Free The Duke of Christmas Past by Kim Bowman

wore the most perfect rose-hued
flesh and her eyes were downcast, but her Cupid's-bow mouth curved
in a smile both demure and knowing. Beside her, Lady Wotton
chattered away in the superior manner some still-beautiful matrons
claimed as a birthright. As well they should, of course, as much as
their daughters' mischievous innocence allowed.
    And yes, there in the deepest shadows of the room's
corner, lurking out of Lady Wotton's sight, sat the young solicitor
the daughter admired and the mother scorned.
    Time to play.
    His Grace slipped across Fleet Street between
carriages — none would dare strike him, of course — and before he
could reach for the latch, a footman appeared out of nowhere,
bowed, and opened the door for him.
    Neither the largest nor fanciest coffee house in the
vicinity, this one retained its popularity amongst a certain set
less from the quality of the conversation and more from the
strength of the brew, as it was invariably provided. Certainly the
frilly yellow curtains and unexceptional furniture contributed
little to that popularity. But perhaps the owners' lovely daughters
had sewn those curtains; for that reason alone, His Grace would be
the last man on Fleet Street to criticize the décor.
    As he stepped inside, a hush fell over the clientele,
conversational voices fading away to silence before the usual
murmuring whispers rustled all around. When he'd first arrived in
London, such whispers had disturbed his equanimity; now he accepted
them as very much his due. He'd worked hard for his reputation, and
with it finally, properly conferred, he intended to enjoy it.
    And let the mothers hide their daughters if they
didn't.
    "Good afternoon, Mr. Trent," he said.
    Behind the counter, the coffee shop's owner beamed,
his face round and pink as ever. At his side, his equally rounded
eldest daughter barely breathed, her bosom unmoving and still
appealing, her naturally large and gorgeous eyes now better
described as enormous. The heavenly smell of roasting beans
permeating the shop's most distant alcoves could have woken the
dead. And kept them that way.
    Trent cleared his throat, his eyes cutting aside
toward his daughter, then sharply back. "Your grace, what a
delightful surprise."
    In years past, a lady not inexperienced in the games
of love had described His Grace's manner of meeting her gaze as an
"unsealed invitation." Their resulting conversation remained one of
his fondest and most life-changing memories. Now, he met Miss
Trent's gaze in exactly that manner and allowed his lips to curl
into a rogue's smile. "Miss Trent, you're in such splendid looks, I
can only imagine the holiday season before you promises the best of
blessings. Come, what gentleman seeks to hold your heart?" His
smile deepened. "Besides myself, of course."
    Her eyes widened, her color intensified, her lower
lip vanished between kitten's teeth, and she hung her head. But not
before he saw the rapture she sought to hide.
    She'd not complain, even if gifted with a baby from
the wrong side of the blanket.
    And judging from Trent's predatory, monetary gleam,
neither would he.
    A full page from every society rag in town, that
would be. Should he ever need one, of course.
    "A pot of your excellent tea, Mr. Trent." Satisfied
with his sally, he turned away.
    Much of the coffee house, with its polished wood
paneling and discreetly attentive patrons, separated the Kirkhoven
ladies from the hidden solicitor. The most advantageous table, at
the halfway point of their playing field, was already occupied by a
passing acquaintance. His Grace flashed a welcoming smile and wove
amongst the tables, advertising his intention to butt in on the
man's privacy. He'd ignore the equally open scowl being aimed his
way.
    "Mr. Culver, what a delightful surprise."
    If Culver shared the delight, he kept it well hidden.
He rose, bowed, and without lifting his gaze again, gathered his
gloves and umbrella.
    "A pleasure indeed, your grace, albeit unfortunately
a