Free The Duke’s Desire by Margaret Moore Page B

to the door. She was about to open it for him when he put his hand over hers as it rested on the latch. At the sensation of the warm pressure of his strong fingers, she gave him a questioning, sidelong glance.
    “Verity, I shall do my best to keep the truth about Jocelyn a secret, because you request it. You have the word of the Duke of Deighton, and whilethat may not have amounted to much ten years ago, it is different now. Because of you.”
    For a moment she hoped—thought—he was going to kiss her again.
    But he didn’t. Instead, he shoved open the door and led his horse outside.
    Verity didn’t follow immediately. She couldn’t. She had to regain control over her wayward emotions.
    She pressed her fingers to her lips, the lips he had kissed so tenderly, robbing her of sense and reason and any notion of what was proper.
    As she considered how his touch and his kisses stole her rationality, she wondered if she had just made another mistake that would be disastrous.

Chapter Six
    “A re you expecting something to fall out of the sky?” Myron asked jovially, abruptly drawing Galen’s attention from his contemplation of the weather.
    Their greatcoats slapping damply against their Hessian boots, the stocks of their guns tucked under their arms and the long barrels pointing at the ground, they sauntered toward Myron’s manor after a morning spent fowling. Behind them, gamekeepers carried the pheasants and grouse Myron had bagged, and the one bird Galen had killed.
    “I was merely wondering if it was going to be sunny tomorrow, or wet.”
    Tomorrow he was to see Verity and Jocelyn, and the weather had to be fine. Otherwise, he would have to wait to see his daughter again, because of Verity’s restrictions.
    Once more he reconciled himself to the limitsshe was placing upon his relationship with his daughter. It was, after all, understandable that she would wish to avoid scandal.
    But at what cost? Her fears had already cost him ten years of knowing his child, his flesh and blood.
    “It should be as fair as today,” Myron said confidently, “if the sun is as red at sunset as it was yesterday.”
    “I hope you’re right. I was planning on going into the village to have the blacksmith look at my stallion’s shoes.”
    “You’re going to Jefford to see the blacksmith, eh? Or the blacksmith’s comely daughter?”
    Galen bit back a peeved retort. Myron had been saying things like this the whole of his visit—not an insignificant price to pay for his accommodation. “I didn’t even know the blacksmith had a daughter.”
    “He does.”
    “Believe me, Myron, I have no interest in the blacksmith’s daughter, comely or otherwise.”
    Myron flushed with embarrassment. “I didn’t mean to offend you.”
    Obviously he had not been as successful hiding his annoyance as he had thought. “No, forgive me for being peevish. I acquired a less than sterling reputation years ago quite of my own volition. Sadly, I fear it will follow me to my grave, no matter how I behave in my old age.”
    “Old age—oh, that’s good!” Myron said with a chortle. “I don’t think you need mourn your reputation. Some men would be only too happy to have your notoriety.”
    His tone made it rather clear that Myron was one such fellow.
    “They might think so, until they did. I assure you, Myron, it is a hard thing to live down the follies and thoughtless acts of one’s youth.”
    Myron nodded pensively, as if he were recalling a few follies and thoughtless acts of his own. Whatever they had been, Galen was sure they were minor at best, for Myron was too honest and good-natured a chap to do anything truly immoral.
    Myron would have sent Verity scurrying from his room—or he would have scurried away, instead. Myron would have been a gentleman.
    “I’m sure the ladies will be glad to hear of your reformation,” Myron noted.
    Although he remained silent, a hint of skepticism twisted Galen’s lips. He was of a decidedly different