My Fair Temptress Read Free Page B

Michael and Jude, on how a Durant should at all times behave. With proper civility had been the correct reply, and indeed Jude had never seen his father behave in any other manner.
    Of course, neither had he indulged in obvious displays of affection for anyone, although since Michael’s death and Jude’s return from Europe, Jude had begun to suspect his father hid feelings deep within his portentous breast. But that was not a suspicion he could express to his father, and in return, his father been restrained in expressing his thoughts about Jude’s lifestyle or his manner of dressing…although the provocation had been extreme.
    Jude hid a grin as Nevett said abruptly, “It was a mistake to send you on the Grand Tour. I acknowledge that now.”
    Jude bowed his head.
    “Not because of Michael. Not because of that. That…happened. It was regrettable.” Nevett turned his face toward the miniature of Michael, painted when he was sixteen, which sat on the table by his elbow. The portrait-maker hadn’t captured the twinkle in Michael’s eyes or the laugh with which he greeted life, but the paints represented his fiery red hair and green eyes all too realistically for those still mourning his memory. “I’m concerned with you now. Only with you.”
    “Then why the regrets, sir?” Jude had left three years ago, at the age of twenty-six, and returned three months ago, a new man. Before, he had been studious, industrious, the second son who took his responsibilities seriously. Now he was a bon vivant—and a man with a purpose. “Italy, the Alps, Russia, the Rhone, France, the Pyrenees—they broadened my horizons, which was your expressed reason for our going.”
    “And you’re living proof that there is such a thing as horizons that are too broad and, er, colorful.” Nevett cut off Jude’s protest with a slash of his broad hand. “You were the perfect son when you left. Restrained. Strong. Silent. And now you are…are…” Words failed Nevett, but he gestured feebly at Jude’s slouched figure.
    “More perfect?” Jude suggested.
    “Not quite that.” Nevett’s mouth settled into a grim line. “You are Frenchified.”
    Jude sat up straight. “Do you really think so? That is the finest compliment you’ve ever given me, sir! When I visited France, it was as if I found my cultural home. The food! The art! The fashion! So superior! So grand! On the grounds of Versailles, I swore I would live the civilization as it was meant to be lived.” Drawing his fan from inside his coat, Jude snapped it open and fanned his face in simulated excitement, hiding a smile.
    The duke of Nevett was a man who had been taught from his cradle the traditional English contempt for the French. The English and French were now allies, of course, united in their struggle to keep Russia from taking the lucrative continent of Asia under its control, but Nevett remembered Napoleon and the trouble he caused across Europe. Nevett eschewed the rage for French chefs and served good English beef at every occasion. Only English tailors dressed Nevett. Now his son, his adult son, raved like a madman about French culture and its superiority, and only Nevett’s vaunted English reserve kept him from shouting his hostile opinion.
    Jude wondered if this would prove the breaking point, if His Grace would give his honest opinion at last.
    He did not. He ground his white teeth like a frustrated bear and fixed Jude with a hostile gaze. Folding his newspaper, he dropped it beside his chair. “You know why I called you here.”
    “No, sir,” Jude said in all truthfulness.
    “I want a grandson.”
    Jude blinked. “Sir, I’m unwed.”
    “That is painfully clear. And how you’ll manage to attract a bride in your current condition is beyond me.”
    “In my current condition?” Standing, Jude strolled languidly across to the mirror and considered his own reflection. Dark brown hair, swept into a careless, dashing style. Black tailcoat. Plaid trousers.