Free The Golden Leopard by Lynn Kerstan Page B

rebellious child, who was now wearing some of the household waters on her bodice and skirts. Across the pond, four carp eyed her morosely.
    From the far end of the conservatory came the sound of a door opening and closing, followed by the crunch of leather on gravel as someone approached the garden. Her skin began to tingle. Moments later a tall, loose-limbed figure, altogether at ease, arrived at the entrance to the garden.
    “I very much wish you had brought me a gun,” she said.
    Chuckling, Duran stepped into the courtyard and gave her an overly deferential bow. “Could you have hit me?”
    “Oh, eventually. I would have kept trying until I did.”
    “Yes, well, if you have it in mind to kill me, I’m afraid you’ll have to go to the end of the queue and wait your turn.” His smile became diffident. “Are you angry with me for invading your home? You should have expected it. I warned you not to run away.”
    “Did you? I must not have been listening. And did you really expect me to salute and obey?”
    After a startled look, he broke out laughing.
    “I’m quite serious, Duran. You have no right—”
    “I know, I know. And you’re far too serious, my sweet, which is not at all how I remember you.”
    “Life is a serious matter, sir, although you do not appear to have noticed. It seems you have taken a vow of perpetual boyhood, with nothing more consequential to do with yourself than drink, game, and carouse with undiscriminating women.”
    “A boy could do worse. What would you say if I told you that I have been, for longer than I care to recall, chaste as a monk, peaceful as a Quaker, and sober as the Archbishop of Canterbury? Well, nearly so. And for all I know, the current archbishop tipples like an East India Company clerk. But you take my point.”
    “And don’t believe a word of it. What is more,” she said, pleased to hear the stern chord in her voice, “I care nothing for how you choose to behave, so long as your frivolities don’t include me.”
    “Ah.” Head tilted, eyes a trifle narrowed, he regarded her from top to toe. “I have been mistaken. What with the advertisement in the news rags and your presence at the auction house, I had assumed you to be precisely what I am looking for—an expert in the business of art and antiquities. But now, and I am sorry for it, I see that you are instead the headmistress of the Academy for Young Women with Pokers Up Their Backsides.”
    Astonished and hurt, she nearly toppled into the fishpond. At the same time, she wanted to launch herself at him with fingernails extended. Except that they were clipped short, and what he had said was appallingly close to the truth.
    He had meant to pry her off her moral high horse, and by God, he had succeeded. Jessica Carville, spouting moralistic platitudes. Whom had she imagined she was fooling? Not Duran, who knew all too well her rebellious spirit and restless, passion-hungry flesh. What secrets could she withhold from him now? Tears burned at the corners of her eyes.
    A boot, lightly dusted after a morning in the fields, appeared next to her hip. She regarded it for a few moments, willing the tears to evaporate.
    “Ought I to grovel for your pardon?” he asked, not sounding in the least like a man on the verge of groveling.
    “No. I was insufferable. I deserved a blistering setdown.”
    He leaned forward, arm on knee, until his head was nearly even with hers. “Jessie, if I hadn’t spoken as I did, we would have continued crossing swords to no purpose save the exercise of our wits. I need your help. And because you have set yourself to resist me, I fired a broadside. It was, I believe, a necessary tactic.”
    “Oh, good heavens, Duran. Have done with the military metaphors.” The man would tie her in knots if ever she let him get hold of her at both ends. “Everything you do is calculated for effect. Even your insults come bearing plots. How have you suborned poor John Pageter, I wonder? How do you even