My Fair Temptress Read Online Free Page B

seems displeased.”
    “It’s to be expected. He is…or rather, he was strong-willed.” Sinking into his chair, the duke groped for his glass of brandy. “I don’t threaten him often, but when I do, I mean what I say. He’ll do as he’s told.”
    “He didn’t sound as much of a dilettante as you painted him.” Indeed, for a good portion of the interview, Huntington had sounded like a vigorous man of action. More than that, he had sounded…magnificent. His deep, melodic voice had resonated in her soul like a declaration of strength and security.
    “Did you see him?” His Grace demanded.
    She had. After listening to his voice, she had peeked through the holes in the screen and laid eyes upon the most striking man she’d ever had the good luck to view. The impact of his form, his visage, remained with her still.
    Huntington was tall, taller than she by at least six inches, and he sported a pair of shoulders that gave a woman a sense of shelter. His body was strong-boned and sturdy, not willow-thin like so many stylish aristocrats. His hair was a luscious, dark brown, with kisses of gold, and he wore it long and tied at the base of his neck, like some aristocrat of old. His face was sculpted from the finest clay God ever created, with jutting cheekbones, an authoritative nose, and a jaw too pronounced to be called anything but obdurate. The sun had toasted Lord Huntington a lovely brown, providing a striking setting for a pair of eyes so blue they shocked with the impact of his gaze.
    And he hadn’t truly looked at her. He had seen only the screen behind which she was hidden. Yet she had drawn back in alarm.
    He didn’t fit in the modern age. If he were stripped of that silly costume, he could easily stride from the mists of myth, a warrior who conquered by the strength of his body and the skill of his arms. He would have looked at home in a glittering suit of armor, with a sword clutched in his broad hands, or in a kilt, holding a claymore…or as a druid, clothed in secrets and magic. He sported a fierce male beauty, and she feared he would see all the way down to her silly, shallow core.
    “He’s very handsome.” With the words came the memory of the time, only a few days ago at the Distinguished Academy of Governesses, when she had said much the same thing about Lord Freshfield.
    Lord Freshfield, who had set out to ruin her and succeeded beyond all hope of redemption.
    Lord Freshfield, who despite Caroline’s assurances to Adorna, stalked her still. Caroline had to make this job work. She had to, for with each failure Lord Fresh-field pursued her more closely, his soft white hands outstretched to touch her…
    With a snap that made her jump, His Grace asked, “What did you think of my son’s clothing?”
    “Ah, his clothing.” She had a vision of that yellow waistcoat, that orange silk scarf, the plaid trousers that mingled the two colors.
    “Those boots.” His Grace’s voice vibrated with contempt.
    “Yes, the boots.” She fought the desire to laugh as she recalled the incongruity of those huge feet in those shining white boots.
    “You have to admit, he looked absurd.”
    “ Absurd is too strong a word.” She gave a faint gurgle of amusement. “A better word would be silly .”
    “And that fan! And his handkerchief!” Nevett clutched the arms of his chair. “And his manner. Be truthful and tell me what you think of it.”
    Truthful? She stared at His Grace. He looked like his son—or rather, his son looked like him. Nevett had been a duke most of his life, and he sat in his thronelike chair in stolid dignity, a big, strong man who demanded the truth as if it were his right. As if anything he desired was his right—and probably it was.
    “He’s frivolous, but that should not preclude a wealthy, handsome man from marriage.” Heaven knew she’d met enough frivolous men during her Season. Her best friend had married the biggest fool in society, but money had soothed Edith’s distress