The Trouble With Being a Duke by Sophie Barnes Page A

accepted her proposal with a wicked smile to boot, but things were different now— he was different—and he wanted to do whatever he could to honor the memory of his father. Additionally, he did not want Miss Smith to think poorly of him. Lowering his voice to a near whisper he said, “That you would even imagine I might be interested in whatever it is you have to offer is only a testament to your own poor judgment.” Leaning toward her he added, “We both know that the only reason you were even invited here this evening is entirely out of respect to the friendship your late husband shared with my father.”
    Lady Trapleigh opened her mouth as if to speak but wisely closed it again before storming off, her anger evident in every aspect of her being. Anthony watched her go before turning back to Miss Smith. “My apologies,” he said. He felt like an ass for administering such a set down in her presence, especially knowing that his father would have handled the situation with more class. “But I cannot abide people like that.”
    Miss Smith smiled as he sat down next to her across from the sketch artist. “Really, Your Grace? Judging from your tone, I was under the impression that you were quite fond of her.”
    Sarcasm, eh? A rare commodity in a young lady and one that Anthony definitely approved of. It was impossible for him not to laugh as he leaned back against the seat, only to discover that whoever had designed this vehicle must have done so with much smaller people in mind. It was practically impossible for him not to touch the entire length of Miss Smith’s body as they sat there, squashed together. “I’m so sorry,” he muttered.
    “Why don’t you move your arm, my lord?” said the artist as he waved his piece of charcoal in the general direction of Anthony’s left appendage. “Lift if up a bit . . . just like that . . . yes, there you go, that’s much better.”
    Anthony could have sworn he heard Miss Smith gulp as he raised his arm and placed it against the top of the seat, but he wasn’t sure. All he knew was that their thighs were touching and that the curve of her breast was much too close for comfort. Dear Lord, but it was impossible for him to relax—especially when Miss Smith kept shifting from side to side and adding to the friction between them.
    It was the closest he’d been to her since they’d met, and he found that it stirred to life an awareness of her that he couldn’t possibly ignore. Her scent was sweet—as if she’d recently bathed in the nectar of honeysuckles. Anthony winced. The thought of her bathing was probably one he should avoid at the moment. Dropping his gaze to her naked arm, he marveled at how unblemished it was—not as much as a freckle marred the milky whiteness of it. Unfortunately, said arm was directly perpendicular to her breasts. Anthony tried to do the right thing and stop his gaze from wandering, but his eyes were apparently less noble and refused to listen, which in turn led to a rather uncomfortable situation a mere second later.
    Anthony hastily crossed his legs and looked back up at the artist, only to find the annoying little man grinning right back at him. Thankfully he held his tongue and returned his attention to his work, finishing the sketch with merciful rapidity so that Anthony could finally distance himself from Miss Smith. But in his eagerness to prevent any further inappropriate contact with the woman, he shot to his feet so quickly that he bumped his head on the roof of the carriage, lost his balance and landed right back in his seat. This alone might not have been such a disaster had he not placed his hand upon Miss Smith’s right thigh in an attempt to stop his fall.
    Anthony learned a number of interesting facts about Miss Smith in the moment that followed. First, she was not too easily startled, for although she’d emitted a squeak of surprise at the moment of initial contact, she’d refrained from yelling or hitting him (for