Free Nothing but Trouble by Allegra Gray Page B

with daring to write about it.
    The duchess looked alarmed . “Dear me. I shouldn’t say such things in front of a near-stranger. Please forget I said anything, Lord Maxwell.”
    “I could not possibly, Your Grace. Any time spent with the charming Medford sisters is time to be cherished. But I swear upon my father’s grave, I would never repeat a word of it.”
    She hesitated, looking torn . “Oh, do go on, E.,” Charity begged. “What has been said?”
    Lady Bainbridge capitulated . “All right. She—Lady Lamb, that is—she has been cast beyond the pale. The patronesses at Almack’s have sworn to revoke her voucher. I cannot think of anywhere in all of London she shall be able to show her face.”
    “Oh, my,” Charity breathed.
    Graeme noted that her expression, while understandably one of interest, also held a note of sympathy.
    “’Tis all anyone can talk about,” the duchess added . A look passed between the sisters that Graeme could not interpret.
    When neither of them said anything else, he seized the opportunity to change the subject. “Your Grace, I was just telling Miss Medford of an astonishing performer who is to put on a show at Vauxhall on Thursday. I would be very much honored if the two of you would consider joining me. The duke as well. It will be a rather large group of my friends and acquaintances. Some you may know better than I, as it’s been some time since my last stay in London.”
    Another look passed between the sisters . “Charity?” the elder sister asked.
    Charity moistened her lips, biting the bottom one nervously . She nodded.
    “How delightful . I am certain we shall have a lovely time,” Lady Bainbridge said. “I hope you’ll excuse us until then, Lord Maxwell. There are several guests casting an evil glare at my sister and I for being so selfish with your company.”
    The two ladies retreated gracefully . Graeme could not help a longing glance at the delicate curve of Charity Medford’s neck, where golden tendrils curled softly against her skin. He wished his lips were in their place.
    The picnic had not been a waste after all . Not only had he seen his not-so-Indian princess, he’d garnered a promise of another night in her presence. The courtship was underway.
    Miss Medford’s sister had only been half-joking about the other guests. Even now, at least two marriage-minded matrons strode purposefully toward him, their eligible offspring in tow. Graeme steeled himself.
     
     

 
    Chapter 5 :
    In which Graeme discovers why negotiation is often considered a fine art.
     
    “Let me see if I follow you,” Ewan Macpherson said slowly, laying down his cards. “You do not wish to attend the Rutherfords’ ball tonight because…”
    “I have already decided upon a wife.”
    “I see.” Ewan nodded, his expression making it clear he did not see. “And how did you meet this lucky woman?”
    Graeme hesitated . “Rather by accident, actually.” There was no need to cast Miss Medford’s reputation into further doubt by explaining they’d met at the Wicked Baron’s masquerade.
    “Ah .” Ewan picked up his cards again, but made no move to play. “And the young woman agreed to marry you and move to the far, cold north just like that? What do you know of her, Leventhal?”
    Graeme shrugged . “It’s complicated.”
    “She comes of good family ?”
    “Of course,” Graeme replied automatically, though the interaction he’d witnessed between Miss Medford and her family made him secretly question the definition of “good .” He gestured impatiently. “Play a card, would you?”
    “I couldn’t possibly. The suspense is killing me.” Ewan joked, his grin stretching wide at Graeme’s obvious discomfort . “Out with it. Who is the chit?”
    “Miss Charity Medford.”
    Ewan threw back his head and laughed. Recovering, he said, “You really had me going there, Leventhal. Thought you were serious.”
    “I am.”
    Ewan sobered, his eyes widening as he inspected