Free Scandal of the Year by Laura Lee Guhrke Page A

laughing, “see how the boy blushes!”
    “You, miss,” he said stiffly, “are a flirt and a tease.”
    She didn’t seem in the least offended by his reproof. But after a moment of silence, her amusement faded and she said in all seriousness, “You don’t like to be teased, do you?”
    “No. Nor do I like to be flirted with by a girl about to marry someone else.”
    “Flirtation is harmless. You should try it sometime. Although,” she amended, “perhaps that wouldn’t be wise. A handsome prince shouldn’t flirt, I suppose. Too much risk to the hearts of girls in the kingdom.”
    He didn’t know how to respond to such nonsense. “Thank you for the compliment,” he said, taking refuge in good manners, “but I’m not a prince. Merely a duke.” He bowed. “Aidan Carr, Duke of Trathen, at your service.”
    “A duke?” She laughed merrily, not seeming the least bit impressed by his rank. “Well, I was right then, for a duke’s very close to a prince, isn’t it? I’m so glad we met. Sleeping Beauty does need a prince, although you seem to have woken me without even giving me a kiss.” She sighed. “I feel thoroughly let down.”
    He had no talent for flirtation, and he decided it was wise not to try. “You hardly need me for that role. Your fiancé,” he added as she gave him a puzzled stare. “Isn’t he your prince?”
    Something he couldn’t quite fathom came into her face, something that was like a shadow. It made him uneasy. “Oh yes,” she agreed, an odd inflection in her voice, “he’s my prince.”
    “You say that as if he isn’t.”
    She shook her head and laughed again, dispelling his uneasiness. “He isn’t a prince, not really, nor even a duke. Merely a baron.”
    “A baron?” He eyed the urchin before him with doubt. “Your fiancé is a baron?”
    She drew herself up as if affronted, but she was smiling. “What, do you think I’m not good enough to marry a peer?”
    “I didn’t mean it that way—” He stopped and gave a sigh. “Sorry.”
    “It’s all right. You’re quite right about me, you know,” she added softly, her smile twisting a little. “I may be the niece of an earl and the daughter of a squire, but despite what my parents want for me, I’m not the sort of girl who ought to marry an aristocrat. I’m more pixy than peeress, I fear.”
    As if to prove the truth of that, she proceeded to shock him yet again. Turning on the bridge, she hitched her heavy skirt a bit higher, crossed her legs beneath her, and pulled a rolled cigarette and a match from the pocket of her gown.
    He stared at her, surprised, though he supposed he shouldn’t be surprised by anything at this point. “You smoke,” he said flatly.
    “He disapproves!” she said, her dark brows drawing together in what he suspected was an imitation of his own expression at this moment. “The girl is so uncivilized! She swears. She smokes. She goes about barefoot. Deuce take it, she even whistles!”
    Pursing her lips, she gave him a few bars of “Ta-ra-ra-boom-de-ay,” then her impudent manner once again fell away and she assumed a crestfallen air. “You do disapprove of me. I’m hurt,” she added with a sniff. “Brokenhearted. I shall go off now and pine for you until the end of my days.”
    She looked so comically tragic, he almost smiled, but then she put the cigarette between her lips and struck the match on the weathered wood of the bridge, and any inclination he had to smile vanished. “Why do you engage in such a vile habit?” he asked, suddenly angry.
    It was her turn to stare. Over the lit match in her hand, her vivid eyes widened in surprise at his sudden outburst. He was rather surprised himself, for he was angry with her for smoking, and he didn’t even know why he felt that way, or why he’d been so forthright in expressing it. Whatever behavior this girl chose to engage in, it wasn’t his affair.
    “Heaven bless the man, we’re not in someone’s drawing room,” she