Page 3 of The Devil and the Heiress
He stopped at the gap, arrested by a swirl of pale yellow and an upswept chestnut coiffure that hurried past the open door. The woman’s face was not visible to him, but like the voice, he knew she was Violet. She clapped her hands once, rounding up her charges—all debutantes her own age—to have them give their attention to the next performer. He could not see the poor girl who started the next song, but her voice was atrociously high. Pity that she had to perform after Violet might have stirred within him had Violet not come to stand on the far side of the room directly in his line of sight. She stopped everything for him.
In profile, it was obvious that her nose was possibly too strong for her small features and that her mouth was likely too wide, but taken together they were perfect. Her foot tapped along to the music, making him smile because it was not the least bit proper. The hem of her gown fluttered as the toe of her shoe worked in a steady rhythm. He followed the vibrations of the fabric up to her small waist and the hug of pale yellow over her bosom where it ended in a ruffled collar at her neck. Hungry for another look at her profile, his gaze continued upward, and his heart nearly stopped in his chest when a pair of irate dark eyes settled on his.
Her mouth quirked in displeasure.
He had met Violet twice. The first time they had been introduced at a ball and briefly exchanged pleasantries. He had found her both charming and alluring. The second time had been when he had come to this very house several days ago with Rothschild in his quest to win back her older sister. They had exchanged words then. Unpleasant words.
You, she had said to him here in this exact entryway.Why are you here?
Because I like fireworks, he had answered.
It appeared she was prepared to repeat their exchange as she made her way to him. Taking hold of the door, she glanced into the entryway, noting the footman at the door before allowing her gaze to fall on Christian. “Lord Leigh,” she said, her voice low, giving it a smooth huskiness that rasped pleasantly across his ears. An elegant brow rose in question, and she stepped out of the room, drawing the door closed behind her. “What a surprise to see you here again.”
“Miss Crenshaw.” He inclined his head. “It would appear I cannot stay away for very long.” He teased her simply to see her flush with displeasure.
Her eyes flared in annoyance. “How lucky we are, my lord.” Her tone implied the opposite.
She was not above having her feelings known, even if she was refined enough to couch them in polite words. It had been years since he’d felt this spark of interest when talking with a woman. Despite his best intentions to keep it contained, a laugh escaped him.
Violet openly glared at him. “You find humor in that?”
“I was just thinking that I very much enjoy our encounters.”
She had the grace to blush as she undoubtedly recalled how angry she had been during their conversation here in this entryway. She had mistakenly believed Rothschild to be unfaithful to her sister and hadn’t held back herdisappointment. Instead of being a good friend and pleading Rothschild’s case, Christian had baited her.
Swallowing, she asked, “Is there something you wanted, my lord?”
You. All of you.
“I am just leaving from a meeting with your father,” he said instead.
“Ah, then please do not allow me to keep you.”
Swirls of amber flame glittered at him from the depths of her brown eyes. No, he decided then and there, Ware would not have her. She was too good for the likes of him.
Inclining his head, he said, “Good day, Miss Crenshaw.”
“Good day, my lord.” She opened the door and stepped back into the room.
He crossed the entryway, aware of the weight of her gaze on his back when he had expected her to close the door between them immediately. The footman opened the front door for him, but instead of stepping out, Christian glanced back at her. She was staring at his shoulders, her gaze slowly moving down his back. The glaze of attraction in her eyes was unmistakable.
She flushed when she realized he had caught her and closed the door firmly between them.
He stared at the lacquered wood grain for the space of a few heartbeats. He knew because he felt each of them as his blood rushed through his body. Talking with her always had the effect of making him more aware of himself and less aware of everything around him, except for her. He was glad for the lengths he’d already gone to attain her hand, lengths that weren’t quite aboveboard but would be worth it in the end.
Finally, the footman made a nervous sound in the back of his throat. As Christian walked out to his carriage, he decided that he would bypass her parents in his bid to win her. They were set against him, so it made much more senseto approach the woman herself. It would not be easy given the unfavorable impression of him she had thanks to Rothschild, or perhaps she had heard murmurs of his past, but he could overcome that. It would be a simple matter of finding her heart’s desire and giving it to her. Then she would be his.
Chapter 2
Rose Hamilton was in London for one reason—to enjoy the Season. The number of potential husbands her parents threw her way would not change that. Perhaps it was this misunderstanding of her own nature that caused her to lower her guard.
V. Lennox,An American and the London Season
Violet sat at the table in the small parlor off the garden the next morning having breakfast alone. Mother was still in her room, and Papa kept up his Manhattan work routine even though most of London was still in bed, which meant he had already been ensconced in his office for hours. Violet didn’t mind. She enjoyed her mornings alone. Lately, mornings like this were the only time she had to herself to write.
The gorgeous little room had a row of windows that looked out over the cheery walled garden in the back of their rented Mayfair townhome. A short break in the rain allowed watery sunlight to filter in through the windows, casting a golden glow over the table and the papers spread out before her, her second manuscript and one she hoped to publish under the name V. Lennox, Lennox being her mother’s maiden name. A name was scrawled at the top of each sheet with a list of attributes below. Each name was a character that she had created to represent a person she hadmet in London. So far she had six characters, which was fine because she was only on chapter four of her manuscript, but she needed two more gentlemen for a ball scene she had planned. The problem was that she was having a terrible time creating characters that were... well... not the same. While the gentlemen she met were almost certainly individuals with their own needs and wants, she only knew them superficially and hadn’t yet been able to dig deeper to find out who they really were. It was the problem with only meeting men at balls and dinner parties where everyone was on their best behavior.
Sorting through the short stack, she took out the two based on her dear friend Camille, Duchess of Hereford, and Hereford himself. In her book they were the Duke and Duchess of Helford. She, a tragic figure who had been sold into marriage by her parents to a much older man; he, a fortune-hunting aristocrat who treated his bride more like a wayward stepchild than a treasured wife. The characters were so close to the truth of the situation that it made her ache to write them. She definitely needed to change the name to something far different. Marking through Helford, she made a note to herself.
