Bewitching Read Free Page A

footman had the gold and green crested door open before the frothing four-horse team had settled to a standstill.
    Alec Castlemaine, Duke of Belmore, had arrived at his club.
    As his champagne polished boot hit the curb, a nearby shop clock struck five. It was Wednesday and, when in town, the Duke of Belmore could be seen in front of White's at exactly
five o'clock
every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday.
    It was ritual. It was routine. It was the way of the Duke of Belmore. In fact only last season Lord Alvaney had quipped that he knew his watch had stopped when it read
three o'clock
as Belmore entered the club. The Haston Bakery turned its sign and locked its door when the black carriage rattled past, and many a wager had been recorded in Boodle's betting book on Belmore's town schedule. It was as predictable as English tea.
    And today the Earl of Downe and Viscount Seymour accompanied Belmore. Richard Lennox, Earl of   Downe, was a tall, handsome man with blond hair and dark eyes, a biting wit, and of late, a sharp acid view of the world; Neil Herndon, Viscount Seymour was shorter and leaner with hair as bright as a new copper ha'penny. Downe had once said that Seymour was so nervous and fidgety he could make a dead man twitch.
    The three men had been boon companions for nearly twenty of their twenty-eight years, and yet neither Downe nor Seymour really understood what made Alec Castlemaine tick. It was one of the few things on which the two agreed.
    They knew Alec could throw a deadly right cross with what looked like no more effort than it took to swat a fly. They knew that there wasn't a horse alive that Alec could not control with the casual skill of the Devil himself. And they knew that whenever Alec desired something, he went after it and won it with what seemed to be determined ease. The Duke of Belmore had but to snap his fingers and the world jumped.
    Many women had tried and failed to win the heart of Alec Castlemaine. All they had received for their efforts, no matter how valiant, was the ducal glare. Richard and Neil were the two people closest to Belmore, and even they could not elicit from him anything more than a cool friendship.
    Shortly after they met at Eton , the Earl of Downe had taken up the challenge of goading some emotional reaction out of Belmore, and over the years Downe had done his best to crack his friend's icy facade.
    This evening was no different.
    Alec spoke to the carriage driver and then turned, only to find his path blocked by a rather remarkable-looking old woman no bigger than a ten-year-old boy. Her huge dilapidated red straw bonnet looked twice as big as her gray head, and her ragged gray velvet dress and a blue shawl hung loose from her narrow shoulders. She carried a wicker basket filled with fresh flowers, and in one gnarled hand she held up a small but perfect nosegay of English ivy and fresh violets.
    " 'Ave a lovely posy fer yer lady, yer Lordship."
    "Your Grace," he corrected in an icy tone that had been known to freeze many an unfortunate man in his boots.
    The old woman, however, did not move. She just peered up at him out of crinkled gray eyes.
    He moved to step around her, but the sweet, fresh scent of the flowers stopped him. He paused for a silent, thoughtful moment, then took the posy and tossed the crone a coin, figuring he'd give the flowers to Juliet tonight at the Linleys' ball. He started to move toward the door when he felt a bony hand clutch his arm.
    "Fer 'nother shilling, Yer Grace, I'll tell ye yer fortune."
    Uninterested in such foolishness, Alec shook her off, but Viscount Seymour—who was known to be the most superstitious young man on English soil—stopped him.
    "It's bad luck to pass her by, Belmore."
    The Earl of Downe leaned casually back against the door of the club, effectively blocking the entrance and resting his good arm on his injured one, which he wore in a sling. After eyeing Alec he reached into his pocket and tossed the hag a half crown."Best