The Worst Duke in the World by Berne Lisa

Author:Berne, Lisa
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Avon
Published: 2021-01-12T00:00:00+00:00

Anthony had just come downstairs when his eye was caught by a gleam of yellow far along the corridor, in the opposite direction from the drawing-room, and he paused, squinting.

It was Margaret in her sunny yellow evening-gown.

For some reason she had left her own party, and was standing in front of the closed door to the billiards room, statue-like in her immobility.

What the devil, he thought, and began walking toward her.

He was some ten paces away when the door opened and Jane came out, almost bumping right into Margaret.

“Oh, excuse me, Lady Margaret,” she said, looking rather uneasy. “Have you—have you been here long?”

“Long enough,” said Margaret stonily, and stepped aside.

Jane moved past her and into the corridor, then saw him and looked even more uneasy as she began walking his way.

What the devil and what the hell, Anthony thought. “Hullo,” he said when she came close.

“Hullo. Your Grace.”

“Everything all right?”

She stopped and looked up at him, so lovely and beautiful and beguiling and desirable in her rose-pink gown that he nearly keeled over with a sudden renewed surge of longing and also with despair.

“Well,” Jane said, “I’m not so sure about that.”

“What do you mean?”

“Oh, Christ, an audience,” somebody said from further down the corridor, sounding very irritable, and Anthony glanced past Jane to see that Viscount Whitton had emerged from the billiards room. He saw at once that while the Viscount was still smoldering like anything, he was also noticeably ruffled in his appearance.

What the devil and what the hell and what the devil.

Plus, what the hell.

Had the Viscount been making love to Jane?

And had Jane been doing the same to him?

Anthony looked again at Jane, his despair instantly multiplying by a factor of ten. Or maybe a hundred. She was still neat as a pin, although that was hardly conclusive, and he would have given a great deal to know why she seemed so uneasy. Was he making her edgy? Or was it due to being, well, discovered by Margaret? And why did Margaret look so miserable?

God, what a scene.

The Viscount stood frowning and frozen just past the doorway, Margaret was stiff as a board just a few feet away with her head turned toward the opposite wall, Jane stood stock-still, and altogether Anthony’s earlier sensation of being an unwilling actor in a play returned in full force, only now it was worse because it felt as if he was an actor who had completely blanked on his lines. He had no idea what was going on, except that everyone, himself included, seemed very uncomfortable.

He took a step closer to Jane, and whispered:

“I say, has that fellow been bothering you?”

“No.”

“Oh.” It would have been easier if she had said yes, because then he could go and—do what? Say nasty things to the Viscount? Kick him out of the house? Challenge him to pistols at dawn?

All of these were appealing options, but unfortunately without basis in grounded fact. More wretched than ever, Anthony ran a hand through his

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