The Duke's Men [1] What the Duke Desires by Sabrina Jeffries Page A

shrugged. “All you need do when you return from France is claim I had an accident
     while we were abroad. I drowned or dropped off a cliff.” He fought a smile. “Or dueled
     with one of your many suitors and died tragically in your arms, wounded by love.”
    “That’s not funny,” she muttered. “And if I claim you died, then I become a widow.
     I’ll have to put on widow’s weeds for a year, not be able to marry for a year, not . . .”
     Her eyes lit up. “Wait a minute, what a fine idea! You’re brilliant!”
    “I always thought so,” he drawled.
    “If I’m a widow, I’m free!” She lifted a shining face to him. “My brothers can stop
     their fruitless search for a husband for me. Widows can do as they please . . . well,
     not completely as they please, but they can do far more than a spinster. I could travel . . . I
     could work for Dom! He wouldn’t be so reluctant to train me, and I could actually be one of his men.”
    He eyed her askance. “I doubt that becoming a widow magically alters one’s sex.”
    “You don’t understand. Shaw and I are always telling new clients that Dom and ‘his
     men’ will handle their cases, even though we know that Dom can’t afford to hire other
     investigators.” She grinned up at him. “But he wouldn’t have to hire anyone else if I worked for him. I could be one of Dom’s ‘men’!”
    The idea of her striding about town asking questions of strangers all alone sent a
     chill down his spine. “Why would you want to do that?” he asked sharply.
    A noise in the inn yard made her glance out the window. “We’ve got to go. The coach
     is about to leave.” She grabbed her bag.
    “I’ll take that,” he said as he extricated it from her hand. “You have a husband,
     remember?”
    Her eyes gleamed at him. “Not for long.” Then she hurried ahead to the coach.
    With a frown, he quickened his steps. “You don’t have to be so cheerful about it,
     Miss Bonnaud. Or so confounded eager to kill me off.”
    “Stop calling me ‘Miss Bonnaud,’ ” she reminded him. “I’m your wife Lisette for the
     time being.”
    “Right. Lisette.” He’d forgotten her Christian name. It suited her.
    He handed her bag up to the footman, then helped her into the coach. Oh yes, the name
     suited her very well. Her French blood showed in the delicate flick of her wrist as
     she settled her traveling cloak and her skirts about her, in the way that she didn’t
     hurry to cover her ankles or hide the bottom of her petticoat . . . even in the unconsciously
     provocative smile she shot Greasley when he drew back his booted foot to keep from
     soiling her hem.
    Maximilian had seen women in Paris move and smile in such a fashion. It came naturally
     to them, was part of who they were. Lisette had that French feminine instinct, too,
     though it was mercifully joined to a healthy dose of English pragmatism and good sense.
    He liked that about her. But given what she’d said, other men didn’t appreciate that
     mixture at all. They must all be daft.
    Obviously women recognized her sensual appeal enough to view her as a threat, or Mrs.
     Greasley wouldn’t be so catty to her. The old biddy probably couldn’t abide having
     a French rose like Lisette growing wild in her neighborhood.
    He settled into his seat in the carriage. If that were the case, Mrs. Greasley was
     going to have heart failure by the time they reached Brighton. Because this was a
     damned small coach, and they were in very close quarters.
    Between the ladies’ petticoats, his height, and the small items protruding from every
     nook and cranny, he felt like a horse in a hatbox. There was scarcely any room for
     his legs, and his head butted up against the ceiling.
    It was even worse once they set off, with the body of the coach swaying and lurching
     at every rut in the road. Holy God, did people actually travel like this? How did
     they stand it?
    He couldn’t imagine how he was going to