Free What I Did For a Duke by Julie Anne Long Page A

matrimony. I do still hope one day very soon to enter into it.”
    “He has wed.” She said this gingerly, with something akin to bemusement, as though she still couldn’t believe it herself, and as though the subject was a spiny one. “So has my oldest brother, Marcus, as well. And another of my brothers, Charles, is engaged to marry the widow of a colonel. Ian, on the other hand, shows no sign of shackling himself, as they . . .”
    She trailed off. She was staring at the duke as if she’d seen something multi-legged crawl over his face.
    “As they?” He’d needed to ease his jaw in order to prompt her. It was inordinately tight.
    “. . . as they say,” she completed distantly, on an odd note. A faint puzzled dent took up residence between her brows as she regarded him.
    “It’s a pleasure to hear of the men in your family enjoying matrimony.”
    “Is it?” She said this almost sharply.
    He knew an unfamiliar sensation. Uneasiness. He could imagine her peering at a painted canvas with those sharp eyes, mercilessly scanning it for authenticity, the same way she was examining him now.
    Back to art, then. More comfortable, apparently, for both of them.
    “Who is your favorite painter, Miss Eversea?”
    “I might have to say Titian.” She said this almost reluctantly, as if Titian was something precious she kept to herself. “It’s the luminous quality of the tones of skin, the incomparable reds, the affection with which he paints his . . .”
    She stopped and gave her head a little shake, and a small smile and a half shrug, as though she scarcely qualified to describe the wonder of Titian.
    And because she suspected she was boring him.
    Luminous quality . Titian didn’t particularly interest him. But what he did to Miss Genevieve’s face when she’d described him, in fact, fascinated him.
    “Miss Eversea, it may interest you to know I’ve a marvelous collection of paintings at Falconbridge Hall, all in want of an expert to admire it and teach me more about it. And there are some beautiful works at Rosemont, too.” One in particular he didn’t want to mention, necessarily. Not yet.
    Canvases covered in ancestors, for the most part, was what he had at Falconbridge Hall, row upon row of them with eyes and noses and airs of entitlement all very similar to his. It was like strolling through a gallery of mirrors.
    “Do you?” she said, clearly more alarmed than enthusiastic. Her fan flicked nervously in her fingers. Her eyes darted toward the stream of guests. She was calculating where and when she could dive into it.
    “Oh yes. And many of the paintings are by Italian masters acquired by my father. Perhaps one day you’d like to see—”
    With astonishing speed, Genevieve’s arm shot out, seized the arm of a young lady and plucked her from the crowd the way a bear plucks a trout from a stream.
    “Miss Oversham !” she gushed. “Allow me to introduce you to our very esteemed guest, the Duke of Falconbridge.”
    Miss Oversham’s eyes bulged in astonishment at the name. The plume atop her head quivered like a captured bird. “That won’t be necess—that is, I was just—”
    But Genevieve was surprisingly strong for her size, and she had a good grip on the tall Miss Oversham’s elbow. She didn’t even relinquish it when the woman curtsied.
    “We were discussing art,” Genevieve volunteered brightly. “And I know you’re a lover of art as I am. I’m certain the duke will enjoy telling you about his family’s collection of portraits. I didn’t wish to leave him without a delightful conversational partner while I attend to a small pressing matter.”
    And with that, Genevieve Eversea released Miss Oversham, sidled through the crowd, through a doorway, and disappeared, every bit as graceful and purposeful as an otter navigating a bend in the river.
    Wiley minx.
    And so he was left alone with Miss Oversham, who wore yellow but managed not to look jaundiced in it, thanks to a fine head of