Lily and the Duke (Sex and the Season #1) - Helen Hardt Page 0,1
have better things to do than pant after the Duke of Lybrook like a bitch in heat.”
Thomas laughed. “God help the duke if he crosses your path.”
“Lily,” Rose said, admonishing, “it’s a good thing Mummy isn’t around to hear you talk like that.”
“Have you forgotten that he’s only the Duke by virtue of the untimely deaths of his father and brother? He’s still a renowned rake. No self-respecting father would have dared allow his daughter to so much as blink in his presence.” Lily rolled her eyes. “But now he’s a duke, and all is forgotten and forgiven? The hypocrisy makes me want to cast my crumpets.”
“Of course you’re right, but—”
“He spent his entire mourning period touring the continent, no doubt visiting every whorehouse he came upon.”
“I wish you wouldn’t use such language.”
“Brothel, then. House of ill repute. Is that better?”
“Lily…”
“He left his poor mother here alone to deal with her grief. He’s nothing but a scoundrel.”
“The duchess was in good hands, Lily,” Thomas said.
“I suppose so. She was no doubt better off with her spinster sister than with that son of hers.” Lily inhaled and fidgeted with her dress. “The duke does have a beautiful estate, though. I intend to spend a great deal of time admiring the artwork, strolling in the vineyards, and painting and writing.”
“Don’t you want to take part in any of the festivities?” Rose asked.
“Maybe some. But don’t worry. Sophie and Alexandra will be there for you. We’ll all spend time together. I’m sure Mummy won’t hear of me going off alone as much as I wish to.”
“I’m quite thankful for that.”
“I’m not. What I wouldn’t give for two weeks of freedom before I’m thrust into that barbaric meat market of a ritual that London calls a season.”
“Lily,” Rose said. “I’m not sure why Mummy and Papa made you wait until this year for your season. You could have started last year, and you would be happily married by now.”
“Me, happily married?” Lily scoffed. “Of course I had to wait for you. Mummy and Papa know that you’ll attract the right type of suitor, and they’re hoping I can follow along on your tail.”
“That’s ridiculous and you know it.”
“Ridiculous, maybe, since I have no desire to bind myself to some stuffy aristocrat for eternity, but true nonetheless.”
“But you’re just as beautiful as I. Perhaps more so.”
“You know beauty has nothing to do with it.” Lily turned to her brother, who was watching her intently. “I see you have that overprotective look in your eye, Thomas.”
Lily adored her brother, but lately he had become a hindrance to her preferred way of life. Pretty soon he was likely to insist she have a chaperone to use the convenience!
He needed a hobby. Better yet, he needed a woman. If she could interest him in someone at Laurel Ridge… Yes, and then he would be occupied. She might as well find a man for Rose, as well. The Duke of Lybrook was out of the question, of course, but there would be no shortage of decent men at the estate. With both her brother and her sister out of the way, she would be free to paint and write to her heart’s content.
A match for Thomas and a match for Rose. It would be startlingly easy. There wasn’t a more beautiful woman alive than Rose, with her honey blond locks and vivid blue eyes, and she came with a generous dowry and the Ashford name. And Thomas was a wonderful catch, with handsome chiseled features and sleek sable hair, not to mention he was a viscount and heir to one of the most respected earldoms in England.
Lily smiled.
“What on earth have you got up your sleeve?” Rose asked.
“What makes you think I’ve anything up my sleeve?”
“I know that look, Lily. You’re up to no good. I can tell.”
“You’re up to something, for sure,” Thomas said. “Sometimes you forget you’re a lady.”
“I’m no more a lady than you are.”
Thomas smiled lazily. “Most of my friends would beg to differ. Wentworth asks about you frequently.”
“That balding fool? You only keep company with him because you have your eye on his sister. You can do much better, you know.”
“I could do a lot worse than Lady Regina Wentworth. I find her quite engaging.”
“Thomas, she has all the intelligence of a blood pudding. Whatever do you find to talk about?”
“I suppose she’s not much of a conversationalist. But she has her charms.”
“Dear God, if you’re not exactly like every other man in England.