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The mere thought of her ankles inflamed him.
His father would have said that Andromeda’s bold behavior was consistent with other persons of low breeding. The Duchess of Averell, Horace had insisted, was little better than a harlot.
Your mother was poorly bred as well, but at least she wasn’t a paid companion of dubious, unknown origin.
As the sound of Andromeda’s skirts faded, David turned his attention to the woman meant to become the Duchess of Granby. Beatrice held court in the middle of the drawing room, reminding him of a well-dressed porcelain doll.
She caught David’s eye on her and blushed prettily, giving him a modest, ladylike smile of acknowledgement.
Lord Foxwood, seated behind her with a glass of David’s scotch in his hand, nodded in approval of his daughter’s behavior.
Christ, she’s like a trained lapdog.
A very well-bred, well-pedigreed one.
