The Duke's Downfall Read Free Page B

guv.”
    The man nodded and did so. As the carriage inched forward, George lowered Boru’s front paws onto his shoulders. The veins in his neck bulged with the effort of supporting the hound’s weight, but slowly he managed to back Boru into the phaeton. Once all four of his feet were firmly planted on the banquette, Boru leaped into the countess’s lap, leaned over the side, and licked George’s face.
    Her grandmother shrieked furiously, the crowd cheered, and Betsy raced toward the Duke of Braxton’s carriage. The coachman had set the brake and climbed down to place the steps when Betsy reached the door, flung it open, and saw the duke sprawled inelegantly on the floor of the coach.
    The sight of him made her heart lurch. Her plan was working, all right, far too well. This was no mere baronet spread-eagled and semiconscious before her, this was a duke! This was not outrageous, this was disastrous. Thinking only of her grandmother’s wrath if she saw him, Betsy impulsively reached into the carriage, clutched the duke’s forest green left sleeve in both hands, and pulled.
    “Up, Your Grace!” she urged, tugging and puffing at his weight. “Quickly—up!”
    With a groggy shake of his head, he tried to push himself up on his right arm. Encouraged, Betsy dug the heels of her soft kid half boots into the paving stones, leaned back to give herself more leverage, and nearly fell backward in a heap when the shoulder seam of his coat gave way with a loud r-i-i-p.
    Horrified, Betsy clapped her gloved hands over her mouth as the duke sat up abruptly, shook his head to clear it, and raised his left arm. The cuff of his sleeve drooped off his fingertips and the snowy white lawn of his shirt gaped through the tear in his shoulder. He gazed at it a moment, nonplussed, then raised his eyes to Betsy’s face.
    “Was I not quick enough?”
    “Oh no, Your Grace! The stitches simply gave way! I’m so dreadfully sorry! But I’m sure it can be repaired. Why, a clever seamstress—” clasping the hem of his wilted cuff, Betsy tugged the sleeve back into place to show him—”with a stitch here, a stitch there—”
    Her overstuffed and very heavy reticule, sent swinging like a pendulum from her left elbow, at that moment reached the farthest point of its arc— which just happened to coincide with the space occupied by the Duke of Braxton’s face. He caught the blow squarely on his jaw, with a solid clunk that sent him reeling backward.
    “Your Grace!” Betsy shrieked, appalled. “Pray, are you hurt? I’m so very sorry! Oh, please, let me help you!”
    As she reached out to take hold of him again, the duke scrambled quickly backward and away from her.
    “There’s no need,” he said, lifting his sagging sleeve to rub his jaw. “I thank you for your concern, but I’m all right. Please feel free, young lady, to rejoin Lady Clymore and get the devil—er— continue on your way.”
    Young lady! Betsy’s cheeks scalded and her temper flared. He was addressing her as if she were a child. “I am a lady, Your Grace, but not an especially young one, for I shall be one and twenty on my next birthday.”
    The duke arched one brow as Betsy, too late, bit her tongue on the faux pas. To tell him her age, she might as well have told him the color of her petticoat. But having said it, she had no choice but to brazen it out, and so went on haughtily, “I own it is my stature—or lack of it—which is deceptive. Though I am quite mature, I am often taken to be much younger.”
    “Perhaps it is your demeanor rather than your stature that causes the confusion,” he suggested. “It would appear that you and your pet are well suited. Is he often mistaken for a horse?”
    “Only,” Betsy retorted, stung by his setdown, “by the very ignorant or the very shortsighted.”
    “Young lady,” the duke replied flatly, “I am not so lacking in wit or vision that I cannot recognize a menace to public safety. In future, kindly curb your pet.