Daring To Love The Duke's Heir. Janice Preston

it even more imperative that your conduct is above reproach.’

      Anger smouldered inside Liberty, heating her still further, and she felt as though she had a furnace inside her. She drank more wine and then tugged discreetly at her neckline in a vain attempt to allow some cooling air to reach her skin. Each breath she drew seemed shallower than the one before.

      ‘But I am not interested in Lord Avon in the way you imply,’ she said. ‘You know I am not. I am concerned only about Gideon and I wish to know if Avon has spoken to his rascally brother yet.’

      ‘I know, my dear.’ Mrs Mount patted Liberty’s hand without loosening her grip upon it. ‘But you can do nothing about it until he decides to tell you. And he will not do so here—he will no more risk awakening speculation by singling out an unattached female than he would strip off his jacket and cavort about in his shirtsleeves. Proper conduct is everything to His Lordship, particularly this Season, if that rumour is true.’

      ‘Rumour? What rumour?’ Despite her dire need for fresh air, or a chair to sit on, or both, Liberty was distracted by this titbit.

      ‘It is said that he has compiled a shortlist of eligible young ladies who meet the standards he has set—breeding, upbringing, ladylike conduct—and that he will make his selection before the end of the Season.’

      The hushed awe of Mrs Mount’s words stirred resentment inside Liberty. No wonder Avon was so top-lofty with people hanging upon his every word and treating him like some kind of god.

      ‘A shortlist? I presume you mean for a wife. Why on earth does he need a shortlist?’

      ‘Avon’s bride must possess the very best bloodlines, perfect manners and be of exemplary character. Only the best will do for a man in his position and to be the mother of a future duke.’

      The suppressed excitement in Mrs Mount’s voice irritated Liberty even more.

      ‘You make the poor girl sound like a glorified brood mare,’ she muttered.

      Really! Had people nothing more to worry about? What about all the poverty in London? Children in rags living on the street while their so-called betters lived in luxury. People like Avon were in a position to help and yet, instead of helping those worse off than him, he put his time and effort into making pathetic lists in order that any bride he might choose was worthy of him.

      ‘So you do see why it is imperative that you do not put a foot wrong in any further contact with His Lordship, do you not, Liberty?’ Mrs Mount’s anxious enquiry brought Liberty’s attention back to her. ‘Not so much for your sake, but for Hope and for Verity.’

      ‘You are not suggesting that His Lordship might consider—’

      ‘It is unlikely, my dear, but...one never can tell what might happen when a pretty girl catches a gentleman’s eye. Avon is expected to look much higher for his bride—at the very least the daughter of an earl—and she will be a young lady who has been properly prepared from childhood for her role as the wife of a peer of the realm. But your sisters, especially dear Verity, are so very pretty—one never knows what might happen. A list may always be added to.’

      Mrs Mount’s voice appeared to fade. Goodness, it was so hot. Liberty plied her fan with renewed vigour as she stared at her chaperon’s mouth, concentrating fiercely in order to make out her words.

      ‘And the lucky young lady of his choice will be a future duchess. It is worth keeping our hopes alive for such high stakes.’

      Liberty put a hand to her forehead. The room seemed to sway and she was aware of Mrs Mount staring anxiously at her.

      ‘Liberty? My dear? Are you quite well? Oh, dear.’ Mrs Mount clutched at Liberty’s arm. ‘Are you sickening for something? Do you need to leave? Only, it would be such a shame...’

      Liberty gritted her teeth in a desperate attempt to remain upright. She thrust her empty wine glass at Mrs Mount. ‘I am not sickening for anything. I need air. Watch the girls, will you, Mrs Mount?’ Desperate now to get out of the room, she headed in the direction of the door, weaving in and out of the chattering groups of strangers, until her way was blocked by a tall figure with a pair of wide shoulders in a dark blue swallowtail coat. To either side of those shoulders were people, pressed closely, clearly hanging on every word uttered by the gentleman. Liberty screwed her eyes shut, wafted her fan over her heated skin, sucked desperately at the stale air, then opened her eyes and prepared to negotiate her way around the group, for it was obvious she could not barge through the middle of them. She shuffled sideways until she spied a gap. Perspiration now dampened her forehead and she could feel it gather on her chest and trickle into the valley between her breasts. She frowned, concentrating on placing one foot in front of the other as she edged through that gap. She was close to the door now—she could see it above people’s heads—and she blindly aimed for it, desperate now to get away from this crush of people.

      ‘Well! Of all the—’

      ‘I say! That was my foot!’

      ‘I’m sorry.’ The words came on a gasp. ‘I cannot—’ Horror filled her as her knees buckled.

      A strong arm encircled her waist from behind. A deep voice barked, ‘Stand aside. She’s swooned.’

      She desperately wanted to deny it—she had never swooned in her life—but all she could manage was to turn into that embrace, her head tipping forward until her forehead rested against a solid chest. She breathed in a clean smell of soap and starch, mixed with a pleasing masculine scent.

      Then she knew no more.