Trouble at the Wedding by Laura Lee Guhrke

how he can avoid the prospect now. He’s the duke, and he has no direct heir and he has no income. He has to marry and marry well. It’s his duty.”
    â€œHe might not care about his duty.”
    â€œTrue. Very true. Scarborough is just the sort to ignore his ducal responsibilities.” Bernard smiled at her. “You and I seem to share the same opinions about so many things, my dear. He keeps well away from good society most of the time, but whenever he does choose to appear, there always seem to be women who find him attractive. Inexplicable to me, but there it is.”
    â€œSome women,” she said with a sigh, “are attracted to bad men.”
    â€œQuite.” There was a pause, then Bernard added, “I am glad you are not one of those women, Annabel.”
    â€œSo am I,” she agreed with emphasis, swirling her spoon idly in her cream caramel, peeking at the duke from beneath her lashes. “So am I.”
    Scarborough was handsome, wicked, and wild, a combination that was nothing but trouble, and it never did a girl any good to court trouble.
    A fter dinner, the gentlemen retired to the smoking room for brandy and cigars, and the ladies remained in the dining room for coffee and gossip.
    Annabel, however, decided to forgo the coffee. Excusing herself, she murmured something delicate to her mother and left the table. Exiting by a side door, she went straight past the ladies’ retiring chamber, up the stairs, and into the reading room, where newspapers lay on carved tables and rows of books lined two walls. After a hasty scan of the shelves, she found the book she was looking for and lifted it above the two-inch lip that prevented the volumes from spilling onto the floor in stormy weather.
    Flipping through pages, she soon reached the one she wanted, but what she found there was every bit as awful as she had feared.
    Chilblain: inflammation brought on by repeated exposure to cold, sometimes accompanied by redness or painful lesions.
    Horrified, she stared at the page. Inflammation? Painful lesions?
    â€œGhastly, aren’t they?”
    She jumped, startled, and turned to find Scarborough standing only a few feet away. “You again? Aren’t you supposed to be in the smoking room with the gentlemen?”
    â€œAren’t you supposed to be having coffee with the ladies? Neither of us, it seems, is good about doing what we’re supposed to.”
    He leaned one shoulder against the bookshelf and nodded to the book in her hands. “Best to eschew those pretty little silk stockings that are no doubt in your trousseau,” he advised. “Stout woolen socks will serve to protect your feet much better.”
    Fighting the urge to hide the dictionary behind her back, she strove for an air of nonchalant dignity. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
    â€œPiqued your curiosity, did I?”
    â€œYou’re mistaken,” she assured him, careful to keep the book positioned so he couldn’t discern the title. “I was just looking for something to read.”
    â€œOf course,” he agreed gravely. “And the dictionary is so entertaining.”
    She slammed the book shut. “You are like a bad penny,” she said, glaring at him. “Or maybe you’re just plain bad.”
    â€œMy reputation precedes me, I see. But it’s gratifying to know you’ve been asking about me.”
    â€œI didn’t,” she lied at once. “No need. I know a skunk without having to ask what the smell is.”
    â€œYou’re terribly prickly. Love, if you’re going to marry an Englishman, you’d best cultivate a sense of humor. God knows, you’ll need it.”
    â€œI have a sense of humor.” She paused, smiling sweetly. “I just don’t find you funny.”
    To her consternation, he chuckled, not the least bit put out. “Point taken. You’re cheeky, too. Has Rumsford seen these