How To Distract a Duchess by Mia Marlowe Page B

“She’s partnered with the young man I intend for her.”
    “Trevelyn Deveridge?” Artemisia narrowed her eyes at the man dancing with her sister. “You should know that Mr. Beddington reported some troubling unanswered questions about his military service. It seems he may have left the corps under less than ideal circumstances.”
    “That doesn’t concern me in the least.”
    “It might matter to Father.”
    “What your Father doesn’t know would fill the library at Oxford.” Constance gave her a toothsome smile for the benefit of anyone who might be watching. “Angus has nothing to say about the girls’ matches. Besides, in the case of the honorable Mr. Deveridge, his stint with soldiery doesn’t matter one iota. It’s his familial connections that are important, and his father, Lord Warre, cuts a wide swath through Parliament.”
    “I didn’t know you were political,” Artemisia said with a frown.
    Constance laughed musically, as if her daughter had just uttered a witticism. “It’s not the politics. It’s the power. That’s all it ever is, really. The Dalrymple name is joined to Southwycke, but you must admit, a dowager duchess only counts for so much. Once the house of Angus Dalrymple is entwined with both Shrewsbury and Warre, I defy anyone to ever snub me again.”
    Artemisia bit her tongue. Even though they were discussing her sisters’ futures, as usual, her mother had managed to turn the situation so it was about her. Artemisia tried to remind herself that her mother had grown up barefoot in a Highland hovel. That might account for being overly self-conscious about her station—or lack thereof.
    Still, it wouldn’t hurt for Constance to think of her girls for once.
    The string ensemble struck up a stately gavotte and Artemisia looked back to Florinda and her dancing partner. The gentleman bared his white teeth in a dazzling smile. Then he bent in a courtly bow and finished it with a flourish. He excused himself and retreated from the dance floor.
    Artemisia gasped and had to force herself to close her gaping mouth. The man her sister had been dancing with, the man her mother claimed was Trevelyn Deveridge, had just bowed as smoothly as that wretched pretender, Thomas Doverspike.
     
     

Chapter 12
     
     
     
     
    Trevelyn pushed his way through the throng, making obligatory acknowledgments as he passed members of the ton he recognized beneath their costumes. He’d never been too fond of masquerades, but his father was keen on his attendance at this one. The earl had all but shoved him onto the dance floor with that tongue-tied little peacock.
    Lord Warre had tried numerous times to see him wedded to a socially prominent wife. So far, Trev had eluded capture, but there had been some near misses over the years. As long as he was careful not to compromise some darling debutant, Trevelyn planned on enjoying his bachelorhood for the foreseeable future. After all, he wasn’t destined for the earldom. It wasn’t as though he needed to sire an heir and a spare.
    His work in Her Majesty’s Secret Service, which he took pains to be sure his father knew nothing about, nearly made being single mandatory. Especially once he made the transfer to the Delhi office. A man couldn’t disappear into tribal regions to play the Great Game for months at a time if he had a memsahib and a passel of little ones depending upon him.
    Besides, the girls his father shoved him toward—he couldn’t think of the simpering creatures as women—seemed even shallower than ever since he met the unconventional Duchess of Southwycke. There were more layers to her personality, and surprising sensuality, than a dowager has petticoats. He’d have been delighted to peel them back one by one, but not as her kept fancy man. As Trevelyn Deveridge, he’d have had no objection to making her his mistress, but as Thomas Doverspike, he was still furious that she thought she could own him as if he were one of her damn cats.
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