His Duchess (His and Hers 1)

“Good night, then,” he bid them with a quick bow.

Northfield gave Taviston an unhappy look. “I will walk home with you,” he said while putting up his hand when Taviston began to protest. “I will not speak of Miss Forster again. However, you will be subjected to my prattling on about my newborn son!”

Taviston flashed him a smile and waved him on. Any topic was better than that of Miss Victoria Forster. He stopped briefly to retrieve the three books he had left in the cloakroom and then he and Northfield quit the club.

TAVISTON SURVEYED THE main room in which the Langstons were holding their rout. The evening was decidedly boring. He knew almost everyone in the room and yet he did not have the desire to speak with any of them. Northfield and Jane had decided to stay home this evening. He had tried to entice James into accompanying him, to no avail. James had nothing in common with the young peacocks his own age and preferred to spend his evenings working or, God help him, even rarely joining Peyton for a night of amusement.

No, there was no one of interest here. Regrettably, he had spied Louisa Browne at various times during the course of the evening. He had been doing his damnedest to avoid her, but she had attempted to corner him twice already. Curiously, there was no sign of Mrs. Browne’s “country cousin.” He stayed only in the hope that Lady Tessa Colvin would present herself. He still wanted an introduction to her.

“Dearest Taviston. There you are, my handsome fellow.”

The shrill voice of Louisa Browne made him realize he had remained in one place too long and she had trapped him.

“Good evening, Mrs. Browne,” he said with resignation. Escape was essential. As soon as possible.

“Darling duke, I have told you many times, call me Louisa. We intimate friends shouldn’t use such formality.” She placed her hand on his sleeve and moved even closer.

He disengaged his arm from her hand and clasped his hands behind his back. Then he turned his frostiest stare on her. “We are not intimate nor are we friends, Mrs. Browne.”

She used his new position to her advantage and slid around to his right side, slipping her arm through his and pulling him closer. She lowered her voice, “Ah, but I have informed you many times, my dearest duke, intimacy with me is yours for the asking.”

Taviston craved a scalding hot bath. He withdrew his arm once again and stepped away from her. His next words were spoken through clenched teeth. “And I have advised you on those occasions that I am not in any way interested in what you have to offer, Mrs. Browne.”

She advanced toward him once again. In desperation, he threw out a question sure to set her off-balance. “Where is your cousin?”

Her smug smile froze in confusion. “Why ever do you care?”

“Where is she, Mrs. Browne?”

Louisa finally inched back away from him and scowled. “The little twit stayed home with a headache. It’s not as if anyone will miss her. She hasn’t a prayer of succeeding on the marriage mart.”

Poor Miss Forster, to be saddled with such a callous relative. “Inform Victoria that I have something of hers. I will send it over with a footman tomorrow.”

He took great pleasure in using Miss Forster’s given name and seeing the look of astonishment on Louisa’s face. He turned and left her with her mouth gaping.

LOUISA BROWNE’S CREAM silk dressing gown trailed behind her as she stalked around her gilded bedchamber. The situation with her cousin had gone from bad to worse.

“Why, oh why, couldn’t Browne have left that little mouse in the country?” she screamed. “It can hardly be an imposition to keep one small girl at his Rippingale estate. She can’t possibly eat all that much and she certainly doesn’t need fancy gowns for country living in a small village!”

“Why does your cousin’s presence stir you to s

uch madness? She’s a plain little baggage of no consequence,” Morgan drawled from his prone position on the bed. He lay there like a privileged Caesar from times gone by, tangled amidst the sheets.

Louisa ignored him for the time being; he was a servant, after all. Things had been proceeding smoothly until two months ago, when her husband’s minute honorable streak had surfaced. On their trip to Rippingale, Browne had suddenly remembered his duty as guardian to Victoria. He had insisted on giving the little twit a Season in London, under the tutelage of his wife.

Little did Browne know, Louisa had been banking on his absentmindedness. She purposely never mentioned her cousin’s name or status. She wanted Browne to forget about Victoria.

“Because of the twenty thousand pounds!” she said aloud while whipping around to face the indolent Morgan.

He propped himself up on his elbows and Louisa didn’t fail to notice the glint in his weasel-like brown eyes. As the situation had become more desperate, she had realized she might need some help. Her servant/lover could do that.

Morgan said nothing but waited. Louisa folded her arms across her chest, continuing to pace aggressively.

“My grandmother, Mrs. Flora Putnam—actually she was grandmother to both Victoria and me—left twenty thousand pounds in a trust as part of her final bequest. Whichever of us produces a child first, receives the twenty thousand pounds outright. And yes, before you ask, she was a dotty old woman.”

“When did she die?”

“Nine years ago,” Louisa replied reluctantly.