Andrea Kane Read Free Page A

gasped, then slapped him with all of her strength. “You are a bastard!” she spat out through clenched teeth.
    He didn’t even blink. “And you are a slut.”
    He walked around her, throwing open the library door. “We have nothing further to say to each other. Get out, Abigail.”
    Braden waited for the resounding slam of the entranceway door as confirmation of her departure, then poured himself a brandy. Abigail hadn’t changed one iota. But then, he hadn’t expected she would.
    He could still remember her theatrics when he had ended their betrothal three years ago. It had been much the same as the scene she had enacted just now, only then she had protested her innocence, whereas today she had not. A wise decision, considering her continued wanton behavior.
    Braden lifted the glass to his lips and swallowed deeply. Well, the whole damned ton was welcome to her. She was actually quite accomplished in bed, if one cared nothing about the consequences. As far as he was concerned, a paid courtesan was a far better choice. Braden was more than willing to part with his money, which was in abundant supply. But at least with a fille de joie he could retain his title, his name, and his self-respect.
    The library door closed with a thud.
    “What happened?”
    Braden turned at the sound of his uncle’s voice, facing Lord Cyril Sheffield with an expression carved in granite.
    “I presume you are referring to my conversation with Abigail?”
    The tall, middle-aged man nodded, displeasure evident in his rigid stance.
    “I just saw her bolt out the entranceway door. She was quite distraught.”
    “Pity.” Braden tossed down the remaining contents of his drink, then regarded the empty glass thoughtfully. “She came here today hoping that I had experienced a change of heart with regard to our severed betrothal.” His lips quirked in amusement. “Or perhaps she hoped that I had suffered a selective memory loss and had forgotten all that had preceded our … er, parting.”
    Cyril sighed, smoothing the collar of his greatcoat as he broached the unpleasant subject of Braden’s future with Abigail Devon. “Your father did make an agreement with William Devon when you were but a boy,” he reminded his nephew.
    Braden’s magnetic hazel eyes darkened to a smoldering slate gray. “Let us not begin this argument again, Cyril. I have as little respect for my parents’ wishes as they always showed for mine. What they may or may not have wanted me to do no longer matters to me.”
    “I am your uncle, Braden. What you do affects the Sheffield name. Think of that, if not your father.”
    Braden gave Cyril a contemptuous look. “ ’Tis a shame that Father could not have left his title to you when he died. You would have taken far better care of it than I do.”
    “Braden—”
    Braden slammed his fist down so hard that the ornate wooden table shook from the impact. “That woman is a trollop at best. When I marry, it will be to someone I like and respect. Surely that is not too much to ask, even for a duke.” The taunting words silenced his uncle. Braden’s irreverent feelings about his title were no secret to Cyril Sheffield. There would be no winning this argument.
    He took a deep breath and tried in a more understated tone.
    “Braden, if you would just be reasonable—”
    “Is it unreasonable that a man should demand some degree of respect from the woman he is expected to marry?”
    Cyril grew silent at the implication of Braden’s words. He was well aware of the fact that over the years Braden had shown not a shred of interest in the prospect of marrying Abigail. And her involvement with men hadn’t helped.
    Cyril shrugged. “I do not believe it is a question of respect, Braden. It is your duty to marry and provide Sherburgh with an heir.”
    Braden’s lips tightened. “Of course it is. However, I am hardly ancient. I still have time to fulfill my familial obligations, Cyril, and I will choose a suitable wife.