Page 12 of Blame It on the Duke

Ellen twisted her apron in her hands. “You might feel breathless when you see him. Truly you might.”

Breathing was essential to life. Alice was never breathless. And wouldn’t be until she expired at a ripe old age.

“Inform Danvers I’ll be down shortly,” Papa said.

“You mean to keep the marquess waiting?” Ellen’s eyes widened. “Oh, Sir Alfred, are you sure that’s the best—”

A forceful, arrogant blur of black silk and stark white linen strode into the library.

“Oh!” Ellen squeaked, jumping behind Alice and using her as a shield.

Poor Danvers, the butler, followed close behind, breathing heavily.

“His Lordship, the Marquess... of... Hatherly,” Danvers gasped.