Page 55 of Libby's London Merchant
She set down her cup. “That’s the worst tea I ever drank,” she said.
“Yes, it is, isn’t it?” he agreed, and continued sipping. In another moment he put down his cup. “I used to have my batman brew me a pot like this right before we went into battle.”
She laughed out loud, the significance of his words not lost on her. “Battle, is it? I scarcely feel like loading a rifle, your grace, but I must admit that you have considerable cheek.”
He leaned forward and possessed himself of her hands. “Libby, you will have to forgive me. I did come to Kent with the intent of reconnoitering the terrain for Eustace.” His face reddened right down to his collar. “I suppose I will not surprise you when I admit that it was something I agreed to when I was cross-eyed drunk and feeling no pain.”
She nodded. “I suspected as much. Was that why you mixed up our names?”
He chuckled, obviously feeling himself on higher ground. “You will have to agree that ‘Lydia’ and ‘Libby’ sound somewhat alike. Imagine how they sounded to someone half gone.” He took her hand to his lips. “And Eustace never mentioned a beautiful cousin.”
Flattery, flattery, she thought. “Why on earth did your friend think he needed to resort to such a stratagem? Surely the agreement between the fathers had no actual binding force.”
The duke released her hand and restored himself with another sip of tea. “Although he is a friend of mine, and has been since Eton, I do not equivocate to state that Eustace Wiltmore is a frivolous, flighty fellow, somewhat suspicious of the married state. He just wanted to make sure the Lydia Ames didn’t have spots or gap teeth or a squint-eyed stare.” He leaned back in his chair, not taking his eyes from her face, as if gauging her reaction to his words. “Even with his pockets empty and the creditors scratching at his door, Eustace is fastidious about appearances.”
Libby rose and went to the window seat. How odd men are, she thought. Eustace is no beauty, and besides, it sounds as though he has not a feather to fly with and needs a wealthy connection. And he was concerned that Lydia would not suit? She turned to regard the duke, who was watching her carefully. How mercenary men are, and how vain. She felt a cool breeze cross her face and she shivered.
“I trust that he is agreeably surprised at his good fortune?” she asked, unable to keep the bitterness from her voice. “Does Lydia Ames suit? Should he open her mouth and count her teeth? Perhaps when they hurry to London he can duck away long enough to audit Uncle Ames’ worth on the Exchange? Does no one marry for love?”
“I do,” said the duke impulsively, as though her own angry tirade had jolted the words from his brain. “Libby, when does your uncle return?”
“I... I have no idea,” she stammered, caught off-guard and uncertain of the sudden light that came into his eyes. “I believe he plans to continue in Brighton, at least until the hops harvest.”
It was on the tip of her tongue to commit the ultimate folly and inquire why, but she knew she did not need to ask. She could see the reason in his eyes. He loves me, she thought suddenly. He knows that I am not the heiress and he loves me anyway. Without another thought in her head, she held out her arms to him and found herself tight in his embrace.
“Libby, Libby,” he murmured, “you cannot imagine how I have wanted to do this.”
She kissed him and rested her cheek against his chest. “I seem to recall that you already did this in the orchard yesterday.” He took a firmer stance and wrapped his arms around her, enfolding her in a possessive embrace. “That was only practice. This is for real. I cannot imagine returning to London—and I must, my dear!—without some sort of sign from you that my suit will not be entirely unwelcome.”
He kissed her. His fingers traced the outline of her jaw and then found themselves caught in her unbound hair. He kissed her neck and throat, and with only the deepest strength of will, Libby put her hands against his chest and pushed him gently away.
“That will do for now, my lord,” she said breathlessly. “I am still somewhat out of charity with you for the joke you have pulled on me, and I may remain this way for some considerable time.”
He kissed her solemnly on the nose. “At least until I have the opportunity to speak to your uncle, eh?”
“Probably until then, sir.”
“Brighton, you say? I can be there tomorrow.”
“So you can,” she said, and turned her cheek toward him for one last chaste peck. “Sir, what is your name?”
“It is Benedict Nesbitt, so I was not far wrong, and my friends do call me Nez.”
“And what should I call you?” she teased.
“Oh, I am partial to ‘your supreme excellence,’ or perhaps ‘your grace,’ ” he said. “We have time to decide on a name, dear Libby, something suitably grand to puff up my pretensions.”
“And you have no connections with Copley Confections?”
“None beyond the fact that I am one of their more ardent customers.” He kissed her hand then and looked up into her laughing eyes. “Will you see me off in the morning, my dear? I go on an errand of considerable importance to both of us.”
“I wonder what it can be?” she said, her dimple showing. “While you are there, I suggest that you get acquainted with my mother, too. Her word has considerable weight in our household. Oh, I love you, Nez.”
The duke left the room with such a surfeit of exhilaration that if he had put his mind to it, he surely could have walked upon water. He rubbed his hands together, relishing the moment when he would present Elizabeth Ames to his mother and sister, who had schemed so long and hard to find him a wife suitable for a duke. He would present his dear Libby with a flourish—if she would let him—and just for once, perhaps Gussie would tell him what a capital fellow he was and applaud his judgment.
He went slowly down the stairs, noting how soft the lamplight was in early evening, how rosy the sunset through the wavy glass of the stairwell landing. Everything about him looked more vivid because he loved and was loved.
True, the bulk of the legendary Ames fortune would likely reside in Eustace Wiltmore’s pocket; the Earl of Devere was marrying the heiress. But surely any brother of Sir William Ames would have been sufficiently juicy to settle an ample cushion on such a daughter. Not that the duke required a transfusion; revenue from the Knaresborough estate alone would have maintained them in elegant comfort, and that was not his only investment. It was just the idea that pleased him and made him break into song as he descended the stairs and threw open the library door.
