Love Match by Maggie MacKeever Page A

someone other than himself.
    Unsettling reflection. He cleared his throat. “Magda is an old friend who has lived most recently in France. Her husband was beheaded. She fled with little more than the clothes on her back.”
    Elizabeth remembered the lady’s scanty garb. “In that case she must have been quite cold.”
    Fortunately the city bells rang out, obscuring that unwifely—or very wifely—comment. Justin glanced at her. “What did you say?”
    Elizabeth was not so imprudent as to repeat herself. “A desperate journey in truth, Your Grace. And so she fled to you.”
    Unless Justin was mistaken, and he didn’t think he was, his companion’s voice held an acerbic note. He supposed it was not surprising that she might be miffed. “I realize it makes an awkward situation. However, I have a certain obligation which leaves me little choice.”
    Obligation, was it? Inclination, more like. If anyone had countless choices, it was the duke. Apparently the large majority of the misses in the marriage mart, not to mention Maman, had been holding a philanderer in high esteem. Lord Charnwood did intend that his light o’ love take up residence under the same roof as his wife.
    This, after all the lectures she had been given by Maman about what was proper and what was not. Up until this moment, Elizabeth had not believed Charnwood could be so wicked. She smoothed her gloves.
    His bride remained silent. Had Justin failed to make his position clear? “Magdalena and I have a history. I was fond of her once. For me to fail and do my duty now would be unconscionable. I trust that you will try and understand.”
    Not a current ladybird, but a previous one? Who would doubtless waste no time in worming her way back into the duke’s embrace? If she had not already done so the previous evening, while the duchess slept alone. “I meant to please you in all things,” Elizabeth retorted. “But I find I do not wish to humor you in this, Your Grace.”
    The spirited blacks that drew the phaeton might have turned their heads and spoke to him, so astonished was the duke, “ Humor me?” he echoed.
    To the devil with duchessly decorum. Elizabeth lifted her chin and met her husband glare for glare. “You will not like such plain-speaking, but I know no other way to phrase it. I do not care to share my honeymoon with your blasted ladybird, St. Clair.”
    As result of this outburst, a number of notions chased themselves through the duke’s startled brain. Surely the chit didn’t mean to defy his authority? He must have misunderstood. Yes, and didn’t her defiance lend an attractive animation to her features, and color to her cheeks? She was trembling with indignation, her bosom quivering with outrage.
    And a nice bosom it was. No fit moment, this, to envision his bride aquiver with an altogether different emotion. Nor could he release the reins to shake her. “You are quick to judge me, madam,” Justin said icily.
    So she had been. Elizabeth didn’t regret her outburst in the least.
    It would hardly do to say so. She watched the passing scenery. “I beg your pardon. For me to question your judgment was a shocking thing. It is not my place to quibble about whomever you decide to include in your household.”
    Her tone was scathing. Though he had already discovered that his bride had a temper, the duke was not best pleased to find that temper directed at himself. Her stubborn chin was outthrust, her lips clamped tight together, her hands clenched in her lap. Justin had a horrid suspicion that at any moment she might burst into tears. He pulled his horses to a stop.
    “I am not the greatest beast in nature,” he said, a little less stiffly. “You might trust me a little, you know.”
    Trust St. Clair? Elizabeth didn’t trust herself to speak. What the duke mistook for tears was a strong desire to kick him in the shins.
    “As for Magdalena, you are under a misapprehension,” he continued. “She is not my ladybird, nor has she