Dukes of War #1: The Viscount's Tempting Minx

Chapter Three

Benedict eased down from his carriage onto the slick winter street and strode just in front to the Ravenwood coach, where its tiger was opening the door for the intriguing lady inside. Benedict stepped between the groom and the open door, and offered his own arm to help Lady Amelia out of the coach. The fact that she likely didn't need his or anyone's assistance only made him less willing to let go. Her potent mix of brains and beauty was difficult to resist. He half-marveled that she had not had the foresight to contract all the street sweeps of London to clear the ice from the curb leading to the theatre door.

Then again, given her polite but firm set-down to his butler, the lady was likely to view such an extravagance as an inefficient use of the street sweepers' time.

Lady Amelia rested one gloved hand in the crook of Benedict's arm and used the other to raise her skirts a safe distance from the inch of slush coating the muddy streets. He was treated to a brief flash of shapely ankles and leather half-boots-the same ones she'd undoubtedly worn whilst reading her novel on his front stoop. On the other hand, was this woman truly the sort to "waste" time on a novel?

He tucked her closer to his side as they hurried toward the theatre entrance. He hunched against the icy breeze out of habit. He'd ceased feeling cold the second Lady Amelia's fingers curved about his arm. "My butler informs me you had a book on your person when you came to call."

She did not look up. "His vision is excellent, my lord."

"Was it your journal?" he pressed. He wondered if she kept a diary as well . . . and what she might write about him. He hoped something scandalous. He'd love to make it come true. "With your notes on my holiday parties?"

"Journals, plural." Her clear green eyes met his. "And, no, it was not."

"Journals, plural?" This new intelligence was so startling that he completely abandoned all interest in whatever tome she'd brought earlier. "How many can you possibly have?"

"Five, plus a slimmer volume for indexing each cross-reference. All six are in the carriage, should you wish to verify their comprehensiveness for yourself."

"There is no need." He did not doubt their presence. What he could not comprehend was what the devil she'd managed to say about his parties for five indexed journals. "Did you carry parchment and ink with you about the ballroom?"

The corners of her plump rosy lips quirked. "That would be highly impractical."

"To be sure! Then how did you remember whatever on earth it is that you have annotated in five journals?"

Her eyes widened. "I stored the details in my memory pantry. As I fully intend to do tonight."

An usher swung open the doors to the theatre and bustled them out of the cold and into the gilded reception hall.

Benedict scarcely noted the sudden warmth, so intent was he on the tranquil woman at his side. "In your what?"

"My memory pantry." She eased into one of the plush lobby chairs to accept a fresh change of shoes from her groom.

Benedict tried not to be distracted by the much longer glimpses of her silk-stockinged ankles.

She handed her sodden half-boots to her groom then turned her piercing gaze back to Benedict. "There are twenty-six fruits, for example. A is for Apple, B is for Blackberry, and so on. I memorize facts by picturing each new detail with a pantry item. The sillier the juxtaposition, the better. It's no challenge at all to recall vivid imagery later."

"No challenge at-Yes. Thank you." He relinquished his greatcoat to the usher and accepted his own change of footwear from his tiger. The lady was ingenious! "That is quite a trick. Even so, I cannot credit that five journals can spawn from twenty-six images, no matter how vivid."