Free What I Did For a Duke by Julie Anne Long

the only blot thus far on his reputation involved the organization of phaeton races during which quite a few lordlings lost outrageous amounts of blunt. But of this Moncrieffe secretly approved. Fools and their money ought to be parted. He’d also heard Osborne needed more of it. As a gentleman, he could scarcely engage in a profession. He needed an heiress to keep the modest land he was inheriting thriving.
    Osborne. This was the person who had stolen the light from Genevieve Eversea.
    He would have laid a wager upon it.
    Genevieve couldn’t seem to disentangle her manners from whatever had sent her on a bleak Harry-related reverie. She waved her fan beneath her chin instead, as if movement was a substitution for speech. It was also a warning to him that she was about to take flight. She looked about yearningly as more guests arrived, drifted into the room, took note of the dangerous duke, widened their eyes in amazement, moved on, stared, muttered, and finally relaxed with people of their own rank (moderate) and reputation (benign). It became almost rhythmic, the eye-widening. He nodded, smiled, tried to look as benevolent as he was capable of appearing. Which was even less so than he realized.
    They stood before a painting of a white horse. And Osborne had mentioned Canaletto today. He suspected Miss Eversea was a lover of art.
    And so he said, in order to give a rudder of sorts to this conversation, “I’m delighted to find so many fine paintings in your home. We didn’t have an opportunity to discuss it today, but I find that art moves me.”
    She examined him. “I suspect it moves you in the opposite direction.”
    He bit back a smile. “Oh, now, consider that you might underestimate me, Miss Eversea,” he cajoled. “For example, this very fine painting of a horse by . . . by . . .”
    Damn.
    He did know the name of the artist. He’d had portraits of his horses done, too. A man must commemorate his loved ones, after all.
    “Ward,” she completed dryly. “James Ward.” But he had her attention now. Perhaps she hoped to be entertained by whatever inanity he would next produce.
    He glanced again toward Lord Harry, who was now entertaining and being entertained by a number of young people. He imagined it was where Genevieve preferred to be . . . and yet not to be, to paraphrase the Bard. Hmm. He couldn’t detect any particular devotion to Harry in Millicent. Or of him to her. She seemed to be enjoying all of the young men.
    A few of whom were aiming calf-eyed gazes at Miss Genevieve Eversea.
    Who took no note. It was either that, or she took the calf-eyed admiration as much for granted as the chandelier light. Always present. Nothing to remark upon. Rather like the types of flowers routinely sent to her.
    “Of course. The name of the painter simply eluded me in the moment, as I was lost in admiration of your gown.” He added that simply so she could enjoy an inanity, and the corner of her mouth did tip sardonically. “But I recognized it as a Ward.”
    She didn’t snort. Her eyes did go skeptically wide. If her manners were any less fine she would have rolled them.
    “Very well, then. I knew it was fine , and not, for instance, painted by your six-year-old niece,” he revised.
    This won him a genuine, albeit reluctant, smile. Swiftly there and gone.
    Her mouth was the palest pink, he noticed then. As neat and promising as a rose about to bloom. Dimples appeared when she smiled.
    He tried not to frown. But it was still a bit disorienting. She’d possessed the same mouth this afternoon. It wasn’t something she’d donned along with the gown.
    “You knew it was a horse , which is generally all a painting needs in order for a man to admire it and declare it fine. A horse or a dog. And I haven’t a niece. Yet.”
    He seized the opportunity to steer the conversation toward his objective.
    “But perhaps you will, soon enough. Your brother Colin has wed, I understand. An enviable condition,