The Conqueror's Dilemma Read Online Free Page B

of a pair of peeping blue eyes.
Conscience intervened, and he amended this. ‘Well, to be strictly truthful,
dear boy, I was in imminent danger from a dragon with a debutante in tow.’
    A crack of laughter emanated from
Lord Kilbride. ‘That’ll teach you to set yourself up as an arbiter of fashion.
Still, it ain’t like you to run, Will. Was the girl a fright?’
    ‘Far from it. Though not a beauty
by any means.’ He slid his arms into the double-breasted linen waistcoat held
open by his valet, and began to button it. ‘Only Juliana would have it the
dragon was a cit and anyone she was chaperoning must be impossible.’
    ‘Ah, I begin to see. Who was
she?’
    ‘The dragon? Lady Drumbeg.’
Hector whistled, and William eyed him with interest. ‘Have you heard of her?’
    ‘Only through m’sister.’
    ‘What, does Ariadne know her?’
    William was almost as well
acquainted with Mrs Membury as with Kilbride, for she naturally knew all about
his roots and her brother’s part in his rise to fame. Inclined to look upon her
as a sister, William valued both her friendship and her dependability. He was
conscious of a slight rise of emotion—it could not be hope, surely? Might
Ariadne prove a conduit to finding out more of the girl he had met last night?
A notion instantly dismissed.
    ‘Narrowly avoided an acquaintance
with the woman a few years back,’ stated Hector. ‘Ariadne says the Drumbeg is
pushing, and she’ll batten on anyone who ain’t up to snuff. Beats me how she
got through the Yelverton’s doors.’
    ‘She used Amelia Murrell. Ju was
furious.’
    ‘Not surprised. Good thing you
came away.’
    William said nothing. Why he
should refrain from relating how he had narrowly averted a public contretemps
he did not care to examine too closely. It might amuse Hector. Equally it might
arouse his curiosity as to the reason. Better to keep his own counsel.
    Shifting from the window,
Kilbride clapped the valet on the back. ‘Bestir yourself, Frocester, I’m as
hungry as a hunter.’
    ‘Ignore him, Frocester,’ said
William gently. And to his friend, ‘I cannot be expected to scramble into my
clothes only because you choose to invite yourself for breakfast. I have a
reputation to maintain, as well you know.’
    ‘And half a dozen morning calls
to make, don’t tell me.’
    While William slipped his arms
into the coat the valet was holding up, his friend’s energetic gaze rode up and
down the tall figure.
    ‘You won’t break any hearts in
that rig. Beats me how in Hades you manage to sit down in those things.’
    William ignored the jibe. Being a
thoroughgoing sportsman, his friend was never to be seen in pantaloons. One
could not fault his buckskin breeches for fashion, even if their cut was made
more for comfort than elegance, and William did not despise a fustian burgundy
frockcoat over a corduroy waistcoat. On the whole, he thought Kilbride, who had
not his own advantage of height, was wise to stick to a style flattering to a
pair of powerful shoulders and a muscular leg.
    Despising fashion, Hector
contented himself with a cursory nod in the direction of good taste, but
refused either to crop his chestnut locks, which he wore unfashionably long and
tied in the nape of his neck, or to spend unnecessary hours in dressing
himself.
    ‘One of these days,’ said William
lazily, as he examined his reflection in the long glass, ‘you will succumb to
the lures thrown out to you by matchmaking mamas—yes, I know you avoid them
like the plague, but the day will come—at which time, my dear Hector, you may
value my sartorial advice.’
    A derisive grunt greeted this
sally. William’s lips twitched as he leaned forward to press a fold of his
starched cravat into place.
    ‘Observe,’ he pursued, waving at
his reflection. ‘The coat, a fetching dark green. Note, if you will, the slight
gather of the sleeve at the shoulder. The waistcoat striped—merely a hint of
brown against the cream. Pantaloons