The Art of Duke Hunting by Sophia Nash Page B

March.”
    “Then why did you say—”
    “To suggest what you should tell other people when they ask why the seabirds are too damn dark.”
    “So you’re telling me to lie, Montagu?”
    “Of course. For the sake of art.”
    “You forgot that vice in your list of family faults.”
    “Not at all, March.” He smiled. “I just lied when I told you the list.”
    She laughed. “Are you always like this?”
    “How?”
    “You don’t act very much like other dukes I know.”
    “I beg your pardon,” he said, acting extraordinarily affronted.
    “The two I know don’t smile very often.” She paused and squinted at him wearing her spectacles. “Do my eyes look that large when I wear those?”
    He carefully removed them and handed them to her. “Twice as large, I assure you. Shall we take the air then?” He offered an arm, which she accepted.
    “And why do you not paint since it so obviously gives you pleasure, Montagu?” She liked very much using his family name instead of his title.
    He pulled her closer to the cliff and gazed at the grassy ledge as he spoke. “Producing art is a trifling effort best left to men who are dreamers, or far worse. Math and science are truth. They are the primary efforts that solve the world’s problems.”
    “I should not like to be there if you decide to spout your ideas concerning artists in a museum.” She stopped and darted a glance to see his cool expression. “Well,” she continued, “you’re allowed an opinion. But if you think being an artist is of so little importance, what about someone who fritters away their time going from amusement to diversion with a band of renegade dukes who drink day in and day out?”
    “I do not go to amusements and drink all day.” He paused before the smallest smile teased his mouth. “I only do that at night, and only on occasion.”
    “And during the day?”
    His sky blue eyes bore into hers and his mysterious, intense expression added to the devastating image he presented. She wondered how many ladies had given their hearts to him.
    “During the day I decide what diversions I will choose for that night,” he replied in a way that spoke of the opposite.
    “Why do you do that?”
    “What?”
    “Pretend to be a jaded rake.”
    “Perhaps I am a jaded rake.”
    “You’re not,” she insisted. “I know that animal very well.”
    “Really?” His eyebrows rose.
    “Yes. For example, I would say the out and out bounder in the royal entourage is the Duke of Abshire, no?”
    She noticed he had a funny habit of scratching the back of his head when he didn’t want to answer a question.
    “Well,” he said slowly, “he is not an innocent. Are you well acquainted with Abshire?”
    “Don’t look so surprised. We are, of course, acquainted.”
    “How so?”
    “I was raised in Derbyshire and so was he. And he was one of my husband’s intimates for a time. A very short time, actually.” She tried to keep the wistfulness out of her tone. “His ducal seat lies in the parish next to our manor, or rather the new Earl of Derby’s manor.”
    “I don’t recall well your husband, March. Was he a good man? Or are you glad to be rid of the nuisance of a husband ordering you about?”
    She dropped her arm from his and stared at the sea from the path on the cliff. A strong wind buffeted her hair and she knew she would look like a washerwoman by the time they returned to the inn for supper. She really didn’t care at all. “He was the best of men, Montagu.” She paused and whispered the last, “And the worst.”

Chapter 4
    A s Roman dressed for the revelry on the village green that early evening, his mind turned to the last words she had uttered before she had changed the subject and insisted they return to the Horse & Hound to prepare for the festivities.
    It appeared the folk on Wight organized merriment on that day each year. And since there was nothing better in the offing, the majority of those who had been aboard the ship had