Who Wants to Marry a Duke - Sabrina Jeffries Page 0,2

of soda, and where the devil do you intend to get some?”

“I carry it in my reticule, of course.”

Of course? “Because that’s what all young ladies carry in their reticules, I suppose.”

“Do they? I thought I was the only one.” Before he could even respond, she added, “But if we don’t act quickly, those spots will stain your waistcoat for good.”

He could afford to replace his waistcoat ten times over, but he hadn’t even had a chance to dance, so her offer to wipe away the spots had merit. Besides, he wanted to see what magic she meant to conjure up with her odd ingredients—and if she really did have bicarbonate of soda in her reticule. “Then by all means, lead the way.”

With a nod, she took his glass of negus and replaced it with a glass of champagne sitting abandoned on a nearby tray. Then she guided him out onto a balcony. “The hall to the Devonshire library isn’t too far. We can do it there.”

Do what there? Thorn nearly asked. Did the pretty wench really intend to whisk away his spots? Or did she have some other, more lascivious purpose in mind?

Now that would be a result he’d embrace. The woman’s bodice was intriguingly low cut. He’d assumed from her gown’s color that she was a debutante, but he might have been lucky enough to have stumbled over some fast-living married woman.

One would think that if the young lady was that, she’d be curtsying and flirting like all the other females he’d encountered in society. Then again, London society was wilder than Berlin’s. He was still trying to figure out the rules.

As the stepson of the British ambassador to Prussia, Thorn had been expected to behave appropriately, which had generally meant not having any fun. But in the six months since he’d left home for England, he’d begun to loosen his strictures, encouraged by other young bucks he’d met. Still, this was the first time a young lady had tempted him to misbehave.

They’re the hunters, who want to hang your ducal coronet on their trophy wall. So keep an eye out.

He would. But he’d enjoy this intriguing encounter, too. There had been few enough of them since his return.

They traversed the balcony, then passed through a pair of French doors into a hallway not frequented by the rest of the guests. That roused his curiosity even further.

“Since you mean to save my hapless waistcoat, perhaps we should introduce ourselves,” he said. “I am—”

“I know who you are, sir,” she said curtly. “Everyone does. My good friend Lady Georgiana pointed you out to me from the moment we entered the ballroom.”

“Is that why you were eavesdropping on my conversation with my brother?”

“Hardly.” She shot him a mutinous glance. “I was there first, you know, trying to hide from my stepmother.”

“Why?”

She blew out a frustrated breath. “She keeps trying to match me up with gentlemen I don’t care for. I do not need or want a husband, but she refuses to believe me.”

He figured he’d better not say what he was thinking: that perhaps her stepmother was right. As sulky as his unnamed companion was, she also seemed an odd blend of innocent and seductive, the sort that could easily get into trouble with a gentleman. He didn’t yet know what to make of her.

“I see,” he said, for lack of anything better to say. “But I still don’t know your name.”

“Oh! Right.” She shot him a faint smile. “I tend to forget such niceties.”

“I noticed.”

Her smile vanished. “Well, you don’t have to rub it in.”

He burst into laughter. “I swear, you are the most bewildering female I have ever met. Aside from my twin sister, that is.” He bent close to whisper, “I’ll give you her name if that helps you to offer me yours. Hers is Gwyn. And yours is . . .”

“Miss Olivia Norley.”

She said it primly, which he found delightful, though he was a bit disappointed she wasn’t a lustful married woman.

Then she stopped outside an open door. “Anyway, here we are. Shall we go in?”

“If you wish, Miss Norley. This is your endeavor, after all.”

“Right.” She marched inside without a single swish in her step.

He followed, suppressing the urge to laugh at her purposeful manner. At least she had the good sense to situate them at the far end of the room, where they wouldn’t readily be seen by anyone passing by.

She set the glass of champagne on a table that also held a lit