The Duchess and Desperado by Laurie Grant Page A

alternative to Harper’s boasting, even though he was very hard of hearing and called her “your grace” in every sentence he uttered.
    She’d never been your-graced so many times in her life. If she ever got done with this interminable evening, she was going to reward herself in the morning with a few hours of horseback riding, and nothing Morgan Calhoun said was going to change her mind. Surely she’d generated enough goodwill with the prominent men of Denver and their wives that she had earned a little pleasure. If Morgan wouldn’t go with her, she’d go alone, Sarah thought rebelliously.
    She glanced over her shoulder and saw Calhoun still standing between her and the wall, as if he were but another of the liveried waiters hired for the occasion. He’d been there throughout the meal. Without her hated spectacles, she couldn’t tell for sure, but she was fairly sure he didn’t move a muscle in acknowledgment of her look.
    The mayor had offered to seat him at the far end of the table just as if he were a guest, but Morgan had declined—much to Harper’s regret, Sarah guessed. John Harper wanted to pretend nothing untoward had happened during the duchess’s visit to his city, and would have been happier still if the duchess’s bodyguard had consented to eat in the kitchen.
    She wondered if Morgan was hungry, standing there watching everyone eat like that. She’d have to make sure the kitchen sent something up for him when they got back to the hotel.
    At least William Wharton was sitting just on the other side of Edwards, and she could see and be warmed by the commiserating rolling of his eyes. Sarah wanted to wink back at him, but duchesses did not do such vulgar things, even in the wilds of America, and she settled for smiling down at her plate, knowing he would see and understand.
    What a nice man Wharton was, Sarah thought as the waiters cleared the table of the dinner course. She was quite looking forward to their evening at the theater two nights from now.
    â€œAnd now for the pièce de résistance,” the mayor announced, his French accent exaggerated and incorrect as a waiter brought in an elaborate pastry and set the first one in front of Sarah. Behind him other waiters were bringing in more of the pastries and setting them in front of each diner, until finally all of the powerful and influential guests at this dinner in Sarah’s honor had been served.
    â€œWhat is this, some kinda fancy Frenchie cake?” the real estate speculator asked her in a stage whisper, and immediately plunged his fork into his and shoveled an enormous amount into his mouth.
    â€œD’lishus,” he mumbled through a mouthful of pastry. “Tashte it, Dushess.”
    Sarah glanced at Harper and saw that he was speaking to another guest.
    â€œActually, Mr. Edwards, I find I cannot eat another bite, especially of something so rich looking. You would be doing me quite a service if you ate it for me,” she said appealingly, with a meaningful glance at Harper’s back.
    Edwards chuckled. “I could be your knight in shining armor, huh? No sooner said than done.” He winked, and scooped her éclair à la Martinique onto his plate, leaving just a bite so it would appear that she had eaten most of it. “Scrumptious,” he muttered, jabbing his fork into what he’d taken and eating it with gusto.
    Amused, Sarah turned back to the mayor, who, fortunately, had missed this little byplay. “It was so kind of you to have this dinner party in my honor, Mr. Harper. I don’t know if you ever plan to visit Britain, but you must visit Malvern Hall if you ever—”
    A high-pitched cry from the left cut into her words. It was Edwards, she saw as she whirled around. He was clutching his neck, his face purpling above the tight starched collar. His eyes bulged in terror as he turned them on her, as if imploring her to save