Page 13 of The Heiress Gets a Duke
Before he could respond, Mrs. Crenshaw launched into a lively discussion detailing their time in the city. From the exhibits at the British Museum to the opera to the shops on Bond Street, she made certain to drop the names of at least a handful of the aristocracy she had met along the way. To her credit, Violet did not join in; she simply muttered an agreement when necessary all while staring at him in disapproval.
Bloody hell, this was to be his mother-in-law. Visions of endless holidays filled with her constant boasting stretched out before him. Perhaps bankruptcy would be worth it to avoid that fate. Another glance at his mother disabused him of that notion before it could take root. She still wore a deep mourning gown trimmed with crape as was customary, but she had refused to have new ones made this year. He had noticed as they disembarked the carriage that the lace along the hem in the back had frayed. The expense was the true reason for her refusal. What right did he have to not perform his duty?
An ache developed in his jaw, and he realized that he had been gritting his teeth. He forced himself to relax and noticed Violet watching him with curiosity, her head tilted slightly to the side. Perhaps marriage to her would not be so terribly unbearable. She was very pretty. With her slight frame, her rich dark hair pulled up in an elaborate twist, and a stylish, rose-hued gown, she was the image of a lady. The flashes of fire in her eyes gave him hope that she had more in her head than visions of a title.
Still, when he opened his mouth to speak to her, he asked, “Is your sister joining us this evening?”
Violet brightened for the first time that evening. “My sister is here. She’s stepped into the garden with Her Grace.” Her voice was soft with just the right amount of husk to be pleasing. It should have enchanted him. Instead,his pulse pounded with the anticipation of seeing the elder Miss Crenshaw again. Her gaze went past his shoulder, lighting up pleasantly as it rested on whom he assumed would be her sister.
He whipped his head around to look for her before he could think better of what it might reveal about his eagerness. The woman he had kissed stood framed in the doorway, her eyes wide in shock as they roamed from her sister to him. She was as striking as she had been that night, except instead of a cloak, she wore a sapphire blue gown that revealed the right amount of bosom. In the light of the lamp overhead, he could make out the striking shape of her cheekbones and the tilt of her chin. Even across the room, he could see that her eyes had hardened in determination.
He did not think she would recognize him. The pomade he wore in his hair when he fought darkened it from blond to brown. He also made certain to have a few days’ growth of beard for each match, and now he was clean-shaven. The anger alighting her eyes as she made her way into the room was most certainly from the position they found themselves in and not recognition. Apparently, neither of the women welcomed his suit.
Instead of waiting for him to approach her, as any proper English girl was raised to do, she strode across the room with her shoulders back, her gaze never wavering from his. She walked with purpose and a confidence that was very attractive. Upon reaching him, she did not bother to wait for a proper introduction; instead she held her hand out to him.
“I am August Crenshaw,” she said, as if she were not causing a scene before the entire room.
Momentarily startled, he stood for a moment, staring at her glove-clad fingers. Her hand was offered to him with her fingers stacked in a line, thumb on top. She was not holding it out, palm down, for him to kiss or bow over but offering it in a handshake. Yes, she truly meant for him to shake her hand.
Deciding to take up her challenge, he recognized it for what it was, and he took her hand, savoring the heat of her palm against his own. Obliged to answer her direct manner,he said, “I am Evan Sterling, Duke of Rothschild.” Then, with wicked amusement, he added, “Marquess of Langston, Earl of Haverford, Viscount Blackwell, Baron Clifford.”
Without missing a beat, she said, “That’s quite a mouthful.” Her tone was dry, but her lips quirked upward in the most fascinating way.
Someone coughed. Someone else made an odd choking sound. Evan genuinely smiled for the first time since the meeting with Clark when the question of marriage had been finalized.
Mrs. Crenshaw rushed forward to her eldest daughter and took up a position beside her as if to somehow guard him from her brazenness. “This is...” Her mouth opened and closed again as if at a loss to explain the creature standing so proudly next to her. Color had risen to her powdery cheeks. “This is August, our eldest daughter.”
“Yes, so she has said.” His gaze drifted back to her.
August. The name floated in his head, uncertain where it should land. It was unusual for a woman, but somehow it suited her. There were sun-kissed highlights in her hair, and the hazel of her eyes was swirled with grass green. Her creamy skin had a glow that showed a defiance of parasols. From now on when he thought of summer, he would think of her.
“It is a pleasure, Miss Crenshaw.”
There was the barest hint of a moment when he thought she might actually give him a set-down. The words were there, flickering behind her eyes, which very clearly said she did not appreciate his intention. However, she finally lowered them, no doubt in response to her mother’s clasp on her arm. When she raised them, the fire had been momentarily banked, but they were no less livid in their intensity.
Would she dare confront him here? He found himself leaning forward with anticipation when she parted her lips. Unfortunately, he did not get a chance to find out, because the butler announced that dinner would be served.
“Your Grace?” Lady Ashcroft’s voice floated into his consciousness, making him realize that he was still staring at the impertinent Miss Crenshaw.
“Yes?” he asked, struggling to remember that they were in the middle of a drawing room and not somewhere private. What he would not give to have Miss Crenshaw to himself in the garden for five minutes. He wanted to hear the storm she obviously longed to unleash on him.
Lady Ashcroft gestured politely to where the butler stood in the doorway. As the duke with precedent, Evan would lead the party to the dining room. No one could leave until he did. Hewantedto offer the elder Miss Crenshaw his arm simply to watch the fireworks in her eyes. However, etiquette demanded that the lady of the house go in on his arm.
“Shall we?”
Inclining her head, Lady Ashcroft took his arm and he led the way.
***
The duke was not an ogre. He was arrogant, entitled, and overconfident, but he wasn’t an ogre. In fact, he was at least twenty years younger than August had been expecting, and even with her immense aversion for him and the situation in which he had placed them, she could admit that he was handsome. Handsome if one liked the proud, aristocratic type, which she did not. Unfortunately, that dislike did nothing to stop her from appreciating his good looks.
It was annoying, and she had spent the entire meal tryingnotto look at him. Not an easy feat since the meal had seemed to drag on for hours with at least ten courses. She had lost count somewhere between the lark pie and the chaudfroid of chicken. To complicate things, Violet had been given the seat on his far side. August kept checking on her sister to make certain that she wasn’t too upset. So far, Violet had kept her composure and carried on a constant, if subdued, conversation with both the duke and the gentleman on her other side. However, since they were both opposite August and down a bit, she had to look past him to see her sister, so she couldn’t help catching glimpses of him.
Also, there was something about the duke that kept drawing her attention. Something about the shape of his face that looked familiar. She had caught him smiling once at a comment, and it, too, had seemed familiar. Though she was certain that she had never met the Duke of Rothschild before, she felt as if she had seen his smile. And then there was the particular way he said her name that threatened to jar some unknown memory.
“Miss Crenshaw?”
She blinked, realized that she had been staring at the duke again, and glanced down to see that a new course had been set before her. Blancmange.Please let this mean that this meal is coming to an end.
