I Love the Earl by Caroline Linden Page A

Rhys. “I also am to advise you that the Duke of Durham does not care for masquerades, and will not be in attendance, fortunately for you.”
    “Bugger him,” scoffed Clyve, but Rhys waved him into silence.
    “He disapproves?”
    “He was vehemently displeased by your wandering about Vauxhall the other night.” Done distributing the ham, Eccleston put his hand under the chair, where it was lovingly washed by his hounds. “He gave me quite a glare when Miss de Lacey returned to the supper box looking pale and flustered, even though she told him she was quite well and he needn’t worry. Sent us right out, with the companion, too. Clarissa said they argued when they reached home, but she regards Miss de Lacey as a sort of queenly tiger, and quite capable of holding her own.” Rhys grinned at the description. “Still, His Grace won’t be pleased to see you, no matter what his sister says. Not much gentlemanly decorum in that one.”
    “Not a gentleman at all,” sniffed Clyve.
    “I think he’d cut out your liver with his own knife, if you crossed him,” added Eccleston.
    “He promised her she would have her choice,” Rhys said, beginning to hum with elated anticipation. “And it appears she is on the brink of making it.”

 
    C HAPTER E IGHT
    I f Margaret had any illusions about her brother’s attention or temper altering under the weight of his ducal crown, she was swiftly disabused.
    She took her time going back into the box in Vauxhall, still trying to sort out her feelings over what had happened on her walk with Lord Dowling. First, and most delightfully, he kissed her—and so spectacularly well, her knees still felt a bit weak. She could see fewer and fewer reasons not to encourage his suit: He was charming, attentive, thoughtful, decent, and bloody beautiful, as Clarissa so aptly put it. He held her as if he could hardly restrain his baser urges, and his kiss . . . She touched unsteady fingers to her lips, remembering. Would he really have kissed her that way when she was still a spinster from Holborn? Would he have said to her then, as he did tonight, that he was losing his heart to her? Margaret was becoming more and more certain he might have. And the less she believed him to be just another bankrupt in search of a rich wife, the more she admitted she might be falling in love, too.
    Fortunately she sent him off before walking into what turned out to be a bitter quarrel. Francis, who had hitherto shown a commendable lack of interest in her suitors, was waiting when she returned. She knew it would be bad when she found him alone in the supper box. Instinctively she halted in the doorway.
    “Where were you?” he asked through thin lips, his arms folded over his chest.
    “Walking. Where were you?” She looked around the box. “Where have Clarissa and Mr. Eccleston gone? And Miss Cuthbert?”
    “Eccleston took Miss Stacpoole home, with Miss Cuthbert chaperoning. Where were you?” he repeated.
    “I went for a stroll with Lord Dowling.” There was no reason to lie, as everyone had seen them leave.
    “Dowling,” he said harshly. “Dowling, the Welsh earl who hasn’t a shilling to his name?”
    “Dowling, the charming gentleman who’s become my friend?” She widened her eyes. “Yes, that’s the one.”
    “The one who’s after your dowry, you mean.”
    “Pish.” Margaret laughed lightly, sensing his temper was truly engaged and trying to divert it. “That bloody dowry. You really ought to take it back, Francis.”
    “That’s what he wants, Meg,” her brother warned, ignoring her attempts. “Don’t allow yourself to be seduced by a wastrel.”
    “How do you know he’s a wastrel?” she demanded, irked. “How do you know he’s any different from Lord Sandridge or Viscount Lavoy?”
    He glowered at her. “I’ve heard tales.”
    “Tales of what? Dead sheep?” She shook her head. “How is his misfortune any different than Mr. Twiston’s?” The Twistons had been their