The Prodigal Duke by Theresa Romain

Author:Theresa Romain
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Theresa Romain

CHAPTER 5

“Poppy, dear.” The marquess beamed at her. He made an unlikely villain, with a pleasant face and cherubically curling blond hair. “You vanished from your home! I was so worried about you.”

This. This was why she had wanted to go to France. So she would never be caught unawares by this—this creature pretending to be a gentleman. Her stomach pitched and roiled. Her guard was gone again, and the attention of the crowd was back on Edith and the orchestra. There was no one to help her but herself.

For the flutter within, she would do it. She would do anything. At least Nithsdale didn’t know of it. Leo was the only person she had told she was pregnant.

She lifted her chin and stared him straight in the eyes. “Were you truly worried, Lord Nithsdale? If you cared about my well-being, you ought to have obeyed when I screamed for you to stop touching me.”

He blinked, then shook his head as if dismissing the thought. “I can’t imagine what you mean! You know I’ve always been very fond of you. Here, walk with me for a bit. What a performer you are!”

“In everything I have told you, my lord”—the words were sour, and she spat them out—“I was completely genuine and honest. I never wanted you to touch me. I do not wish to accompany you.” Where was her guard?

“Nonsense!” He laughed. “We always had a good time together. You’re a romping gal. Come, let’s be off.”

She could only goggle at him. “You cannot fathom why I do not want to be with you?”

“Not at all! Most unsporting. Why, you ought to treat an old friend of the family better than this. Your cousin thought so. He’s the one who told me how to find you. He’s as worried as I was!”

Was her cousin worried? Had he confided in Nithsdale? Had she been wrong about how upset Cousin Hayworth was? Maybe he had been angry with Poppy, not with his friend.

Then Nithsdale’s fingers closed about her upper arm, tugging—and her questions vanished like a balloon being popped. No. She knew what was real, and what the marquess had done, and how her cousin had reacted. “You’re wrong,” she said, and his fingers closed more tightly.

She knew where this would go, where it had already gone once. The smile that never fell, the pale eyes that held no feeling at all. His veneer of courtesy covered selfishness so deep, there seemed no person within it.

So she wrenched free, and she ran. Leaving her case behind, with her sturdy shoes, her cloak—all of it. She ran with all the fearful energy bottled in her body as she’d hung from the tightrope; she ran, wincing as stones pressed into the thin soles of her slippers. She would run forever if she had to.

Or—no, she couldn’t. She had run into a wall of shrubbery that stretched off to the left and right, and she couldn’t go forward. Was that his breathing, harsh behind her? Quick as thought, she darted off to the left, running deeper into the park.

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