The Laird and the Wanton Widow Read Online Free

pretending misery.
    “Unless you want stand on the sidelines watching her in the arms of other men it is. Hire yourself a dancing master.”
    A wicked idea slipped into his mind. He despised himself for it, but didn’t hesitate. “You must teach me.”
    “Me?” She looked horrified. “How could I?”
    Good point, but he wasn’t done for yet. “Beauworth has a piano. Meet me at his house tomorrow afternoon.”
    “Go alone to the house of a rake?”
    “Wear a veil.”
    She glanced at the clock on the wall and back to him, her face comically dismayed. “Oh Lord. We’ve been here more than half an hour. I have to go back.”
    “I thought you wanted to help me win Lizzie,” he cajoled. Rotten bastard. But he’d enjoyed himself more in this past half hour than he had for months. Perhaps years. During this whole time alone with her he hadn’t once thought about his estate, about the disease killing his sheep. He’d felt almost carefree.
    “Well, you won’t win Lizzie by making people talk about us,” she said, almost crossly. Which was interesting.
    “Who would ever know?” he asked. “I certainly won’t mention it. I’ve no wish to look like an idiot. Needing a dancing lesson at my age.”
    She closed her eyes, clearly battling with her conscience, or the desire he was sure he’d felt in her body when they kissed.
    “Come on, Kate. You said you would help me.”
    Her green eyes skewered him. Had she guessed his intentions? Was that a smile lurking a hairbreadth from curving her lips? Would she walk away? “Very well,” she said slowly. “I will meet you tomorrow at two in the afternoon. For waltzing lessons.”
    He smiled, took her hand and kissed it. He gazed down into her face. “It will seem like days, rather than hours.”
    She flushed and snatched her hand back with an uneasy laugh. “You are a quick study, Lord Godridge. I recommend you save your blandishments for Lizzie.”
    “Just practicing, Mrs. Anderson,” he said with an innocent face. He bowed. “Until tomorrow.”
    She marched off down the hall way with the impatient stride he had always found enchanting.
    “I meant every word of it, Kate,” he said softly. But where would it lead? With Kate, how could he be sure?
     
    Arriving back at his cousin’s house after spending the rest of the evening catching up with friends at White’s, Harry hummed a tune under his breath and thought of Kate.
    He strolled into the drawing room to find his cousin, Garrick le Clere, Marquess of Beauworth, in his shirtsleeves, cravat discarded, sprawled on the sofa in front of a card table. With his olive skin, a bruise on his chin and raw scraped knuckles clutching a brandy glass, he looked more like a gypsy than a marquess.
    A similarly attired but much more English-looking gentleman sat on the other side of the table regarding Harry with sleepy gray eyes. Fair hair hung to his shoulders and the cynical twist to his lips spoke of jaded appetites. “’Tare and hounds, Beauworth, who is this disgustingly cheerful-looking fellow arriving at this time of night.”
    “ Mon cher cousin ,” Beauworth said, the strength of his accent saying he was well into his cups. “Godridge. Comes from Scotland, where they rise before noon and go to bed before midnight. Harry meet Dunstan.”
    The Duke of Dunstan. “You were one year above me at Eton,” Harry said, shaking the other man’s hand. Another renowned rake.
    The duke nodded. “Thought I recognized you.”
    Harry dropped onto the sofa beside his cousin, thoughts of Kate’s luscious curves and kissable lips temporarily forgotten. “How’s the chin?”
    “Beauworth touched the bruise and laughed. “Not feeling a thing, mon ami .”
    Harry glanced at his half-empty glass. “Why am I not surprised?”
    “Do you know what happened?” Dunstan asked lazily. “He won’t tell me. All he’ll say is the other fellow looks worse.”
    “Much worse,” Harry said.
    Garrick shot him a warning glance.
    “He