The Duchess and Desperado by Laurie Grant Page A

said. “Yes, do go see if Mr. Calhoun needs assistance.”
    And so Sarah found herself waiting in her room for a good fifteen minutes, listening to Lord Halston fume that they were going to be late, and what would everyone say if the duchess were late to the reception being given in her honor?
    At last Celia opened the door and said that Mr. Calhoun was dressed, and if her grace was ready, they could depart for the reception.
    Her mouth was suddenly dry, her pulse pounding Sarah rose halfway out of her seat, then sank back and reached for her bottle of scent. She applied the moistened stopper to her wrists, the area behind her ears and between her breasts, and smiled slightly at herself when she smelled the rose essence. Then she arose and started for the door, only to stop stockstill halfway out of the room and step back to the mirror. She’d almost gone out there in front of Calhoun wearing her spectacles—that would never do! Sarah frowned as she removed the gold-rimmed circles of glass and everything farther than six feet from her became blurry.
    She supposed she had so many material blessings as the Duchess of Malvern that wishing for perfect eyesight was a little ungrateful of her, but she wished it anyway. Taking as deep a breath as her corset would allow, she stepped into the other room
    Immediately she heard a sharp intake of breath. A dark-clad figure lounging in a chair by the door sprang to attention.
    â€œDuchess, I...I reckon you look pretty as a...well, I don’t know what to compare you to, ma’am. You look beautiful, and that’s a fact.”
    Sarah felt the blush spreading down from her scalp all the way to her toes as she came close enough to be able to focus on him.
    â€œHer grace’s appearance is of no concern to you, Mr. Calhoun,” she heard her uncle mutter.
    â€œDon’t be tiresome, uncle,” she chided. “I could hear you fussing from inside my room. Mr. Calhoun is very nice to compliment me.”
    Now close enough to be able to see Morgan Calhoun clearly, she could tell the man was transformed. From somewhere he had managed to find a black frock coat and trousers, and a dazzlingly white shirt with a stiffly starched, upstanding collar and wide, red-striped tie knotted at his neck. The coat had been made for a man with narrower shoulders, though it was not as ill-fitting as Uncle Frederick’s would have been, but it would do very well until he could have a tailor take his exact measurements and make something especially for him. He looked imposing—and the stark black and white of his clothes made him look formidable, Sarah decided. He did not look like a man to be trifled with.
    â€œDo I pass inspection?” he asked.
    She gazed up into green eyes over which the lids drooped halfway, giving him a deceptively sleepy appearance. She was reminded of a dozing leopard—sleek, black and just as deadly.
    â€œYes, I believe you’ll do, Mr. Calhoun,” she said, injecting a note of briskness she was far from feeling. “Now, Donald, has the carriage been sent for? Yes? Very good. Then perhaps we had better leave for the reception. Celia, Donald, we’ll try not to be too late,” she said, waving to her dresser and her secretary. “Come, uncle,” she said, and started for the door.
    But Morgan was there before her, barring her way.
    â€œJust a moment, Duchess. I reckon we should start bein’ careful right now. Just let me check the corridor first, and the stairway down to the front of the hotel, and I’ll come back and tell you it’s safe to go.”
    â€œYes, very well,” she managed to say. She hadn’t realized how having a bodyguard would affect her every step, but clearly Calhoun was taking his responsibilities seriously.
    He was back moments later, saying it was all right to go, and Sarah, on the arm of Uncle Frederick, descended the stairs, preceded by Calhoun.
    The sun was hanging low