Free His Favorite Mistress by Tracy Anne Warren Page A

find myself in need of a fresh libation.”
    With good-natured smiles, they waved him on his way as they returned to their conversation—politics this time. On the other side of the room, Beatrix Nevill’s husband had Rafe cornered, engaged in a discussion of the economy, judging by the serious cast to Rafe’s face. A self-made millionaire, Rafe was every bit as successful a financier as Rothschild himself. Well aware of Rafe’s business acumen, Lord Nevill never missed an opportunity to pick his brain for investment tips. Strolling in the opposite direction, Tony made his way across the room.
    At the refreshment table, Gabriella lifted to her lips the glass of lemonade she’d just poured. Overwarm after sitting near the fireplace, she enjoyed the cool, refreshing tang of the drink. As she took a second swallow, a tingle skittered over her spine, letting her know she was no longer alone. Lowering the glass, she turned her head and met the intense blue gaze of the Duke of Wyvern. At the reminder of his title, her mouth tightened again. “Your Grace,” she greeted.
    “Miss St. George.” He smiled, then picked up the crystal decanter from the table and filled his own glass. As he did, she caught sight of the ruby signet ring he wore on the little finger of his right hand, the stone’s color reminiscent of the dark red wine in his goblet. “Enjoying a draught of lemonade, I see,” he commented as he replaced the stopper. “I’m curious to know if the kitchen maid who prepared it failed to add enough sugar?”
    She cast him a puzzled glance. “No, the lemonade is quite sweet. Why do you ask?”
    “Just taking note of your countenance. The present set of your mouth denotes what one might describe as annoyance. Are you annoyed, Miss St. George?” His eyes twinkled, a teasing quality in his tone.
    So he finds this amusing, does he? she thought, her jaw growing taut. “Not at all, Your Grace. Though were I annoyed, as you say, I should think you would have no difficulty recognizing the cause, Your Grace.”
    He raised a brow and sipped his wine. “Oh? How so? And pray cease adding ‘Your Grace’ to every sentence you utter.”
    She feigned innocence. “Why ever not, Your Grace? Is that not the proper manner in which I ought to address you, Your Grace? Since you are a duke, Your Grace. I have no wish to offend, Your Grace, none at all…Your Grace.”
    “Enough, minx,” he said, setting his glass onto the table. “Your point is duly noted, though to my recollection you are the first female I have ever met who complained at discovering that I am a duke.”
    “Oh, do you often fail to inform women of your title? ‘Call me Wyvern,’ ” she said, pitching her voice in the lowest drawl she could manage.
    He grinned at her attempt to imitate him.
    “You might have mentioned that little fact, you know,” she continued in her normal tone. “You might have said something before I acted the dunce in front of everyone here at the house.”
    A somber gleam came into his eyes, the smile disappearing from his mouth. “You are right, and for that, I most sincerely beg your pardon. But you see, I rather liked the novelty of you seeing me first as a man, rather than a title.”
    “Oh.”
    Such an idea had never occurred to her. Remembering his remark about being toadied, she supposed he must encounter many people who curried his favor and attention for no other reason than his status; such was the way of the world. How sad that he should be treated differently simply because of his elevated position in the nobility. Then again, she could feel only a limited amount of sympathy for him, since his privileged life gave him benefits the likes of which most could only dream. She was sure he had never been compelled to ration coal for the fireplace, nor skip a midday meal because there wasn’t enough money for food that week.
    Since coming to the Pendragons, she no longer bore those burdens either, she realized. Maude had