Free Between the Duke and the Deep Blue Sea by Sophia Nash Page A

was failing,” Isabelle Tremont said to Candover, with a warm laugh. She stepped around the cool-eyed duke and curtsied in front of Roxanne. “I am the Duchess of March, but please, you must call me Isabelle. Allow me to escort you about, and introduce you to everyone here. There are far too many of us for you to remember all at once, while many of us have the advantage of knowing each other since we were in leading strings.” Isabelle paused. “Except for Candover, of course. I cannot imagine him ever in leading strings.”
    A lady who looked remarkably like a shorter version of the Duke of Candover in a gown laughed. “Isabelle, you’re altogether right. Mother always said my brother had such a tantrum the first time they were attached that the governess resigned her post on the spot.”
    “I’m certain Miss Barclay has very little interest in such things, Faith,” the duke replied with a long-suffering sigh.
    “Oh, I’m certain she does,” another lady said who also looked like Candover. The same prominent nose, dark hair, dark flashing eyes. She, just like her sister, had character —that dreadful term that bespoke of little beauty but high intelligence. She continued, “I am Hope, by the way. And those,” she nodded toward two other young ladies who obviously had the same parents, “are our other two sisters, Charity and Chastity. Our middle sister, Verity, is . . .”—she paused uneasily, when Candover made an impatient sound—“detained at the estate.”
    The two youngest sisters curtsied.
    Roxanne gained her ease with all the ladies. Very much so—if her smile was any indicator.
    Alex had always liked the lovely Duchess of March, but he did not particularly like what she said next.
    “You must also meet Sussex.”
    The charismatic second Duke of Sussex, Edward Godwin, crossed to the mantel and grasped Roxanne’s hand to brush his lips against the back of her palm. Alex could see the man looking sideways up into Roxanne’s face with a devilish grin.
    “Delighted to make your acquaintance, Miss Barclay. I do hope I am not being presumptuous in asking if you would do me the honor of a tour of the Mount before someone else stakes a claim?”
    Roxanne’s smile widened, and Kress sighed inwardly. Blast the charmer . He had the same effect on every damned female—milkmaid and duchess alike. And the opposite effect on every man in possession of a sister, lover, or a wife. Kress had always liked him, until he watched the Englishman’s eyes rake down Roxanne’s form.
    “Of course, Your Grace,” she simpered.
    Where was the female whom he had had to coax from her room a mere quarter of an hour ago?
    “And”—Isabelle marched onward, as if she knew not to give Sussex too much more time to bedazzle and coo—“then, of course, there is Vere Sturbridge, the Duke of Barry. Barry? Miss Barclay.”
    The other duke’s cockade-styled hat was tucked in the crook of one elbow as he bowed over her hand. The harsh, spare dark green of his military uniform left Alex ill at ease. He had seen too many of them during the war. The 95th Rifle Regiment had always been pointing weapons toward, not away, from him. For some peculiar reason, the other man must have sensed the French dirt under Alex’s nails for he was more aloof with him than he was with the other dukes.
    Kress wondered who Barry had shot the night of Candover’s botched bachelor evening. He’d been unable to discover more details since he had been the first to be booted from Carleton House the morning after. The English officer and duke was far too serious, and far too silent, since the event. However, this did not seem to bother the females overmuch in the salon. Each of them looked at the lord lieutenant’s even features with something akin to reverence in their silly countenances.
    “Miss Barclay,” the Duke of Barry said quietly.
    “Your Grace,” Roxanne replied a little breathlessly.
    “Now then, everyone,” Kress inserted before