encouragements when he wasn’t managing her unruly arms and dodging the trods of her feet.
    In addition to her lack of natural coordination, they were confounded by a marked difference in size. Until now he’d only seen her under a desk, or across the room where perspective was harder to judge. He was tall like his father and used to peering down at women, but Miss Barrett was shorter than most. Her chin barely reached the height of his chest and her hands were like little hummingbirds in his oversized grasp. She must find his hands monstrous; she eyed them frequently while they danced. At one point she turned the wrong way and collided with him. He righted her and she stopped short in the middle of a promenade.
    “I am the very worst dancer,” she said.
    “Nonsense. You move with rare eloquence.” She rejected this lie with a thunderous frown. “Perhaps we should take some refreshments instead,” he suggested.
    Miss Barrett agreed emphatically with that idea. He had the feeling she would have fled the drawing room if he hadn’t tucked her hand in the crook of his arm. He led her to the punch bowl, nodding in response to Lady Darlington’s smile, and got Miss Barrett a glass of punch she appeared too overwrought to consume. People pretended not to watch them but they watched nonetheless, and Miss Barrett clearly yearned for escape. He might have let her go at that point with a bow and a polite “good evening.” He wondered why on earth he did not.
    Instead he asked, “How are you enjoying your books?”
    A flush bloomed on her cheeks. “I— Well—about that, Your Grace…thank you for not gossiping.”
    “I abhor gossip.”
    “I do, too.” Her pleased look warmed him. “To answer your question, as a student of history I found the books fascinating.”
    “A student of history? I am glad to hear it. You’ve finished them already?”
    “Yesterday,” she admitted.
    “ And still they gazed, and still the wonder grew, that one small head could carry all she knew ,” he quoted in a fit of whimsy.
    Miss Barrett looked alarmed. “I am not that intelligent.”
    It was a lie every bit as false as his lie about her dancing. She clamped her mouth shut, as if some monologue on the origins and habits of Mongol hordes might otherwise escape her. She was, as his mother had warned, woefully strange in manners, which disquieted and fascinated him at the same time. He took her cup and placed it on a nearby table.
    “Miss Barrett, did you know our hosts own several paintings of historical interest? May I escort you to see them?”
    She stared up at him. He felt a twitch at his lips, a smile not called up from some sense of politeness or propriety, but a true smile. She smiled back, then her face clouded.
    “Is it entirely proper?”
    “To view your hosts’ paintings? Of course. They are just down the hall outside this room.”
    “Then yes, please. I would love to see them.”
    He offered his arm and she took it, holding herself stiffly beside him. She was worried about propriety, was she? His days of seducing young women in secluded galleries were long over, although he did imagine for a moment what it might be like to pull Miss Barrett into a dark corner and surprise her with a kiss. Would she react with a slap? A swoon? Not Miss Barrett of the Mongol hordes. She would more likely glower at him until he stopped.
    He looked down and patted her