Free False Angel by Edith Layton

seemed to run parallel courses, for now she was back in Town again, just as he was, with a reputation to live down, just as he had. This commonality should have counted for some sympathy or fellow feeling upon her part. He thought he had that, from the frequency with which he’d been running into her of late. He was no cockscomb, but he’d thought that he had seen that in her face last night too, as well as something more. Some other yearning thing that at the worst would have been sensation seeking, and at best, would have been far more flattering, if equally impossible for him to satisfy for her.
    Even if he’d been imagining things, at the very least he’d have thought she might have been grateful to him. He thought he had done her a service once. Though he was not the sort of man to call upon those he’d aided so that they could even up accounts, still he would have thought she might have considered herself in his debt for that past incident, if not for his abortive attempt at glossing over what he had guessed to be her inadvertent remark this morning.
    Perhaps she’d made a slip of the tongue about his past history last night at her party, but then he’d been sure that the incident disturbed her far more than it had affected him. But this morning, to have so thoroughly rejected the way he’d tried to mend matters when he thought she’d just committed another missaying, forced him to conclude that she was deliberately setting out to insult or enrage him. Why this should be so was a mystery to him. And he could not resist a mystery.
    So the viscount’s dark daughter was very much on the marquess’s mind as he entered his club for his luncheon engagement, and his own storm-dark eyes were shadowed by thought even as he absently greeted his luncheon companion.
    “Good heavens, Joss,” the Duke of Torquay exclaimed in mock terror, pushing away from his setting as the marquess took his seat at their table, “I should have hidden the cutlery if I had seen that look upon your face before this. At the very least, I shall be sure to examine the dregs of the teapot before I allow you to pour. How have I offended you? Is it that I didn’t immediately compliment you on your vest, dear friend? Or was it my failure to note your new boots?” he inquired in very humble tones.
    “What? Oh, Jason,” the marquess said, grinning, “forgive me. I’ve just come from one of the roundest set-downs I’ve ever been privileged to receive, so I suppose I’m still sulking.”
    “Ah, you’ve been proposing naughtiness to the minister’s daughter again, then,” the duke commented sagely in his low, hoarse accents.
    “No, to Talwin’s daughter, or so you would think from her response,” the marquess replied as he took up his knife, but only to deal with his luncheon.
    “Talwin’s filly? Isn’t she the lady whose interest you were complaining of the other night? Why Joss, my dear, first you grumble that she likes you overmuch, and now you become savage at her dislike. Are you quite sure we’re discussing the same female?” the duke asked innocently.
    His companion sighed. “Aye, well, it is a coil. First she seeks me, then repels me. If it’s difficult to fathom, it’s harder still to live with, believe me.”
    As the gentlemen made their way through prawns and soup to beef and burgundy, the marquess told of his morning’s incident in a frowning, halting manner. This had nothing to do with the texture of his roast, as his waiter feared, but rather with the fact that he was attempting to interpret his tale even as he related it.
    “Come, Joss,” the duke said simply when the younger man had done with both his story and his luncheon plate, “you are like a declaration of love in a letter, you’ve left the best part out.”
    “How does the duchess bear you?” Joscelin commented, leaning back in his chair.
    “With fortitude,” the duke answered briefly, for with all his constant banter, his intimates knew that he