Free The Mischievous Miss Murphy by Kasey Michaels

him and shake her—or kiss her—until he put a stop to her agile tongue. “I told you there were no strings attached to my gifts except for my request—I said request, madam— that your uncle tell me a little more about his exploits. You flatter yourself, Candie, if you think I would jeopardize my sister’s reputation just for the dubious pleasure of being the latest man to share your bed. Even my interest in Max has paled, as he is, after all, no more than a glorified thief.”
    Candie’s eyebrows rose as she acknowledged his insults. “In that case, my lord, I can see no problems left to plague you. Max won’t pine away if you disappear from our lives, and your sister, charming widgeon that she is, will soon forget us once something else comes along to occupy her mind.”
    She held out her hand, and he took it automatically. “I doubt that we will be meeting again, my lord, as we don’t travel in the same circles. At least not as Maximilien and Candice Murphy we don’t. Thank you again for the gifts, the ride in the park, and this delightful dinner.”
    Before Tony could think of anything to say, Candie had rejoined her uncle, explaining that she had a slight headache and would like to retire. Max shot the Marquess a sharp look before acting the solicitous uncle and ushering his niece into Lady Montague’s carriage for the ride back to Half Moon Street, Patsy’s promise to send round an invitation to her card party speeding them on their way.
    As Tony sat sprawled in one of his sister’s most uncomfortable armchairs, his nose sunk deep in his brandy glass, Hugh and Will also took their leave, Will announcing that he was off to White’s as it was too shockingly early to go home, and Hugh lingering interminably over Patsy’s hand, giving his hostess cause to think he had put his back out and was stuck in that bent over position.
    When brother and sister were finally alone, Patsy, who needed little encouragement to play matchmaker, extolled Candie’s virtues in such glowing terms and at such length that Candice’s fictional headache became a very real, throbbing pain in his lordship’s weary brain.
    “Miss Murphy is not my sort,” Tony protested at last, seeing no end to Patsy’s litany of praises to Candie’s virtues.
    “Horsefeathers,” his sister sniffed, giving her dark head a toss. “Anything in skirts is your sort. I grant you I don’t know how she’s situated financially, but you’re rich as Croesus, so that’s no obstacle. And don’t say she don’t appeal to your eyes, for a prettier child I’ve yet to see, what with that glorious hair and that sweet, innocent face.”
    “Sweet? Innocent?” Tony barked, rising to his feet and slapping his glass down on a nearby table with considerable force before common sense (and a healthy concern for his self-preservation) intervened to stop his tirade short of giving the game away to his sister. “You know I cut a wide berth around the sweet and innocent, puss,” he substituted smoothly.
    Well, thought his older and sometimes wiser sibling, I can’t see why he’s taking my head off. After all, it wasn’t me who found the girl, but him. If the chit hadn’t caught his fancy, what was he doing driving her around the Park, he who hadn’t been seen with an eligible female up beside him in more than a half dozen years?
    “Then why did you take her out for a drive?” she asked penetratingly.
    “I did it as a favor to Max,” Tony improvised hurriedly. “He felt she needed some air. In point of fact, my acquaintance is with Mr. Murphy. We, er, we have many mutual interests.”
    “Oh? Is he also a writer?”
    As Tony’s writing—or scribbling, as he chose to dismiss his satirical compositions—was one of his main interests, it seemed a good idea to agree with Patsy. “After a fashion, puss. Max and I are both students of human nature, and I value his opinions and insights. Indeed, I’ve already learned one lesson from him.” A rather