Maggie MacKeever Read Free Page B

Between us there was no love lost.”
    “I say, Uncle Duke, that’s dashed handsome of you.” Enthusiastically Lord Sweetbriar grasped and pumped Mr. Thorne’s hand. “But why the deuce, after all these years, have you decided to come home now? Not that I ain’t glad to see you!” He too addressed Clytie. “Uncle Duke has been living in Russia, doing some sort of diplomatic stuff.”
    Marmaduke Thorne’s most artful missions would be undertaken in the boudoir, Miss Clough unappreciatively thought, and then blushed not at her indelicacy but as result of the suspicion that he perfectly understood her thoughts. “How nice,” she murmured repressively. “I have errands to execute. If you gentlemen will excuse me—”
    “Not yet, Miss—er?” Mr. Thorne insured that his request was obeyed by gently tucking Clytie’s hand through his arm. Stunned by such impudence, she only half heard Lord Sweetbriar’s belated introductions. “As to why I departed Russia,” Mr. Thorne continued blandly, “the rumor is that Napoleon plans to invade Moscow.”
    “Napoleon?” Lord Sweetbriar echoed blankly, in the same instant as Miss Clough regained her powers of speech. “Unhand me immediately, sir!” she snapped.
    “I’m afraid I cannot do that, Miss Clough.” Apologetically, Mr. Thorne smiled. “I have not been so long out of England that I have forgotten that it is most improper for a young lady to go about without an adequate escort.”
    At this suggestion that she should be deficient in her grasp of the proprieties, Miss Clough’s breast swelled. In Mr. Thorne’s blue eye, an appreciative twinkle danced. Had she had both hands free, she might well have boxed the rascal’s ears, and to the devil with propriety, Clytie decided.
    Oblivious alike to provocation and indignation, Lord Sweetbriar said enthusiastically: “You must stay at the house, Uncle Duke. I’ll have a room prepared. Yes, and I must tell Lady Regina also. Dashed if I can think what she’ll say to this!” Anxious to discover what pearls of wisdom might drop from his beloved’s lips, Lord Sweetbriar turned away. Over his shoulder he added: “Come to dinner, Uncle Duke. Maybe you can tell me what to do about Nikki’s jewels!”
    “Definitely a mooncalf,” remarked Mr. Thorne, as with interest he observed his nephew’s regal progress down Oxford Street. “And now I shall escort you to your destination, Miss Clough, if you will only tell me where you wish to go.”
    ‘“We are at my destination!” snapped Clytie, who had for some inexplicable reason been evaluating her assets, the grand total of which she suspected was a great deal less feminine pulchritude than her companion was accustomed to, and was subsequently very cross. “And I am more than adequately served by my footman. If this is the way you conduct your diplomatic undertakings, sir, there is no question but that Russia will be invaded by the French.”
    “And it will be all my fault, I apprehend. Are you trying to deliver me a set-down, Miss Clough?” Ignoring Clytie’s reference to her footman, Mr. Thorne conducted her through the portals of the Pantheon Bazaar. “If so, you must do better than that, or I shall fail to take your point. Yes, I know I am abominably provoking, but you look thoroughly adorable when you glower at me. Rather like a kitten trying to look severe.”
    “Odious man!” In spite of herself, Miss Clough began to be amused by her impertinent escort. “Have you never been snubbed?”
    Mr. Thorne’s swarthy features were ruminative. “I daresay I must have been, but I cannot recall. Now you will accuse me of having an insuperable vanity, and of being insufferably pushing—or perhaps of holding an excessively high, and highly unmerited, opinion of myself.”
    “I shall do no such thing. It would be monstrous ill-bred.” Clytie tried very hard to be prim. “Instead I shall content myself with voicing my conclusion that your entire family must be