My American Duchess Read Free

well?”
    “‘Grope’ is perhaps too strong,” Merry said, noticing the air of menace that suddenly hung about those large shoulders. “‘Fondle’ would be more accurate.”
    Her clarification didn’t improve matters. “Who was it?” he demanded. His brows were a dark line.
    She certainly didn’t want to be responsible for an unpleasant confrontation. “I haven’t any idea,” she said, fibbing madly.
    “I collect that you did not faint.”
    “Certainly not. I defended myself.”
    “I see,” he said, looking interested. “How did you do that, exactly?”
    “I stuck him with my hat pin,” Merry explained.
    “Your hat pin?”
    She nodded, and showed him one of the two diamond hat pins adorning the tops of her gloves. “In America, we pleat silk gloves at the top and thread a hat pin through. They hold up your gloves, but they can also be used to ward off wandering hands.”
    “Very resourceful,” he said with a nod.
    “Yes, well, the lord in question might have squealed loudly,” she told him impishly. “Everyone might have turned around to look. And I might have patted his arm and said that I knew that boils could be very troublesome. Did you know, by the way, that a treatment of yarrow is used for boils, but it will also stop a man’s hair from falling out?”
    She could feel herself turning pink. He had no need of that remedy. Although cropped short, his hair was quite thick, as best she could see on the shadowy balcony.
    But he gave a deep chuckle, and Merry relaxed, realizing that it was the first time all week—perhaps even all month—she felt free to be herself. This man actually seemed to like it when a bit of information escaped from her mouth.
    “Happily, I am ignorant about boils,” he said. “Are American ladies typically knowledgeable about such matters?”
    “I can’t help recalling facts,” she confessed. “It’s a sad trial to me because it’s hard to remember in time that they ought not to be shared.”
    “Why not?”
    The corners of the man’s stern mouth had tipped upward in a most beguiling fashion. In fact, she found herself starting to lean toward him before she caught herself.
    “There are few acceptable topics of conversation in London. It is quite wearying to try to remember what one is allowed to discuss,” she said with some feeling.
    “Bonnets, but not boils?”
    He must be something of a rake, Merry decided. The way his eyes laughed was very alluring.
    “Exactly,” she said, nodding. “British ladies are discriminating conversationalists.”
    “Don’t tell me you have ambitions to master the art of saying nothing.”
    Merry laughed. “I fear I shall never become an expert at fashionable bibble-babble. What I truly dislike,” she said, finding herself confiding in him for no reason other than the fact that he seemed genuinely interested, “is that—”
    She stopped, realizing that the subject was leading her to insult his countrymen. She was still a guest in this country, at least until she married Cedric; she should keep unfavorable opinions to herself.
    The expression in his eyes was intoxicating, if only because no one else she’d met was interested in the impressions that an American had of their country. She loved London, if only for its marvelous public gardens, but there were aspects of polite society that she found tiresome.
    “It’s the way people speak to each other,” she explained,choosing her words carefully. “They are clever, but their cleverness so frequently seems to take the form of an insult.”
    Merry felt her cheeks growing warm. He must think her a complete simpleton. “It’s not that I don’t appreciate a witticism. But so very many remarks come at someone’s expense.”
    He frowned at that. “Such people talk nothing but nonsense, and you should ignore them,” he ordered.
    “I can’t, but I am learning to control my temper.”
    “I believe I’d like to see you in a passion.”
    “You may mock me if you like,