Free What a Devilish Duke Desires by Vicky Dreiling Page B

is the embodiment of elegance and athleticism.”
    “No other gentleman here is as handsome as Your Grace,” Mrs. Larkspur added.
    They were pouring the compliments on rather thick. He imagined they would be pleased by any man—for the right price.
    Mrs. Larkspur tittered. “I do hope you’re feeling frisky.”
    The word made him think of Bandit—and not in a complimentary manner. A dull ache started in his temples. He wasn’t altogether enraptured by the two trollops, but he would give them a chance to prove their talents.
    A footman approached and bade them to follow him to the private chamber that featured a red sofa and a large bed with red velvet drapes. A covered table held two bottles of Madeira, lobster patties, pickled eels, and sweetmeats.
    Mrs. Larkspur led him to the sofa while Mrs. Roseberg made up a plate of the delicacies and tried to feed them to him.
    Harry held up his hand. “No thank you. A glass of wine is sufficient, but please partake of the food.”
    The footman poured the wine and handed round glasses. “Will there be anything else, Your Grace?”
    “No, thank you.” He gave the footman a sixpence.
    Meanwhile, Mrs. Larkspur and Mrs. Roseberg piled food on the small plates and ate with the gusto of farmhands. Harry was accustomed to ladies eating like birds, so he was rather astonished.
    Mrs. Larkspur swallowed a bite and smiled at him. “Mrs. Fleur encourages our appetites. She says the gentlemen like a bit of flesh on our bones.”
    “I see.” They did appear well fed, but thus far, he’d felt no stirrings of desire for either one of them.
    Mrs. Roseberg rummaged in her reticule, brought out a bottle, and liberally dabbed her neck.
    When Mrs. Larkspur walked over to the bed, she patted it. “Will you join me?”
    “Of course,” he said, wondering what exactly Mrs. Larkspur had in mind. She slid her hand over his thigh. “My, my, I can feel those muscles beneath your trousers.”
    When she reached for a button on his falls, he caught her hand. “I prefer a leisurely seduction—an appetizer, so to speak.”
    “Oh, I think there are a few pickled eels left.”
    He pulled a face. “It was a figure of speech.”
    Mrs. Larkspur looked confused. “You wish to make a speech, Your Grace?”
    He shook his head. “Never mind.” Her simplemindedness did not appeal to him at all.
    Mrs. Roseberg sat on the other side of him and walked her fingers up his waistcoat. He managed a smile, but her cheap perfume made his eyes water. Ye gods, had she bathed in it?
    Mrs. Roseberg leaned closer. A cloud of perfume assaulted him. His nose itched like the devil. When she attempted to kiss his mouth, Harry hastily grabbed his handkerchief and sneezed…repeatedly.
    “I beg your pardon,” he said in a nasally voice.
    “I’m sure you will recover quickly,” Mrs. Larkspur said, breathing into his ear.
    Harry sneezed three times. “S-sorry,” he said.
    At that moment, Mrs. Fleur entered. Her determined smile faded quickly. “Your Grace, are you unwell?”
    He wanted nothing to do with this pair and seized the excuse. “I fear so,” he managed, sneezing again. “Perhaps…a-another…achoo!”
    “Girls, you may entertain other gentlemen,” Mrs. Fleur said. “His Grace is unwell.”
    When the two women left, Mrs. Fleur regarded him regretfully. “I am sorry for your sudden affliction.”
    Harry blew his nose. He wasn’t sorry at all.
    Mrs. Fleur sighed. “This is most indelicate, but there is the matter of the bill. You do understand, I hope.”
    He put away his handkerchief. When he examined the bill, his jaw dropped. “A guinea?” he said.
    “I must keep up my high standards. One does not serve substandard refreshments,” Mrs. Fleur said. “You know how difficult it is to find and retain a talented chef.”
    Her talented chef probably did double duty as a groom and escorted gents who got belligerent after one too many bottles. Harry had no intention of arguing over the matter. He