Free The Art of Duke Hunting by Sophia Nash Page A

anyone.
    “Perhaps you’re correct,” she finally admitted. “It was a very good match even if it was officially an arranged marriage. My father was his father’s best friend in the world and we had known each other most of our lives.” She didn’t want to tell the whole story. But for some odd reason she felt compelled to speak. “Something grew of it. He was very gentle and kind to me. He encouraged me. In the end, I do believe he liked me very much. And I him.”
    “He loved you,” he stated again.
    She stared at him and said nothing.
    “And so you are in mourning.”
    “No. It has been a year since he died. A year and four months.”
    The waltz came to an end and he eased his grip on her waist. She was sorry he released her and led her back to the serving tables now filled with custard and fruit pies. His appetite was unimaginable.
    “May I ask how he actually died?” He gathered two plates full of desserts and found a table where all the occupants had departed.
    “Oh, the doctor would tell you all manner of complicated terms. Does it matter?”
    “It explains your request.”
    “You cannot say it’s a surprise. But now that you know, I am letting you off the hook again, Montagu. You have done your duty. You may go ahead and drink that ale you long for.”
    He looked at her with those unnerving pale blue eyes of his and did not move. “Thank you. I think I shall.” He paused but did not move to pour a drop. “A bit later perhaps.” His eyes had become quite serious.
    A trumpet sounded and the voices of the revelers dimmed again as the haphazard orchestra struck the notes of a country dance. Sets were forming in the middle of the green and the Duke of Norwich raised one eyebrow and again offered his hand without a word.
    She grasped it. “Oh, thank you. I suppose I should warn you that I make it a point never to refuse the opportunity to dance.” The wallflower within her had never wilted. She would have to have one foot in the grave before she would refuse to dance with anyone. She had spent too many years on the edges of too many ballrooms, a smile plastered to her face, as every other lady was asked to dance except her.
    He smiled. “I only am asking you to dance to show you there is nothing wrong with living solely for diversions and entertainments.”
    She felt deflated.
    He tilted up her face with a finger under her chin. “Ahem. I suppose I should now warn you that I sometimes say the opposite of what I mean in jest.”
    A warm feeling, very much like her favorite plum pudding hot off the fire, invaded her heart.
    H e didn’t know why he kept up this front with her. She was a kindhearted lady and there was no reason for him to try and charm her. It was just that he had always assumed different façades for different people for so long that he didn’t know how to be himself. Unless he was alone. There was only one thing he was serious about, and it wasn’t diversions. It was physics and geometry and mathematics. There was nothing humorous about absolutes. And he loved the beauty of solving concrete problems without any remaining gray areas clouding the resolution.
    There were only three people who knew a few details—a very few—of his life and interests and they were Kress, Abshire, and Candover, all members of the exclusive royal entourage. It was just a shame that the three of them did not get on. Abshire and Candover positively loathed each other. And Candover considered Kress a half-baked Englishman with French revolution on his mind, while Kress considered Candover a priggish bore devoted solely to duty and without an ounce of humor. They were both correct in their assumptions. Abshire and Kress’s friendship showed promise but was still in the making.
    Roman accepted Esme’s gloved hand in his and led her to the set that was forming. He had never bowed to dairymaids, or do-si-do’d with innkeepers, but there was always a first time. He followed the pattern of the simple dance