If the duke thought she would accept his lies, he was mistaken. Thanks to her recent—and far too frequent—excursions into society, she’d learned there were many ways to wage a war. Including the art of womanly charm—or derision, as it were.
She’d see the duke clamoring to have her out of sight.
“Come, Elise.” She hooked her arm through her chaperone’s. “I do believe I’m inspired to commission a whole new style of dress.”
Concern flitted across Elise’s face. “Lace eyelets?” she asked, surely without hope.
Anna smiled. “Insectum,” she said, proud of her Latin.
Elise, wisely, looked terrified.
Chapter Eight
At his butler’sinstruction, Jackson made his way to the front parlor and opened the door to see his younger brother stretched out on the divan, a newspaper in hand. Ten years his junior, the gangly boy Jackson remembered had filled out into a young man—too thin still by far—but with a healthy quality in his chest and cheeks that hadn’t been present the last time Jackson had visited his family’s country seat.
“If you’re going to stand there and stare, Carter, you may as well have a sketch,” Figaro said. “Something you can take back to your cave under the cupboard and admire at your leisure.”
Jackson smiled at the crass statement and leaned on the doorframe. “Have a running flirtation with our butler, do you, Fig? No wonder the old man couldn’t look me in the eye when I arrived.”
Figaro paused but didn’t look up from his paper. “What’s this? A stranger lurking in the parlor? One who sounds a great deal like a gentleman I know. But it couldn’t possibly be my wayward brother; that quip was far too witty.”
“You’ll never know if you don’t look up from the scandal sheets. I’m not in there, in case you were desperate for a glimpse of my illustrious name.”
“I wouldn’t expect anything so interesting from you.” Figaro turned his head to give Jackson the once-over. “Brother.” He nodded in greeting. “You look in fine feather.” He squinted. “Truly, you look well. Finally tried that whole sleep thing everyone lauds?”
“A solid two hours a night,” Jackson said.
“Hmm.” Figaro tapped his chin. “If it’s not rest, it can only be one other thing.”
Jackson waited, knowing his brother’s humor was rarely straightforward.
Figaro shook his head. “Please tell me you are using protection?”
Maybe not so straightforward.
“Sheep’s gut, linen, and fish bladder as the occasion calls for,” Jackson lied.
“Iwas speaking of equine equipment.” Figaro’s scowl was anything but disapproving. “Really, brother, London has turned you quite vulgar.” A grin. “I do hope none of the bare-backed beauties caused you to lose your seat.”
“Whose vulgarity is in question here?”
“Not to worry, brother,” Figaro said. “I’ll get better with age.”
Jackson sighed, his brother’s easy nature a comfort knowing his next conversation wouldn’t go so smoothly. “Make sure to be on your best behavior should the local vicar arrive.”
“Seeing as the man wouldn’t be caught inside Grandfellow Hall for all the jewels in Buckingham, I see little need to curb my charm.”
“We’ll see what my soon-to-be wife thinks of this supposed charm you boast of possessing.”
“‘Wife’!” Figaro shot out of his seat and grabbed Jackson by the shoulders, his earlier teasing giving way to utter disbelief. “Who? When?Why?”
Jackson chuckled, and at the same time, he noted Figaro must have grown six inches since his last visit; they were now eye level. “I should think thewhywas obvious.”
“Not in your case. Is she foreign? Disfigured? Slurps when she should sip?”
“Your list of potential faults in a woman does you no credit.”
Figaro sniffed. “I should think the fault lies with you.”
