the stairs, leaving him alone to ponder her warning.
Chapter 9
I ’m sorry, miss, but the duke refuses to receive you.”
Pamela leaned out of the hired carriage parked in the long curving drive of the palatial estate, eyeing the footman’s bland face in disbelief. “How could His Grace refuse to receive us? Did you tell him I’ve brought word of his son?”
The footman let out an inelegant snort that was at direct odds with his starched scarlet livery and powdered wig. “You and every other charlatan between here and Paris. Why, in the past week alone, three Frenchmen and a Belgian dwarf have come knocking on the door, claiming to be His Grace’s long lost heir. One impertinent fellow even slipped through the duke’s bedchamber window while he was sleeping. He insisted the heart-shaped birth-mark on his”—the footman’s patrician nostrilsflared in distaste—“ person would prove him to be the true heir. It took three footmen to drag him from the duke’s presence and toss him out on his”—he sniffed again—“ person .”
Pamela leaned back in the carriage seat, struggling to hide her dismay. It had never occurred to her that there would be other attempts to dupe the duke, other imposters.
Despite the footman’s disapproving sneer, she refused to accept that they’d come all this way—enduring days of grueling travel—for nothing. She was no Belgian dwarf to be dismissed without an audience or tossed out on her… person .
She leaned forward again, giving the footman her warmest and most winsome smile. “I can assure you that we have no desire to waste the duke’s valuable time—or yours. I truly believe he will be interested in what we have to share.”
The footman’s skeptical gaze swept her from bonnet to boots. Although she’d worn her finest frock—a sherry-colored walking dress that complemented the color of her eyes—she knew her lace-trimmed collar and cuffs and matching silk spencer were at least three seasons out of date. And while the addition of a plume of fresh feathers had restored a jaunty air to her battered bonnet, her trusty kid half boots still bore the scuffs and scars of trekking through the rugged climes of Scotland.
Her pride chafed beneath the footman’s scornful gaze, much as it had when Connor had exposed the frayed seams of her drawers.
“Do forgive me, miss,” he said, looking decidedly unrepentant, “but I sincerely doubt a woman of your… standing could have anything of interest to offer my master.”
Pamela bit back a squeal as a pair of warm masculine hands closed around her waist from behind, lifting her clean off the carriage seat and depositing her feet on the ground with an ease that left her breathless. She opened her mouth to protest being treated in such an undignified manner, but snapped it shut when she saw the smirk vanish from the footman’s smug face.
He went stumbling backward as Connor emerged from the carriage, unfolding his imposing form to tower over the both of them. The footman’s wide-eyed gaze traveled up, up, up—past Connor’s broad chest to the impressive width of his shoulders, finally coming to rest on his intractable face.
“Perhaps you didn’t understand the lady,” Connor said, his velvety burr even more beguiling when contrasted with the footman’s clipped tones. “She wishes to see your master and she has no intention of standing out here in the drive all afternoon awaiting his pleasure. Nor do I.”
The footman swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing up and down in his pasty throat. “But—but—His Grace is not receiving callers. He ordered me to turn you away.”
“And I’m ordering you to march right back in there and tell him we’re not going anywhere until he agrees to hear the lady out.” As Connor leaned over Pamela’s shoulder, the footman grew evenpastier. “And if someone has to come tell us the duke has been foolhardy enough to refuse her again, you might want to make sure it’s not you.
Chapter 9
I ’m sorry, miss, but the duke refuses to receive you.”
Pamela leaned out of the hired carriage parked in the long curving drive of the palatial estate, eyeing the footman’s bland face in disbelief. “How could His Grace refuse to receive us? Did you tell him I’ve brought word of his son?”
The footman let out an inelegant snort that was at direct odds with his starched scarlet livery and powdered wig. “You and every other charlatan between here and Paris. Why, in the past week alone, three Frenchmen and a Belgian dwarf have come knocking on the door, claiming to be His Grace’s long lost heir. One impertinent fellow even slipped through the duke’s bedchamber window while he was sleeping. He insisted the heart-shaped birth-mark on his”—the footman’s patrician nostrilsflared in distaste—“ person would prove him to be the true heir. It took three footmen to drag him from the duke’s presence and toss him out on his”—he sniffed again—“ person .”
Pamela leaned back in the carriage seat, struggling to hide her dismay. It had never occurred to her that there would be other attempts to dupe the duke, other imposters.
Despite the footman’s disapproving sneer, she refused to accept that they’d come all this way—enduring days of grueling travel—for nothing. She was no Belgian dwarf to be dismissed without an audience or tossed out on her… person .
She leaned forward again, giving the footman her warmest and most winsome smile. “I can assure you that we have no desire to waste the duke’s valuable time—or yours. I truly believe he will be interested in what we have to share.”
The footman’s skeptical gaze swept her from bonnet to boots. Although she’d worn her finest frock—a sherry-colored walking dress that complemented the color of her eyes—she knew her lace-trimmed collar and cuffs and matching silk spencer were at least three seasons out of date. And while the addition of a plume of fresh feathers had restored a jaunty air to her battered bonnet, her trusty kid half boots still bore the scuffs and scars of trekking through the rugged climes of Scotland.
Her pride chafed beneath the footman’s scornful gaze, much as it had when Connor had exposed the frayed seams of her drawers.
“Do forgive me, miss,” he said, looking decidedly unrepentant, “but I sincerely doubt a woman of your… standing could have anything of interest to offer my master.”
Pamela bit back a squeal as a pair of warm masculine hands closed around her waist from behind, lifting her clean off the carriage seat and depositing her feet on the ground with an ease that left her breathless. She opened her mouth to protest being treated in such an undignified manner, but snapped it shut when she saw the smirk vanish from the footman’s smug face.
He went stumbling backward as Connor emerged from the carriage, unfolding his imposing form to tower over the both of them. The footman’s wide-eyed gaze traveled up, up, up—past Connor’s broad chest to the impressive width of his shoulders, finally coming to rest on his intractable face.
“Perhaps you didn’t understand the lady,” Connor said, his velvety burr even more beguiling when contrasted with the footman’s clipped tones. “She wishes to see your master and she has no intention of standing out here in the drive all afternoon awaiting his pleasure. Nor do I.”
The footman swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing up and down in his pasty throat. “But—but—His Grace is not receiving callers. He ordered me to turn you away.”
“And I’m ordering you to march right back in there and tell him we’re not going anywhere until he agrees to hear the lady out.” As Connor leaned over Pamela’s shoulder, the footman grew evenpastier. “And if someone has to come tell us the duke has been foolhardy enough to refuse her again, you might want to make sure it’s not you.
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