At Last Comes Love by Mary Balogh

Author:Mary Balogh [Balogh, Mary]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Tags: Historical Romance
ISBN: 9780748116911
Google: CK1FMMC-zOAC
Amazon: 0440244242
Barnesnoble: 0440244242
Goodreads: 5462080
Publisher: Dell
Published: 2009-01-01T00:00:00+00:00

14

“DO you suppose, Smith,” Duncan asked while his valet was helping him into his coat the following morning and ensuring that his shirt and waistcoat beneath it did not suffer so much as one crease as a consequence, “that when one has lived a lie for a number of years one is incapable of telling the truth ever again?”

Smith, not satisfied with his handiwork, hauled the coat higher on the right shoulder and stood back to take a critical look.

“When one has lived the truth most of one's life,” he said, brushing the coat vigorously to remove the last stubborn spot of lint, “one is still capable of telling lies. I suppose the matter works both ways, m'lord.”

“Hmm,” Duncan said. “Reassuring. You have finished with me?”

“I have,” Smith said. “She will take one look at you and swoon with delight.”

“Really?” Duncan said. “That would be a miracle. She has already informed me that I am neither handsome nor particularly good-looking.”

Smith looked at him sidelong as he put away the clothes Duncan had recently discarded.

“It is no wonder you are worried about telling lies, then, m'lord,” he said, “if you have found such an honest woman.”

Duncan was still chuckling as he closed the dressing room door behind him and made his way downstairs.

He was going to take Miss Huxtable to call upon his grandfather this afternoon. He had gone to bed with the intention of spending an hour at Jackson's Boxing Salon again this morning and another hour or two at White's. But sleep had refused to come to him all night until he had made a certain decision at dawn.

He had lain on his back staring at the canopy over his bed when he was not curled up on his left side, his forehead almost touching his knees, or on his right side, one arm burrowed beneath his pillow, or when he was not flat on his stomach trying to find a way to position his head that would allow him to breathe. It was no good. There was no such thing as a comfortable position.

It was a ghastly fate, he had thought eventually, on his back again, his fingers laced behind his head, his eyes on the rosebud at the center of the canopy, to have been born with a conscience. It played havoc with a man's chances of living comfortably in the real world and of enjoying a good night's sleep.

And here he was this morning, all dressed up as if he were on his way to make another marriage offer—which, in a sense he was. To the same lady and in the same place. He was on his way to Merton House to speak with Miss Huxtable. He hoped fervently that she was not at home. Did not ladies use their mornings for shopping and visiting and exchanging their books at the library and walking in the park and …

She was at home.

Merton's butler did not even make any pretense of going to see if she was.

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