The Dreadful Duke by Grace Burrowes

Author:Grace Burrowes [Burrowes, Grace]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Grace Burrowes

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The Dreadful Duke by Grace Burrowes

The Bad Heir Day Series—Book One

Chapter Fifteen

“I am not your duke. Must I resort to profanity?” Finlay Cathcart withdrew his hand from the blessed comfort of a hot, damp towel and took up a dry flannel from a stack on the mantel. The left hand was the worst, though the right was also growing temperamental.

“Swear as dreadfully as you like,” Leopold St. Didier replied. “As the Duke of Huntleigh you can start a new fashion in vulgar expostulations. All the cursing in the world will still not relieve you of your title.”

Finn had consulted his solicitors on that topic. To get free of the ducal encumbrance, he’d have to die or commit a hanging felony. Both would be bad for business, especially the dying option.

Bad for morale too, and Finn guarded his morale jealously. “I will be the least aristocratic duke ever to not prance around in his coronation robes.” Finn tossed the damp flannel into the wicker basket by the door and took up the iron poker from the hearth stand.

St. Didier, a prudent soul, found it expedient to study the street below from the safety of the window across the study. “What is the gravamen of your objection to your inherited honors? Do you despise all dukes or only the ones in your own family?”

Gravamen. Fancy term for basis, essence, foundation. Finn had never heard the word pronounced before, but now that he had, he could add it to his stash of toplofty blather. He always picked up one or two new words from St. Didier, and the man was nothing if not elegant.

Sketchable, though one didn’t render a duchess’s professional snoop in marble.

Finn poked air into the fire, tossed on another square of peat, and held his hands out to the flames. “I have no use for the aristocracy, the monarchy, the penny press, or the preachers. Parasites the lot of them, exceeded by only Parliament for uselessness. Give me a block of high quality Carrara and I’m a happy man. A crumbling stone wall has more of my respect than your rubbishing dukes. That wall held up through ages of hard winters and broiling summers, and fights every season for its dignity. You’ve said your little piece St. Didier—again—and now you’d best be on your way before the snow starts.”

That’s what the throbbing joints of the left hand were announcing: Heavy weather on the way. Good sculpting weather, when a fellow could stay in his studio for days, unbothered by solicitors, callers, or importunate old friends.

“I don’t mind a little snow,” St. Didier said. “You should at least meet your family.”

Finn fisted his left hand and got a shooting pain up his arm for that stupidity. “Those people make a mockery of the term.

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