Free Leslie Lafoy by The Dukes Proposal Page A

Glaring at the ground between his feet, Ian lifted the cheroot to his lips and drew sharply. And got nothing.
    As he considered the end of it and the rules about smoking in the presence of a lady, Lady Fiona said, “It’s hard to imagine that a parent would oppose such a commendable ambition.”
    “You don’t know my parents,” he countered ruefully, flicking off the cold ash. “Well, as I’ve said, my father died last year. My mother still lives, though. In a way, he very much lives on through her. You’ll see for yourself when you meet her. Probably next week sometime. Consider yourself warned.”
    She nodded in a thoughtful way and then smiled sweetly. “Well, however your parents feel about your choice, I’m sure there are a good many people who are grateful that you ignored their resistance and followed your calling.”
    “A few at least,” he allowed, appreciating her determination to focus on the brighter side of things.
    “Do you miss being in Her Majesty’s service?”
    “I certainly felt more useful there,” he admitted. “And far more needed. No one in England is going to die if there should suddenly be one less duke.”
    “Fiona! Lord Dunsford!”
    Together they looked up and toward the back door where Lady Ryland stood. Beside him, Lady Fiona sighed and then stood, saying, “Time to go happily plan the social campaign of the decade.”
    Ian, vaulting to his feet, quickly considered his options. “Please tell Her Grace that I’ll be along in a moment or two. My cheroot went out as we talked and it would be a criminal offense to not finish it.”
    “Of course,” she said with a demure nod and a knowing smile. “Take all the time you’d like.”
    She started away, her skirts fisted in her hands, her hems raised slightly above her ankles. He watched her go, noting that her gait was even and certain, not the least affected by the different length of her legs. Perhaps, he mused, her inability to dance wasn’t as much a matter of physical imperfection as it was the lack of the right dance partner. For women, dancing involved a great deal of trust.
    Halfway to the door, she stopped and then slowly turned back. Her smile was soft and gentle. “Just so you know, Ian,” she called to him, “I wouldn’t be the least bit opposed to the idea of being a military wife.”
    He nodded, too stunned to form a coherent word before she resumed her way back to the house. What unexpectedly quick progress they’d made! One conversation on a garden bench and she’d called him by his name.
    Maybe, if he made a concerted effort to be genuinely involved in the wedding planning, if he were a sparkling conversationalist during lunch, and if he pretended that he enjoyed the tedium of politics … She’d what? Give him a smile when he left the house? Let him kiss her hand in adieu? Be willing to talk to him when they met again that night at the Miller-Sandses’ ball?
    He cocked a brow and considered his choices: a perfectly polite conversation with a quiet young miss in the presence of God and all of London society, or a breathless, mind-staggering tryst in the garden and an alcove and the carriage with Lady Baltrip. Ian sighed as his conscience clearly voted for the former and all the rest of him begged for the latter. Wondering how he could justify being a complete cad, he reached into his coat pocket for his tin of matches.

Chapter Five
    Fiona sipped her punch and looked out over the edge of the Miller-Sandses’ balcony. Something bad was going to happen. She could feel a kind of darkness gathering in the pit of her stomach. Nothing seemed to be amiss with the couples strolling in the gardens below. Heavy clouds were gathering to the west and a storm was certain before the night was over, but she sensed nothing unusual or particularly dangerous in it. From behind her, through the open French doors, drifted the notes of the orchestra and the sounds of a party well and happily attended. Nowhere was there the