Free The Duke Diaries by Sophia Nash Page B

thought. “Oh, my dear Miss Talmadge. Do allow me to apologize.” He escorted her as she limped to the edge of the dance floor.
    “You must carry me to the front salon.” She pouted. “I do believe you’ve broken all of the toes on my left foot, Your Grace.”
    “Allow me to fetch your brother or a footman.”
    “No,” she insisted. “It’s only fair that you take me since it’s your fault.”
    Catharine would never have behaved in such a wholly childish fashion. Surely, not. Maybe . He sighed heavily. “Oh, all right.” He leaned down and captured her under her knees and her arms. She immediately placed her arms about his neck.
    A hundred pair of eyes drifted in their direction along with a few calls of concern.
    “Just a few bruised toes,” he said loudly to anyone who would listen.
    Not a moment after he deposited Phoebe Talmadge on the striped satin divan with a scrolled Egyptian arm on one side, Mary Haverty rushed inside.
    “Oh my dearest Miss Talmadge. I’ve arranged for your maid. Shall we not call the apothecary? And you, Your Grace—”
    He really could have kissed Mary for this. Her beauty was such that men lost their heads by the dozen, exhibiting advanced signs of lovesickness, penning atrocious odes to her eyes, and arranging deliveries of hothouse flowers by the carriage load. And yet? Rory had never been attracted to her. There was a sisterly quality to her.
    “Yes, Lady Haverty?”
    “Do find Lady Fitzroy for me. She always has smelling salts, and we might require them if the bones have to be reset.”
    Phoebe Talmadge nearly swooned in panic.
    Perfect. “Back in a trace.”
    Nothing could have made Rory happier than to tap the shoulder of the gentleman who had stolen his rightful space on Verity’s dance card, dangling from her slender wrist.
    “I beg your pardon,” she said, her nose rising in the air.
    “No, I must beg yours,” he retorted dryly. “You’re needed in the salon. Or your smelling salts are needed.”
    “Oh.” Her mouth made a small round O. “In that case, Mr. Findley, would you be offended if we resume our conversation between the—” She examined the card on her wrist. “Hmmm, shall we say between the third and the fourth set?”
    “It would be an honor, Lady Fitzroy. And by the by, the answers to your questions are that I am neither a gambler nor a rake, and no, I am not in love with another female at this moment.”
    What in hell ? He nearly dragged Verity out of the ballroom, amid much whispers all around. She wrenched away from him a few feet from the double doors leading out of the ballroom. He glared at her, before he realized she was merely fetching her reticule, which was as ugly as her singularly unappealing trio of ostrich feathers in a turban that made her appear twice as old as she was. Why did petite ladies mistakenly think that hideous, sneeze-inducing bird plumage would make them appear taller?
    Beyond the doors, he pulled her into a private alcove, with two palms in front of it.
    “What in hell are you doing?” The back of his neck itched and he scratched it.
    “I can’t imagine what you mean.”
    “Why were you asking that buffoon those provoking questions?”
    “He didn’t seem to find the questions provoking at all. In fact, he immediately agreed that my method of discerning a gentleman’s true character was a capital idea.” She tilted her head. “I find docility in a man quite novel and charming.”
    “And what method is this?”
    “A series of questions designed to learn if a man would be an ideal candidate for a husband or not.”
    “This was Mary Haverty’s idea, I’m sure.”
    “Perhaps,” she said airily. “But, actually, I found the original questions a bit mild. The ones I added are far more interesting.”
    “Let me see the list.”
    She blinked. “I left it at Boxwood.”
    “Liar.”
    “Bully.”
    He reached for her reticule and before she could stop him he extracted a card and held it over his head as