Free Not Wicked Enough by Carolyn Jewel

his coat, the Duke of Mountjoy was both physically magnificent—there was no disguising the perfection of his form—and a sartorial disappointment. His waistcoat bagged at the sides, and his cravat was a horror. One might as well not even bother having suits made. Did his tailor not know how to cut fabric for such a specimen as Mountjoy? Did not his valet understand how to properly starch and fold a neckcloth?
     
    “Do you know, your grace, if
I
were your valet, I wouldn’t permit you to step foot outside your dressing room with a cravat like that.”
     
    “I beg your pardon?”
     
    Lord Nigel said, “I’ve told him so many a time, Miss Wellstone. Perhaps he’ll listen to you.”
     
    “You do not appear to be happy, your grace. It’s only a poorly tied cravat. Easily remedied.”
     
    “How observant of you, Miss Wellstone.”
     
    “Yes, well. Who could be happy wearing such inferior attire?”
     
    “I am. Might I point out that you are not my valet, Wellstone?”
     
    Her heart did a flip, but no one, including the duke, seemed to notice what he had called her. “More’s the pity, I say.”
     
    He glowered at her, actually, and she hadn’t done anything to merit such a glare. She gave him a quick smile. True, there had been a moment when the fire might have done more than singe the interior of the vase, but nothing worse had happened. He squeezed his coat, which he held in one hand. “Did you burn yourself?”
     
    She shook her head, flattered that he was worried on her behalf, yet cautious on account of his dark expression. “There was never any danger of that.”
     
    “Your phosphorus pencil was on fire.” Their relations since their encounter in the garden had been, if not warm, then at least distantly cordial. She understood the reason for his reserve. They had transgressed propriety that night. One could not help but expect a certain discomfort as a result. But that did not warrant his present behavior. His fingers tightened around the coat. If it were a living thing, the garment would be dead by now. With that happy thought, she was forced to look anywhere but at his hand lest she imagine him choking the life from some poor, innocent creature.
     
    “Well, yes, sir, it was on fire. A little.”
     
    “A little.”
     
    “You distracted me, and the tip dried out. If you hadn’t interrupted, we would still be writing out glowing words from the immortal bard. It was great fun. It’s a pity we didn’t finish.”
     
    “‘The weather is fine today’?” he said. At least his tone was milder. “‘Mountjoy has not smiled these seven years’?”
     
    “No one wrote those words.”
     
    He arched his eyebrows and glanced at the vase. “The proof of that is nothing but ashes.”
     
    “I don’t see that I need to prove anything.” She licked her lower lip. He didn’t seem to be any happier. “Would you like to try for yourself? There’s plenty more phosphorus.”
     
    “Where?”
     
    “Just here, your grace. We are fully outfitted for a lengthy experiment.” She was aware the man was angry, but she wasn’t about to let him get away with spoiling their afternoon. “This is excellent. Your participation in our adventure is most unexpected, I must say.” She half turned. “Lord Nigel, have you another quill?”
     
    Lord Nigel, pale as a sheet, gripped the back of the chair she’d been sitting on. His knuckles were white as bone. “No, Miss Wellstone, I haven’t.”
     
    She knew perfectly well he did, but Ginny was as ashen as her younger brother and Miss Kirk was far too somber. She herself, having never had relations of any degree who acknowledged her existence, did not know what it was like to have a brother. For all she knew, everyone feared one’s eldest brother. She doubted that, though.
     
    “I’m sure,” she said, turning back to the duke, “that we could send for another quill.” She walked toward the bellpull. She no longer permitted anyone to bully her,