Free The Duke of Christmas Past by Kim Bowman Page A

brief one."
    Ah. Naming no names, but it seemed someone
else had had the same plan and target.
    Well, Culver had never been able to stand
competition.
    Nor could he compete.
    As Culver exited, abandoning his half-finished coffee
and target, young Miss Trent bobbed up in his place, carrying a
tray and rag. She cleared and wiped down the table, flashed him a
coy smile from beneath her adorable mob cap, set a blue and white
flowered teapot and cup before him, and whisked away with perhaps a
bit more sashaying than was precisely necessary.
    Indeed no, that one wouldn't mind at all.
    His Grace poured a cup — only lesser men doctored
Trent's pure, bracing, potent brew — and leaned back in his
chair.
    Staring at Anne.
    Oh, discreetly, of course. Or pseudo-discreetly, at
least. Never blatant ogling nor shabby gaping. Just an
intermittent, attentive eye watching beyond the rim of his cup,
focus shifting between painted blue flowers and elegant female.
Merely displaying his not-quite-open admiration for her
breathtaking complexion, the sweet curves of her cheek and ear, the
sunlight glinting off her golden hair, the mortified blush
spreading from her neck to her forehead and then fading, leaving
her pale as death.
    The whispers amongst the patrons sank into subdued,
horrified fascination. Which was entirely proper; as obvious as
he'd made his actions, surely they'd had no trouble tracing his
stare.
    Finally she glanced at him.
    He smiled that smile, dipped his chin, and
lifted his cup.
    And she promptly showed him her shoulder, a smooth
curve of touchable white cambric. Well, it was lovely, too.
    But her attention refused her imposed self-discipline
and she glanced back his way a moment later. Of course, his smile
and gaze hadn't shifted. Her focus lifted higher, over his
shoulder, and paused, her eyes wider than ever. That delicate,
swan's-neck throat rippled as she swallowed, with her own cup down
on the table and nowhere near her sweet lips.
    Tempting, to glance over his own shoulder and assess
the young solicitor's expression, hidden with him in his dark
corner. Such curiosity was always difficult to suppress. But the
game would progress in a more advantageous manner if His Grace
didn't surrender to that whim. Instead, he allowed his imagination
to conjure the helpless, horrified fury of a middle-class
professional man, watching a titled one far above his station
admiring the woman upon whom he'd set his heart.
    Or at least, that's what he should imagine if the
rumor mill was correct. And it always was in such sad, lovelorn
situations.
    The volume eased back to normal conversational levels
around them. But the undertone of surging excitement, egged on by
the onlookers' flashing eyes and breathless sniggers, gave more the
feel of an audience around a cockfighting ring than a genteel
coffee shop. Doubtless they were watching the solicitor, and
their reaction provided His Grace all the background information
required.
    Finally — finally! — Lady Wotton's volubility
snagged, as if the twisting atmospherics had shaken her from her
chattering reverie. A glance at her daughter, a measured following
of her daughter's attention, and Lady Wotton's gaze crossed his
own. She started. As well she might; she'd missed his entire
posturing display. Shame on her.
    His Grace smiled, lifting his cup to Lady Wotton, and
her smile bloomed even as her eyes narrowed. Oh, he'd seen that
expression countless times before, in the six years he'd lived in
London: the assessing stare of a predator facing a new, previously
unknown variety of prey — or a mother with a daughter of
marriageable age, discovering an unmarried, rich, titled man
staring at said daughter. The expression of a mother calculating
his intentions to a nicety, without ever permitting anything so
unpleasant as a frown to cross her face and potentially discourage
his suit.
    But then — and his glee quivered at her movement —
then Lady Wotton lifted her gaze a fraction higher. Her