Free Jo Beverley by A Most Unsuitable Man Page A

middle-aged maid out of the room, then snapped, “I’m not pleased with you, Miss Myddleton.”
    Damaris wouldn’t descend to squabbling. “I’m sorry for your disappointment, Lady Ashart.”
    “Disappointment! It’s a disaster, girl, and it all lies at your doorstep.”
    “Hardly—”
    “Ashart’s being here was no plan of mine. But when it occurred, could you not take advantage of it instead of letting that hussy get her claws into him?”
    Damaris counted to three. “Ashart arrived here with Miss Smith, my lady. I believe they were already attached—”
    “Attached! Attached! The whole country is talking of them being caught attached on an inn bed!”
    “Then it’s necessary that they marry, is it not?”
    “Ha! If Ashart married every woman he bedded, he’d need a harem.”
    “But he loves—”
    “ Love!” the dowager shrieked. “A pox on love. Springtime dewdrops that never last. I’ve seen more disasters from love matches, girl, than from sensible arrangements. I will not have it. Ashart must marry money. He must marry you.”
    Damaris stared at the impossible tyrant, then spoke flatly. “I would not have Lord Ashart now, my lady, on any terms.”
    “Are you such a fool? You’ll do no better, girl, for all your pirated guineas.”
    “I’m sure she will.”
    Damaris whirled to find that Lord Ashart had entered the room. She’d never expected to be so happy to see him.
    He strolled forward. “Stop belaboring Miss Myddleton, Grandy. None of this is her fault, and by entangling her we’ve done her a disfavor.”
    “If she embarrassed herself, it’s because of you, you rascal, and it’s for you to fix. You can charm any woman out of her fidgets—”
    “I love Genova, Grandy. If you fight me over this, you will lose.”
    The marquess did not speak harshly, but despite the affectionate name, Damaris thought no one could miss the authority in his words. She was wrong.
    “Puppy!” the old woman snapped.
    Ashart didn’t react. “As Miss Myddleton said, she has too much sense to take me now, even if I could be compelled to give up Genova, which I cannot. There comes a time, my lady, when anyone has to accept defeat.”
    Damaris winced at both my lady and defeat.
    The dowager seemed to rear up on her bank of pillows, flares of red in her cheeks. “I will remove from Cheynings and never speak to you again!”
    “So be it.”
    Caught midfire, Damaris edged toward the door. She jumped at a touch, but Ashart merely escorted her there. “My apologies, Miss Myddleton,” he said as he guided her into the corridor.
    The dowager’s voice blasted out again—“Do not think…”—then was muffled by the door closing with Ashart still inside, brave man.
    “Snatched from the jaws of the dragon by a fearless hero?”
    Damaris started, hand to chest. “What? Are you Ashart’s hound, sir, to be left waiting at the door?”
    “Woof!” But Fitzroger smiled. “I came as squire to Saint George, but I don’t seem to be needed except to escort the maiden to safety.”
    She glanced back at the door. “A dragon, indeed.”
    “Think what a lucky escape you’ve had.”
    “I assumed the dowager would leave Cheynings when Ashart married.”
    “Highly unlikely.”
    “She’s threatening to leave if he marries Miss Smith.”
    “A delightful prospect, but still unlikely. She’s lived there for sixty years, and ruled there for most of it. But speaking of Cheynings…”
    “Yes?” she asked.
    “Have you visited the library here?”
    She saw no connection. “Briefly, when we were given a tour of the house.”
    “Come, then. It’s nearby.”
    Damaris hesitated, aware of something strange in the air. But they wouldn’t be compromised by being together in the library, and they were conspirators of a sort. Perhaps he needed to discuss their plan.
    “I don’t have long,” she said, setting a brisk pace. “I have to dress for this fencing match. What’s the purpose of that?”
    “Merely