How to Master Your Marquis Read Free Page A

with each leg pressed to a crease so acute that Stefanie might have sliced an apple with it.
    If Sir John Worthington had ever encountered trouble with the ladies, Stefanie judged, it was not without a significant intake of champagne beforehand. On both his part and hers.
    Still, Stefanie was a princess of Holstein-Schweinwald-Huhnhof, and what was more, she had never yet met a living being she had not been able to charm.
    “Good morning, Sir John,” she began cheerfully, and tripped over the edge of the rug.
    Time was supposed to slow down during accidents of this sort, or so Stefanie had heard, but all she knew was a flying blur and a full-body jolt and a sense of horrified bemusement at the sensation of threadbare carpet beneath her chin. A feminine gasp reached her ears, and she was nearly certain it wasn’t her own.
    A pair of large and unadorned hands appeared before her, suspended between her face and the forest of chair and sofa legs. “I say. Are you quite all right?” asked a sonorous voice, which in its velvet baritone perfection could only belong to the Archangel.
    Was it manly to accept his hand in rising? It was a marvelous hand, less refined than she might have expected, square and strong boned, with a row of uniform calluses along the palm. The fingers flexed gently in welcome, an image of controlled power.
    Stefanie swallowed heavily.
    “Quite all right,” she said, rather more breathily than she had planned. She gathered herself and jumped to her feet, ignoring the Archangel’s splendid hands. “New shoes, you know.”
    A little giggle floated from the sofa.
    Among the sounds that Stefanie could not abide, the female giggle ranked high: well above the drone of a persistent black fly, for example, and only just beneath the musical efforts of a debutante on a badly tuned piano.
    She shot the sofa an accusing glance.
    A young lady sat there, utterly dainty, perfectly composed, with a smug little smile turning up one corner of her mouth. She was beautiful in exactly the way that Stefanie was not: delicate features, soft dark eyes, curling black hair, rose-petal skin without the hint of a freckle. Though she reclined with languorous grace upon the sofa, one tiny pink silk slipper peeking from beneath her pink silk dress, she was clearly of petite proportions, designed to make the long-shanked Stefanies of the world appear as racetrack colts.
    Except that Stefanie herself was no longer a young lady, was she?
    “Charlotte, my dear,” said Sir John, “it is hardly a matter for amusement.”
    “Nothing is a matter of amusement for you , Uncle John,” said his dear Charlotte, with a sharp laugh.
    Stefanie expected Sir John’s face to empurple at this saucy (if accurate) assessment, but instead he heaved a sigh. “Mr. Thomas, I have the honor to introduce to you my ward, Lady Charlotte Harlowe, who lives with me in Cadogan Square, and who will, I’m sure, have as much advice for you as she does for me.”
    Lady Charlotte held out her spotless little hand. “Mr. Thomas. How charming.”
    Stefanie strode forward and touched the ceremonial tips of her fingers. “Enchanted, Lady Charlotte.”
    “Indeed,” said Sir John. “And I believe you’ve already made acquaintance with the Marquess of Hatherfield.”
    “Your friend is a marquess?”
    “Yes. Hatherfield practically lives in our drawing room, don’t you, my boy?” Sir John looked grimly over her shoulder.
    Stefanie turned. “Lord Hatherfield?”
    She spoke with solemn composure, but her head was spinning. The Archangel was a marquis ? Good God! What other gifts could possibly have been lavished on his head by an adoring Creator? Did he spin gold from his fingertips?
    A marquis. Practically living in his drawing room, the old fellow had said.
    God help her.
    The Archangel Hatherfield grinned widely and shook her hand. The calluses tickled pleasantly against her palm. “It’s a great pleasure to meet you, Mr. Thomas. I admire your pluck